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(All Arms)
PEACE is declared, an’ I return | |
| To ’Ackneystadt, but not the same; | |
| Things ’ave transpired which made me learn | |
| The size and meanin’ of the game. | |
| I did no more than others did, | 5 |
| I don’t know where the change began. | |
| I started as a average kid, | |
| I finished as a thinkin’ man. | |
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| If England was what England seems, | |
| An’ not the England of our dreams, | 10 |
| But only putty, brass, an’ paint, | |
| ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er! But she ain’t! | |
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| Before my gappin’ mouth could speak | |
| I ’eard it in my comrade’s tone; | |
| I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek | 15 |
| Before I felt it flush my own. | |
| An’ last it come to me—not pride, | |
| Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole | |
| (If such a term may be applied), | |
| The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. | 20 |
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| Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer, | |
| Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, | |
| Mountains which never let you near, | |
| An’ stars to all eternity; | |
| An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills | 25 |
| The ’ollows of the wilderness, | |
| When the wind worries through the ’ills— | |
| These may ’ave taught me more or less. | |
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| Towns without people, ten times took, | |
| An’ ten times left an’ burned at last; | 30 |
| An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look | |
| For owners when a column passed; | |
| An’ quiet, ’omesick talks between | |
| Men, met by night, you never knew | |
| Until—’is face—by shellfire seen— | 35 |
| Once—an’ struck off. They taught me too. | |
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| The day’s lay-out—the mornin’ sun | |
| Beneath your ’at-brim as you sight; | |
| The dinner-’ush from noon till one, | |
| An’ the full roar that lasts till night; | 40 |
| An’ the pore dead that look so old | |
| An’ was so young an hour ago, | |
| An’ legs tied down before they’re cold— | |
| These are the things which make you know. | |
| |
| Also Time runnin’ into years— | 45 |
| A thousand Places left be’ind— | |
| An’ Men from both two ’emispheres | |
| Discussin’ things of every kind; | |
| So much more near than I ’ad known, | |
| So much more great than I ’ad guessed— | 50 |
| An’ me, like all the rest, alone— | |
| But reachin’ out to all the rest! | |
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| So ’ath it come to me—not pride, | |
| Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole | |
| (If such a term may be applied), | 55 |
| The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. | |
| But now, discharged, I fall away | |
| To do with little things again … | |
| Gawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say, | |
| Look after me in Thamesfontein! 1 | 60 |
| |
| If England was what England seems, | |
| An’ not the England of our dreams, | |
| But only putty, brass, an’ paint, | |
| ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er! But she ain’t! | |
