Ballads of Battle/The Billet
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A GHOST STORY AT THE FRONT
Yet oft I've sheltered, snug and warm,Within that friendly old French farm!—"The Billet."
THE BILLET
A roof that hardly holds the rain;Walls shaking to the hurricane;Great doors upon their hinges creaking;Great rats upon the rafters squeaking—A midden in the courtyard reeking—Yet oft I've sheltered, snug and warm,Within that friendly old French farm!
To trudge in from the soaking trench—The blasts that bite, the rains that drench—To loosen off your ponderous pack,To drop the harness from your back,Deliberate pull each muddy bootFrom each benumbed, frost-bitten foot;To wrap your body in your blanket,To mutter o'er a "Lord be thankit!"Sink out of sight below the straw,Then—Owre the hills and far awa'!*****Perchance to waken from your sleep,And hear the big guns growling deep, Turn on your side, but breathe a prayerFor the beggars you have left up" there."
Then in the morn to stretch your legs,And hear the hens cluck o'er their eggs;And chanticleer's bestirring blare;The whinnying of the Captain's mare;Contented lowing of the kine,Complacent grunting of the swine;Chirping of birds beneath the caves,Whisper of winds among the leaves,And—sound that soul of man rejoices—The pleasant hum of women's voices—With all the cheery dins that beIn a farmyard community;While sunlight bursting thro' the thatchBurns in the black barn, patch and patch.
But now, your eyes and ears you ope—The pipes are skirling, "Johnnie Cope"—[1] _-_075_result.png)
And you arise to toil and trouble,And certainly to "double! double!"—Of the day's drills, most grudged of all,That lagging hour called "physical!"
INTERIOR OF THE BARN.—"The Billet."
Breakfast, of tea, and bread, and ham,With just a colouring of jam;Or, if you have the sous to pay,A feast of œufs and café-au-lait.
Comes ten o'clock and we fall in,With rifle cleaned, and shaven chin;Once more we work the "manual" through,And then "drill in platoons" we doTill one, or maybe even two.At last "cook-house" the pipers play,And so we dine as best we may.
And now a shout that never failsTo fetch us forth, "Here come the mails!"—While one rejoices, t'other rails Because he has received no letter—Next time the Fates may use him better!
Then comes an hour beneath a tree,With "Omar Khayyam" on your knee,While wanton winds, in idle sport,Bombard you after harmless sortWith apple blossoms from the bough―Ah! here is Paradise enow!
'Tis now that mystic hour of nightWhen—parcels open—no respiteIs given to cake, sweetmeat, sardine;Our zest would turn a gourmet greenWith envy, could he only seeThe meal out here, that's yclept "tea."
The night has come, and all are hearty,Being exempt from a "working-party":And so we gather round the fireTo chat, and presently conspireTo pass an hour with song and story—The grave, the gay, ghostly or gory,— A tale, let's say, both weird and fierce,By Allan Poe or Ambrose Bierce,[2]Then Skerry—Peace be to his Shade!—May play us Gounod's "Serenade,"And, gazing thro' the broken beams,Perchance we see the starry gleams.*****But "Lights-out!" sounds; "Good nights" are said,And so we bundle off to bed.
Sweet dreams infest each drowsy headAnd kindly Ghosts that work no harmFlit round about that old French farm!
A GHOST STORY AT THE FRONT
A tale, let's say, both weird and fierce,By Allan Poe or Ambrose Bierce.—"The Billet."
- ↑ There is something slightly sardonic in the fact that the old Jacobite rant, "Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?" which was used for the berousing and belabouring of the Whigs, should now do duty as Reveille to a Highland regiment. So, at least, it seems to one at seven o'clock of a cold winter's morning !
- ↑ The greatest compliment I ever received to my power as a story-teller was paid me by a comrade, who, on the morning after the recital of Bierce's "The Middle Toe of the Right Foot," presented me with a small model of a human foot, minus a toe, which he had executed in the wax of a candle!