'Young soldier, what will you be When it's all over?' 'I shall get out and across the sea, Where land's cheap and a man can thrive. I shall make money. Perhaps I'll wive In a place where there's room for a family. I'm a bit of a rover.'
'Young soldier, what will you be At the last 'Dismiss'?' 'Bucked to get back to old Leicester Square, Where there's good champagne and a glad eye winking, And no more 'Verey Lights' damnably blinking Their weary, dreary, white-eyed stare. I'll be out of this.'
'Young soldier, what will you be When they sign the peace?' 'Blowed if I know; perhaps I shall stick it. The job's all right if you take it steady. After all, somebody's got to be ready, And tons of the blighters 'll get their ticket. Wars don't cease.'
'Young soldier, what will you be At the day's end?' 'Tired's what I'll be. I shall lie on the beach Of a shore where the rippling waves just sigh, And listen and dream and sleep and lie Forgetting what I've had to learn and teach And attack and defend.'
'Young soldier, what will you be When you're next a-bed?' 'God knows what; but it doesn't matter, For whenever I think, I always remember The Belgians massacred that September, And England's pledge - and the rest seems chatter. What if I am dead?'
'Young soldier, what will you be When it's all done?' 'I shall come back and live alone On an English farm in the Sussex Weald, Where the wounds in my mind will be slowly sealed, And the graves in my heart will be overgrown; And I'll sit in the sun.'
'Young soldier, what will you be At the 'Last Post'?' 'Cold, cold in the tender earth, A cold body in foreign soil; But a happy spirit fate can't spoil, And an extra note in the blackbird's mirth From a khaki ghost.'
- by Max Plowman16
I heard them say, "Her hands are hard as stone," And I remembered how she laid for me The road to heaven. They said, "Her hair is grey." Then I remembered how she once had thrown Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea I battled in -- the salt sea of dismay. They say, "Her beauty's past." And then I wept, That these, who should have been in love adept, Against my font of beauty should blaspheme. And hearing a new music, miss the theme.
Poems by Max Plowman, Max Plowman's poems collection. Max Plowman is a classical and famous poet (1883 - 1941 / England). Share all poems of Max Plowman.