Private D. Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16, 1916, and the others who died
So you were David’s father, And he was your only son, And the new-cut peats are rotting And the work is left undone, Because of an old man weeping, Just an old man in pain, For David, his son David, That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you, And I can see them still, Not a word of the fighting, But just the sheep on the hill And how you should get the crops in Ere the year get stormier, And the Bosches have got his body, And I was his officer.
You were only David’s father, But I had fifty sons When we went up in the evening Under the arch of the guns, And we came back at twilight - O God! I heard them call To me for help and pity That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you, My men that trusted me, More my sons than your fathers’, For they could only see The little helpless babies And the young men in their pride. They could not see you dying, And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant, They saw their first-born go, But not the strong limbs broken And the beautiful men brought low, The piteous writhing bodies, The screamed ‘Don’t leave me, Sir’, For they were only your fathers But I was your officer.
(From A Highland Regiment)
The Lost Lands
“Oh where are the old kingdoms, Where is the ancient way, And the remembered city Where once I used to play?” “You stand within the kingdom, You walk the city’s street, And still there throng about you The folk you used to meet.”
“Where are the merry voices And laughter trouble-free. And where are my old comrades That used to play with me?” “Their merry voices call you But you will not reply. They touch your hand in welcome, But now you pass them by.”
“Where is my love departed With her delightful eyes. And heart too free for sorrow, And lips too proud for sighs?” “Along the road beside you Your true love walks and near, But she may call for ever. And you will never hear.”
Oxford, 1915
(From A Highland Regiment)
The Waiting Wife
Out on the hillside the wild birds crying, A little low wind and the white clouds flying, A little low wind from the southward blowing. What should I know of its coming and going?
Over the battle the shrapnel crying A tune of lament for the dead and the dying, And a little low wind that is moaning and weeping For the mouths that are cold and the brave hearts sleeping.
I and my man were happy together In the summer days and the warm June weather -- What is the end of our laughter and singing? A little low wind from the southward winging.
The hearth is cold and my house is lonely, And nothing for me but waiting only, Feet round the house that come into it never, And a voice in the wind that is silent for ever.
Golspie, 1915
(From A Highland Regiment)
Four and Twenty Bombers
Tune—“The Ball At Kirriemuir”
Oh, four and twenty bombers, Gaed oot at La Boisselle, An’ only ane cam’ back again, Remarkin’ it was hell.
Chorus—Singing “Wha’ll dae’t the next time? Wha’ll dae’t the noo? The lads that did it last time Cannae dae it noo.”
We bombed ’em for fower hours, Until we had tae stop, An’ then there was a row o’ duds Upon the crater top.
Chorus—Singing, etc.
Sae here’s tae the Kaiser, We’ll soon hae’s blood, If we cannae throw a live We can aye buzz a dud.
Chorus—Singing, etc.
This choice lyric, from which the best verse is omitted, for obvious reasons, is set to an ancient and disreputable Scotch ballad.
(From War, the Liberator)
Where the Trenches Run Down from the Somme to the Sea
Tune—“The Mountains of Morne”
Oh, Mary, the front is a wonderful place, Where a person can't fight without shaving his face We're not very frightened of shells, so I've found, But when generals come near we all get to ground. I met one in a trench, and some tea-leaves were there, And we got such a strafing it whitened our hair, So it seems we must swallow the leaves in our tea, Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
At night-time I can't sleep a full minute's space, For the rats playing games on the top of my face, And other small creatures I'd rather not name, But they live in the folds of my kilt just the same. Tell wee Jimmy, if only our dug-out he knew. He'd never be asking to go to the Zoo, For every dug-out is a menagerie, Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
The sap that I stand in, it nightly is made Into hell by a thing they call Rifle Grenade, And when heavy trench mortars are bursting close by It is not lust of battle that gleams in my eye. Don't think me a coward though, Mary, my dear, For along the whole front it's the same thing I fear, And every young hero is funking like me, Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea. At Albert they've lately begun an advance Which is going to shove all the Bosches out of France, And we are all waiting and hoping some day To meet with the gentlemen over the way. And oh, what a state of delight we'll be in When we're bombing our way up the streets of Berlin, So I hope in a few months I surely shall be In a train running down from Berlin to the sea.
(From War, the Liberator)
Three Battles
To the 51st Division
HIGH WOOD, July-August 1916
Oh gay were we in spirit In the hours of the night When we lay in rest by Albert And waited for the fight; Gay and gallant were we On the day that we set forth. But broken, broken, broken Is the valour of the North.
The wild warpipes were calling, Our hearts were blithe and free When we went up the valley To the death we could not see. Clear lay the wood before us In the clear summer weather, But broken, broken, broken Are the sons of the heather.
In the cold of the morning, In the burning of the day, The thin lines stumbled forward, The dead and dying lay. By the unseen death that caught us By the bullets' raging hail Broken, broken, broken Is the pride of the Gael.
BEAUMONT-HAMEL, November 16th, 1916
But the North shall arise Yet again in its strength; Blood calling for blood Shall be feasted at length. For the dead men that lie Underneath the hard skies, For battle, for vengeance The North shall arise.
In the cold of the morning A grey mist was drawn Over the waves That went up in the dawn, Went up like the waves Of the wild Northern sea; For the North has arisen. The North has broke free.
Ghosts of the heroes That died in the wood. Looked on the killing And saw it was good. Far over the hillsides They saw in their dream The kilted men charging, The bayonets gleam.
By the cries we had heard, By the things we had seen, By the vengeance we took In the bloody ravine, By the men that we slew In the mud and the rain, The pride of the North Has arisen again.
VICTORY AND FAILURE
ARRAS, April 9th ROEUX, April 23rd, 1917
Not for the day of victory I mourn I was not there, The hard fierce rush of slaying men, The hands up in the air, But for the torn ranks struggling on The old brave hopeless way, The broken charge, the slow retreat. And I so far away.
And listening to the tale of Roeux I think I see again The steady grim despairing ranks, The courage and the pain, The bodies of my friends that lie Unburied in the dew-- Oh! friends of mine, and I not there To die along with you.
(From War, the Liberator)
To Sylvia
Two months ago the skies were blue, The fields were fresh and green, And green the willow tree stood up, With the lazy stream between.
Two months ago we sat and watched The river drifting by-- And now—you're back at your work again And here in a ditch I lie.
God knows—my dear—I did not want To rise and leave you so, But the dead men's hands were beckoning And I knew that I must go.
The dead men's eyes were watching, lass, Their lips were asking too, We faced it out and payed the price-- Are we betrayed by you?
The days are long between, dear lass, Before we meet again, Long days of mud and work for me, For you long care and pain.
But you'll forgive me yet, my dear, Because of what you know, I can look my dead friends in the face As I couldn't two months ago.
October 20th, 1917
(From War, the Liberator)
A Creed
Out of the womb of time and dust of the years forgotten, Spirit and fire enclosed in mutable flesh and bone, Came by a road unknown the thing that is me for ever, The lonely soul of a man that stands by itself alone.
This is the right of my race, the heritage won by my fathers. Theirs by the years of fighting, theirs by the price they paid, Making a son like them, careless of hell or heaven, A man that can look in the face of the gods and be not afraid.
Poor and weak is my strength and I cannot war against heaven. Strong, too strong are the gods; but there is one thing that I can Claim like a man unshamed, the full reward of my virtues, Pay like a man the price for the sins I sinned as a man.
Now is the time of trial, the end of the years of fighting, And the echoing gates roll back on the country I cannot see If it be life that waits I shall live for ever unconquered. If death I shall die at last strong in my pride and free.