WHEN IT’S ALL OVER....
We were finished with the fightin’, we were finished with the war,
And the dove of peace looked healthier than e’er she did before;
For the Allies put the acid on the Hohenzollern crowd,
And they piled the costs on William when they knew they had him cowed.
But we didn’t care a cussword if his soul were saved or sold;
We were bound for home and beauty, and the wanderlust was cold.
Yes, we dream of home and Mother, and of Dad and Sister May,
And the girls who used to know us, waitin’ half a world away;
And we’re wantin’ but to find them just the same and nothin’ more—
Just the same old dear old home-folks that we knew before the war.
And I’m hoping they’ll be looking for the boy that used to be,
Not a hero with a halo for the crowd to come and see.
Oh! I’ve snarled to read the phrases that the writers coined for us—
“Deathless heroes—lasting glory,” and the other foolish fuss;
For we’re simple sinful soldiers, and we’re often rude and rough,
And our characters ain’t altered since we donned the khaki stuff.
(“Smithy” terms this “the outpourin’s of an overburdened soul,”
But I’d like to stuff a blanket in that long-offendin’ hole.)
As I gaze on Bill, me cobber,[25] sure I smile a little smile,
For his happy, careless nature doesn’t fit the poet’s style;
No, he don’t resemble Cæsar in his looks or in his speech,
Nor Napoleon nor Cromwell—why, they ain’t within his reach.
He’s a decent sort of cobber, but he doesn’t push a claim
To be classed “a gallant guardian of Britain’s honoured name.”
I’ve a grouch on jingo writers and the poets and them all,
Who have placed us common persons on a public pedestal;
Will they dust our coats and speak to us and help us when we fall,
Or paste a different label on us—something very small?
It’s their fault I’m entertaining just a tiny little dread
That me friends may want a hero with a halo round his head.
Harry McCann,
4th A.L.H.