Now Kelly was no fighter;
He loved his pipe and glass;
An easygoing blighter,
Who lived in Montparnasse.
But 'mid the tavern tattle
He heard some guinney say:
"When France goes forth to battle,
The Legion leads the way.
_"The scourings of creation,
Of every sin and station,
The men who've known damnation,
Are picked to lead the way."_
Well, Kelly joined the Legion;
They marched him day and night;
They rushed him to the region
Where largest loomed the fight.
"Behold your mighty mission,
Your destiny," said they;
"By glorious tradition
The Legion leads the way.
_"With tattered banners flying
With trail of dead and dying,
On! On! All hell defying,
The Legion sweeps the way."_
With grim, hard-bitten faces,
With jests of savage mirth,
They swept into their places,
The men of iron worth;
Their blooded steel was flashing;
They swung to face the fray;
Then rushing, roaring, crashing,
The Legion cleared the way.
_The trail they blazed was gory;
Few lived to tell the story;
Through death they plunged to glory;
But, oh, they cleared the way!_
Now Kelly lay a-dying,
And dimly saw advance,
With split new banners flying,
The _fantassins_ of France.
Then up amid the _melee_
He rose from where he lay;
"Come on, me boys," says Kelly,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
_Aye, while they faltered, doubting
(Such flames of doom were spouting),
He caught them, thrilled them, shouting:
"The Layjun lades the way!"_
They saw him slip and stumble,
Then stagger on once more;
They marked him trip and tumble,
A mass of grime and gore;
They watched him blindly crawling
Amid hell's own affray,
And calling, calling, calling:
"The Layjun lades the way!"
_And even while they wondered,
The battle-wrack was sundered;
To Victory they thundered,
But . . . Kelly led the way._
Still Kelly kept agoing;
Berserker-like he ran;
His eyes with fury glowing,
A lion of a man;
His rifle madly swinging,
His soul athirst to slay,
His slogan ringing, ringing,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
_Till in a pit death-baited,
Where Huns with Maxims waited,
He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated,
To death he stabbed his way._
Now Kelly was a fellow
Who simply loathed a fight:
He loved a tavern mellow,
Grog hot and pipe alight;
I'm sure the Show appalled him,
And yet without dismay,
When Death and Duty called him,
He up and led the way.
_So in Valhalla drinking
(If heroes meek and shrinking
Are suffered there), I'm thinking
'Tis Kelly leads the way._
We have just had one of our men killed, a young sculptor of immense
promise.
When one thinks of all the fine work he might have accomplished, it
seems a shame. But, after all, to-morrow it may be the turn of any of
us. If it should be mine, my chief regret will be for work undone.
Ah! I often think of how I will go back to the Quarter and take up the
old life again. How sweet it will all seem. But first I must earn the
right. And if ever I do go back, how I will find Bohemia changed!
Missing how many a face!
It was in thinking of our lost comrade I wrote the following: