THE HAWTHORN TREE

THE HAWTHORN TREE

Not much to me is yonder lane

Where I go every day;

But when there's been a shower of rain


And hedge-birds whistle gay,

I know my lad that's out in France

With fearsome things to see

Would give his eyes for just one glance


At our white hawthorn tree.

* * * * *

Not much to me is yonder lane


Where he so longs to tread;


But when there's been a shower of rain


I think I'll never weep again


Until I've heard he's dead.

CONCERT PARTY

(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)

They are gathering round …

Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,

Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound,—

The jangle and throb of a piano … tum-ti-tum …

Drawn by a lamp, they come

Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,


You warbling ladies in white.

Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,

This wall of faces risen out of the night,

These eyes that keep their memories of the places


So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown

Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,

He rattles the keys … some actor-bloke from town …

"God send you home"; and then "A long, long trail";
"I hear you catting me"; and "Dixieland" …
Sing slowly … now the chorus … one by one
We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.
Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.
Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.