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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Wounded

Published by Susan on 07/24/2003 (6069 reads)
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Is it not strange? A year ago to-day...

Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
   With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
   Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.
Ay, in my little groove I was content,
   Seeing my life run smoothly to the end,
With prosy days in stolid labour spent,
   And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.
In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam,
   A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs;
When presto! like a bubble goes my dream:
   I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.
I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore:
   I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.

Stranger than any book I've ever read.
   Here on the reeking battlefield I lie,
Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead,
   Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.
Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall;
   Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit;
But calm, and feeling never pain at all,
   And full of wonder at the turn of it.
For of the dead around me three are mine,
   Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight;
So if I die I have no right to whine,
    I feel I've done my little bit all right.
I don't know how -- but there the beggars are,
    As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.

And here am I, worse wounded than I thought;
   For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings;
You never heed; the air is metal-hot,
   And all alive with little flicking wings.
But on you charge. You see the fellows fall;
   Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad;
You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all;
   You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.
But on you charge. The heavens vomit death;
   And vicious death is besoming the ground.
You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath,
   And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.
But on you charge. Oh, War's a rousing game!
   Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower;
The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame,
   And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.
But on you charge. It's odd! You have no fear.
   Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path;
Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear;
   The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.
But on you charge. Barbed wire all trampled down.
   The ground all gored and rent as by a blast;
Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown;
   A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last.
All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead,
   So on you charge. There's nothing else to do.
More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead;
   (Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you).
You glare around. You think you're all alone.
   But no; your chums come surging left and right.
The nearest chap flops down without a groan,
   His face still snarling with the rage of fight.

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