Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/Milking Time

Milking Time

There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreamingThat in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.
Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.
Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merryIs lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.
So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be sayingThat Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed!
A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benchesOf the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weatherWe will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . (English voice, months later): —"Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy. Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime."
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