A WAR MEDLEY
THE WAR, WEEK BY WEEK
[Sidenote: Walter Emanuel in "Punch"]
August 12-October 7
The foresight of the British Public in refusing to subscribe the large amount of money asked of them for the Olympic Sports in Berlin is now apparent.
* * * * *
Wilhelm II is said to be extremely annoyed in his capacity as a British Admiral that he is not being kept fully informed as to the movements of our Fleet.
* * * * *
The coming generation would certainly seem to be all right. Even children are taking part in the fray. The Boy Scouts are helping manfully here, and at Liège the Germans, we are told, used nippers for cutting wire entanglements.
* * * * *
The London Museum is open again. The Curator, we understand, would be glad to add to his collection of curiosities any Londoner who is still in favour of a small Navy.
* * * * *
"Cambridge public-houses," we read, "are to close at 9 p.m." Such dons as are still up for the Long Vacation are said to be taking it gamely in spite of the inconvenience of accustoming themselves to the new regulation.
Reports still continue to come in as to the outbursts of rage which took place in Germany when the news of our participation in the War reached that country. Seeing that we had merely been asked to allow our friends to be robbed and murdered, our interference is looked upon as peculiarly gratuitous.
There would seem to be no end to the social horrors of the War. The Teuton journal, Manufakturist, is now prophesying that one of its results will be the substitution of German for French fashions.
* * * * *
According to the Evening News three elephants have been requisitioned from the Zoo at the White City by the military authorities. In Berlin, no doubt, this will be taken to signify that our heavy cavalry mounts are giving out.
* * * * *
A somewhat illiterate correspondent writes to say that he considers that the French ought to have allowed the Mad Dog to retain Looneyville.
* * * * *
The German papers publish the statement that a Breslau merchant has offered 30,000 marks to the German soldier who, weapon in hand, shall be the first to place his feet on British soil. By a characteristic piece of sharp practice the reward, it will be noted, is offered to the man personally and would not be payable to his next-of-kin.
* * * * *
It is reported that the Kaiser is proceeding to East Prussia to assume the chief command there. In Petrograd the news is only credited by extreme optimists.
* * * * *
Mr. Lloyd George's statement that "The Prussian Junker is the road-hog
of modern Europe" has, we hear, had a curious and satisfactory sequel.
Large numbers of adepts in the art of pig-sticking are joining the
Sportsman's Battalion, which is now in process of formation.
* * * * *
A regrettable mistake is reported from South London. A thoroughly patriotic man was sat upon by a Cockney crowd for declaring that the Kaiser was a Nero.
* * * * *
The Germans have had a bright, new idea, and are calling us a nation of shop-keepers. Certainly we have been fairly successful so far in repelling their counter-attacks.
THE K.A. BOYS
[Sidenote: Jessie Pope in the "Daily Mail"]
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—
Kitchener's Army on the march
Through Marylebone and Marble Arch,
Men in motley, so to speak,
Been in training about a week,
Swinging easy, toe and heel,
Game and gay, and keen as steel.
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—
Norfolk jackets, city suits,
Some in shoes and some in boots;
Clerk and sportsman, tough and nut,
Reach-me-downs, and Bond-street cut;
Typical kit of every kind,
To show the life they've left behind.
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—
Marching by at an easy pace,
The great adventure in every face,
Raw if you like, but full of grit,
Snatching the chance to do their bit.
Oh, I want to cheer and I want to cry
When Kitchener's Boys go marching by.
A SCOTSWOMAN IN FRANCE
[Sidenote: From the "Times," Sept. 24, 1914]
A valued contributor writes: "Would you like this new Scotch reel, inspired by the pipes of the bonny Highlanders, who for a week made a little Scotland of Melun? On Wednesday, the 2nd, I was in the town and saw the good women rush from the streets into their houses, crying in dreadful voices, 'Les Allemands!' And there, by the old church, round the corner, came the Highlanders! I stood still on the pavement and sang 'Scots wha hae' at the top of my old cracked voice, and they, appreciating the welcome, and excusing the minstrelsy, waved their hands to me. The Staff was here, the Flying Corps, three regiments, English and Scottish—such brave, bright, orderly, kind young men. On September 6 the cannon sounded very near. I went into the street and said to a demure, douce young Highlander, 'Do ye think the Germans are coming?' And he replied, 'I'fe been hearing, Matam, that the Chermans will hafe been hafing a pit of a set-pack.' It was in this modest manner that I heard of the victory of the Marne."
A NEW SCOTCH REEL
[Sidenote: From the "Times" Sept. 24, 1914]
Dance, since ye're dancing, William,
Dance up and doon,
Set to your partners, William,
We'll play the tune!
See, make a bow to Paris,
Here's Antwerp-toon;
Off to the Gulf of Riga,
Back to Verdun—
Ay, but I'm thinking, laddie,
Ye'll use your shoon!
Dance, since ye're dancing, William,
Dance up and doon,
Set to your partners, William,
We'll play the tune!
What! Wad ye stop the pipers?
Nay, 'tis ower-soon!
Dance, since ye're dancing, William,
Dance, ye puir loon!
Dance till ye're dizzy, William,
Dance till ye swoon!
Dance till ye're dead, my laddie!
We play the tune!
DESPATCHES
[Sidenote: "Touchstone" in the "Daily Mail"]
Swift as a bullet out of a gun
He passed me by with an inch to spare,
Raising a dust-cloud thick and dun
While the stench of lubricant filled the air.
I must admit that I did not like
The undergrad on his motor-bike.
I have seen him, too, at the wayside inn,
A strapping lad scarce out of his teens,
Grimy, but wearing a cheerful grin;
A young enthusiast, full of beans,
While his conversation was little better
Than pure magneto and carburetter.
Now he has got the chance of his life,
The chance of earning glorious scars,
And I picture him scouring a land of strife,
Crouching over his handle-bars,
His open exhaust, with its roar and stench,
Like a Maxim gun in a British trench.
Lad, when we met in that country lane
Neither foresaw the days to come,
But I know that if ever we meet again
My heart will throb to your engine's hum,
And to-day, as I read, I catch my breath
At the thought of your ride through the hail of death!
But to you it is just a glorious lark;
Scorn of danger is still your creed.
As you open her out and advance your spark
And humour the throttle to get more speed,
Life has only one end for you,
To carry your priceless message through!
BURGOMASTER MAX
[Sidenote: H.B.]
Our children will sing with delight for all time
Of the Briton, the French, and the Russian,
But most of the man who with humour sublime
Pulled the goose-stepping leg of the Prussian.
NEWS FROM THE FRONT
[Sidenote: C.E.B. in the "Evening News"]
This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations of a disgustful kind.
Our sojers they was weepin'
The night we went away
For some one whispered we was off
The Germans for to slay.
To shoot them cultured Bosches
Would make a Briton shrink
And so our 'earts was sad to go
(I don't think).
An' when we met them blighters
Of course we turned and ran,
An' Tubby French 'e shouted out
"All save theirselves as can";
An' when the big Jack Johnsons banged
We didn't cheer and larf
An' pump the Bosches full o' lead
(No, not 'arf).
An' w'en our foes retreated
We knowed we couldn't win
For they was out, that artful like,
To lure us to Berlin.
But touch that 'ome of culture?
We'd rather far be shot;
We simply worship Kaiser Bill
(P'raps, p'raps not).
FALL IN!
[Sidenote: H.B.]
What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack
When the girls line up the street,
Shouting their love to the lads come back
From the foe they rushed to beat?
Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky
And grin till your cheeks are red?
But what will you lack when your mates go by
With a girl who cuts you dead?
Where will you look, sonny, where will you look
When your children yet to be
Clamour to learn of the part you took
In the War that kept men free?
Will you say it was naught to you if France
Stood up to her foe or bunked?
But where will you look when they give the glance
That tells you they know you funked?
How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare
In the far-off winter night,
When you sit by the fire in an old man's chair
And your neighbours talk of the fight?
Will you slink away, as it were from a blow,
Your old head shamed and bent?
Or say—I was not with the first to go,
But I went, thank God, I went!
Why do they call, sonny, why do they call
For men who are brave and strong?
Is it naught to you if your country fall,
And Right is smashed by Wrong?
Is it football still and the picture show,
The pub and the betting odds,
When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow
And England's call is God's?
DIES IRAE
[Sidenote: Owen Seaman in "Punch"]
To the German Kaiser
Amazing Monarch! who at various times,
Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour,
Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes
By your behaviour;
We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much,
Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour,
Lent to a dullish world the needed touch
Of saving humour.
What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear,
Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians,
Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere
With rude concussions;
Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale
Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette,
And could at any moment, gloved in mail,
Smite like a mallet;
Master of all the Arts, and, what was more,
Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it—
You seemed a gift designed on purpose for
The flippant poet.
Time passed and put to these old jests an end;
Into our open hearts you found admission,
Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend
Above suspicion.
You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes;
You moved among us, cousinly entreated,
Still hiding, under that fair outward guise,
A heart that cheated.
And now the mask is down, and forth you stand
Known for a King whose word is no great matter,
A traitor proved, for every honest hand
To strike and shatter.
This was the "Day" foretold by yours and you
In whispers here, and there with beery clamours—
You and your rat-hole spies and blustering crew
Of loud Potsdamers.
And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern,
When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice' token
Breaker of God's own Peace, you shall in turn
Yourself be broken.
FOR THE RED CROSS
[Sidenote: Owen Seaman in "Punch"]
Ye that have gentle hearts and fain
To succour men in need,
There is no voice could ask in vain
With such a cause to plead—
The cause of those that in your care,
Who know the debt to honour due,
Confide the wounds they proudly wear,
The wounds they took for you.
Out of the shock of shattering spears,
Of screaming shell and shard,
Snatched from the smoke that blinds and sears
They come with bodies scarred,
And count the hours that idly toll,
Restless until their hurts be healed,
And they may fare, made strong and whole,
To face another field.
And yonder where the battle's waves
Broke yesterday o'erhead,
Where now the swift and shallow graves
Cover our English dead,
Think how your sisters play their part,
Who serve as in a holy shrine,
Tender of hand and brave of heart,
Under the Red Cross sign.
Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still,
Of life-blood sacrificed,
That lonely Cross on Calvary's hill
Red with the wounds of Christ;
By that free gift to none denied,
Let Pity pierce you like a sword,
And Love go out to open wide
The gate of life restored.
The Red Cross Society is in need of help. Gifts should be addressed
to Lord Rothschild at Devonshire House, Piccadilly.