Mother and Dad, I understand
At last why you've for ever been
Telling me how that way-off land
Of yours was Home; for since I've seen
The place that up to now was just a name
I feel the same.
The college green, the village hall,
St. Paul's, The Abbey, how could I
Spell out your meaning, I whose all
Was peaks that pricked a sun-down sky
And endless prairie lands that stretched below
Their pathless snow?
But now I've trodden magic stairs
Age-rounded in a Norman fane,
Beat time to bells that trembled prayers
Down spangly banks of country lane,
Throbbed with the universal heart that beats
In London streets.
I'd heard of world-old chains that bind
So tight that she can scarcely stir,
Till tired Old England drops behind
Live nations more awake than her,
Like us out West. I thought it all was true
Before I knew.
But England's sure what she's about,
And moves along in work and rest
Too big and set for brag and shout,
And so I never might have guessed
All that she means unless I'd watched her ways
These battle-days.
And now I've seen what makes me proud
Our chaps have proved a soldier's right
To England; glad that I'm allowed
My bit with her in field and fight;
And since I'm come to join them Over There
I claim my share.
C. CONWAY PLUMBE.
Sept. 1, 1915.
"_Quat' Sous Lait_"
Marie Thérèse is passing fair,
Marie Thérèse has red gold hair,
Marie Thérèse is passing shy,
And Marie Thérèse is passing by;
Soldiers lounging along the street
Smile as they rise to their aching feet,
And with aching hearts they make their way
After the maiden for _quat' sous lait_.
Beer in the mug is amber brown,
Beer in the mug is the stuff to drown
Dust and drought and a parching thirst;
Beer in the mug comes an easy first,
Except when Marie Thérèse is near,
With the sun in her tresses so amber clear;
Then quickly we leave our estaminets
For Marie Thérèse's _quat' sous lait_.
Yvonne Pol of _La Belle Française_
Cannot compare with Marie Thérèse;
Berthe of the "Coq" looks old and staid
When one but thinks of our dairymaid;
Beer in the mug is good to quench
Thirsts of men who can speak no French;
Heaven is ours who can smile and say,
"Marie Thérèse, give me _quat' sous lait_."
DENIS GARSTIN.
Aug. 18, 1915.