The Red RetreatTramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers ( Read more... )

The Call
(France, August first, 1914)Far and near, high and clear ( Read more... )

The LocketFrom out her shabby rain-coat pocket ( Read more... )

The Ballad Of Lenin's TombThis is the yarn he told me ( Read more... )

Ant HillBlack ants have made a musty mound ( Read more... )

The Song of the PacifistWhat do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead ( Read more... )

The VolunteerSez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call ( Read more... )

The March Of The DeadThe cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet ( Read more... )

Only a Boche

We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie;
For what's the use of risking one's skin for a tyke that's going to die?
What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,
When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?

However, I say, we brought him in. Diable! The mud ( Read more... )

The Haggis of Private McPhee"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me ( Read more... )