Poems

The Dead-Beat

     He dropped,—more sullenly than wearily,
     Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
     And none of us could kick him to his feet;
     Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
    —Didn't appear to know a war was on,
     Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
     "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,
     I'll murder them, I will."

                                 A low voice said,
     "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
     Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
     Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
     Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
     In some new home, improved materially.
     It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."

     We sent him down at last, out of the way.
     Unwounded;—stout lad, too, before that strafe.
     Malingering?  Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"

     Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
     "That scum you sent last night soon died.  Hooray!"