A DEBT OF HONOUR.
[The author would be very proud if his lines might bring in any subscriptions to the Belgian Relief Fund. Cheques, payable to "Belgian Relief Fund," should be sent to the Belgian Minister, 15 West Halkin Street, S. W.]
Old England's dark o' nights and short
Of 'buses; still she's much the sort
Of place we always used to know.
There's women lonely—hid away,
But mills at work and kids at play,
And docks alive with come and go.
But Belgium's homes is blasted down;
Her shops is ash-heaps, town by town;
There's harvests soaked and full of dead;
There's Prussians prowling after loot
And choosing who they'd better shoot;
There's kids gone lost; there's fights for bread.
It's thanks to that there strip of sea,
And what floats on it, you and me
And things we love aren't going shares
In German culture. They'd 'a' tried
To spare us some, but we're this side.
It's so arranged—no fault of theirs.
Them Belgians had the chance to shirk,
And watch, instead of do, the work;
But no! They chose a bigger thing
And blocked the bully; gave us breath
To get our coats off. Sure as death
They're Men—a King of Men for King.
Don't think they're beat with what they've got,
And begging pennies, 'cos they're not.
It's this—their job is good and done;
They're fighting-pals; they're hungry, cold;
We owe for blood that's more than gold—
A debt of honour, or we've none.
They've stood for us; for them we'll stand
Right through; and so we'll lend a hand
Until the foe's account is quit.
That happy day is working through;
But, meanwhiles, it's for me and you—
Well, dash it, pass along your bit.
"Why, Jacob, we thought a sturdy chap like you would have enlisted. There's not a soul gone from the village."
"Bain't there, then? They've got vower o' maister's 'orses!"