AND other winds shall blow as cold
As does the East wind West,
O’er the graves of young or old,
O’er friends I loved the best.
And I will stand and still remember,
Those men I knew before,
And feel the cruel winds of November,
And nothing more.
LIFE, death and happiness,
We shared all of these three,
If one was scared we thought no less
Of him, nor him of we,
He was our mate, and we were his,
That’s how it was with us,
Events would often bring surprise
But seldom any fuss.
One threw himself upon the ground,
To shield a live grenade, that fell inside
Our trench without a sound;
But only one man died.
WITH each there was the strangest law,
A moral code, to each his own,
The greatest valour that I saw
Was when one died alone.
But who could judge the valour
Of this, or that event?
‘Twas all of equal colour
The blood that honour spent.
And some would cast a wistful eye
Upon a luckless lad,
Wishing, sometimes with a sigh,
They’d had the luck he’d had!
Yet life is kind to those it yields
Into an early grave,
Another it too often shields,
To be time’s honoured slave!
AND you who were so friendly
And now so friendless lie,
Is the grave as empty
As life for him and I,
He loved you well, and I did too,
Our friendship was our greatest gain;
But he has lost a friend like you,
And I will never see again.
THEY say there is a river,
Not far from London Town,
That’s red to its beholder
Though he look up, or down.
How red the setting sun does seem
Upon the waters of the Rhine?
How many other men will dream
The same dream that was mine!
But now the war is fought and won
I still do sleepless lie,
Thinking how it first begun
For the likes of you and I,
We did not ask why we should give
Nor did we ask the reason,
Why this man died that we might live
For but another season!