The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry Read Free

war,
    30             Are breaking upon us;
    Clouds of their cavalry,
    Waves of their infantry,
    Mountains of guns.
    Winged they are coming,
    Plated and mailed,
    Snorting their jargon.
    Oh to whom shall a song of battle be chanted?
    Not to our lord of the hosts on his ancient throne,
    Drowsing the ages out in Heaven
    40             The celestial choirs are mute, the angels have fled:
    Word is gone forth abroad that our lord is dead.
    To what God shall we chant
    Our songs
    Of battle?
    Harold Monro
    The Dilemma
    God heard the embattled nations sing and shout
    â€˜Gott strafe England!’ and ‘God save the King!’
    God this, God that, and God the other thing –
    â€˜Good God!’ said God ‘I’ve got my work cut out.’
    J. C. Squire
‘Who’s for the khaki suit’
    The Trumpet
    Rise up, rise up,
    And, as the trumpet blowing
    Chases the dreams of men,
    As the dawn glowing
    The stars that left unlit
    The land and water,
    Rise up and scatter
    The dew that covers
    The print of last night’s lovers –
    10             Scatter it, scatter it!
    While you are listening
    To the clear horn,
    Forget, men, everything
    On this earth newborn,
    Except that it is lovelier
    Than any mysteries.
    Open your eyes to the air
    That has washed the eyes of the stars
    Through all the dewy night:
    20             Up with the light,
    To the old wars;
    Arise, arise!
    Edward Thomas
    The Call
    Who’s for the trench –
    Â Â Â Â Â Are you, my laddie?
    Who’ll follow French –
    Â Â Â Â Â Will you, my laddie?
    Who’s fretting to begin,
    Who’s going out to win?
    And who wants to save his skin –
    Â Â Â Â Â Do you, my laddie?
    Who’s for the khaki suit –
    10                  Are you, my laddie?
    Who longs to charge and shoot –
    Â Â Â Â Â Do you, my laddie?
    Who’s keen on getting fit,
    Who means to show his grit,
    And who’d rather wait a bit –
    Â Â Â Â Â Would you, my laddie?
    Who’ll earn the Empire’s thanks –
    Â Â Â Â Â Will you, my laddie?
    Who’ll swell the victor’s ranks –
    20                  Will you, my laddie?
    When that procession comes,
    Banners and rolling drums –
    Who’ll stand and bite his thumbs –
    Â Â Â Â Â Will you, my laddie?
    Jessie Pope
    Recruiting
    â€˜Lads, you’re wanted, go and help,’
    On the railway carriage wall
    Stuck the poster, and I thought
    Of the hands that penned the call.
    Fat civilians wishing they
    â€˜Could go out and fight the Hun.’
    Can’t you see them thanking God
    That they’re over forty-one?
    Girls with feathers, vulgar songs –
    10             Washy verse on England’s need –
    God – and don’t we damned well know
    How the message ought to read.
    â€˜Lads, you’re wanted! over there,’
    Shiver in the morning dew,
    More poor devils like yourselves
    Waiting to be killed by you.
    Go and help to swell the names
    In the casualty lists.
    Help to make a column’s stuff
    20             For the blasted journalists.
    Help to keep them nice and safe
    From the wicked German foe.
    Don’t let him come over here!
    â€˜Lads, you’re wanted – out you go.’
    *
    There’s a better word than that,
    Lads, and can’t you hear it come
    From a million men that call
    You to share their martyrdom.
    Leave the harlots still to sing
    30             Comic songs about the Hun,
    Leave the fat old men to say
    Now
we’ve
got them on the run.
    Better twenty honest years
    Than their