Ripples from the Ranks of the Q.M.A.A.C.

Benjamin Johnson
Volume

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 
 

NOTES FROM THE FAMILY

After her first husband, Charles Grindlay, was killed in the trenches of France in 1915, Isa Grindlay volunteered to join the First World War. She left her home in Canada to return to her native country of Scotland, joining the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps (later renamed Queen Mary's Auxiliary Army Corps) at the Scottish Command School of Musketry in St. Andrew’s.

Ripples from the Ranks of the Q.M.A.A.C. is a collection of poems that Isa wrote during her time in service. It was published in 1918 by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd in London—the same year as the Spanish Flu outbreak. Isa fell ill during the pandemic, which prevented her deployment in France.

During her time in the army, she befriended and engaged her brother-in-law, Leon Jackson. They both returned to Canada as soldier settlers in an area of Alberta that later became Lonira, what is now part of Woodlands County. They married in 1920. 

Isa chose to keep both of her husbands names, and is now best known as Isa Grindlay Jackson.

The family copy of Ripples from the Ranks of the Q.M.A.A.C. was inscribed by Isa and gifted to her daughter (our grandmother) of the same name, Isabella. It's a hardcopy version in relatively good condition. One of the first pages appears to be cut out and removed.

 

 

The Q.M.A.A.C.

Our Country called, and we have come,
And some of us are old and staid,
And some of us are young and good,
And some by others must be swayed.
And some of us are sad of heart,
And some of us are light and gay,
But we are soldiers one and all,
And all must march the selfsame way.
So let us now united stand,
Whatever we have been before,
And ever, in our words and deeds,
Uphold the honour of our Corps.

Our Country we are sworn to serve,
So why subordinate our aim
To petty sins and vanities
That our unworthiness proclaim?
Our movement is but newly born—
We rank among its pioneers,
And we must make traditions now
For those who come—perhaps for years.
If foolish pathways we have trod,
Let us regard their lures no more,
Lest we endanger what we prize—
The grace and honour of our Corps.

Our deeds, if good, our Country will
In future history record;
So let us have a single goal,
And that—to reap this rich reward.
Our petty schemes we must adjourn,
A single aim must fire each heart,
For we are called upon to play
A better and nobler part.
From thoughts of self we must emerge,
And tread the path that lies before,
Upholding to the glorious end
The noble spirit of our Corps.

 

 

 

Fire Drill

When short, sharp whistles cleave the air,
And from your warm beds you start,
And down the weary, winding stair,
In search of safety, you depart—
     Safety at such a price I spurn,
             Leave me to burn.

When shivering in the draughty hall,
You answer hoarsely to your names,
When on your ears the name shall fall
Of she who smoulders in the flames,
     Will some kind friend, in accents calm,
             Answer, “Here, ma’am?”

 

 
 

Route March Sentiments

I’m happy from the ankles up,
    How happy I can’t tell,
But, from the ankles down, alas!
    I do not feel so well.
A frieze of sticking-plaster winds
    Around each wounded heel,
And words of mine can not describe
    The feelings that they feel.
But from the ankles up my joy
    Is glowing and complete.
How sad it is that we must have
    Those gentle things called feet!

 

 

 

The Simple Life

There's simple life, and simple life,
    The simpleness may vary;
If you would lead the simple life,
    In choice you must be wary.
Now, of the simplest simple life,
    I’ll put you on the track,—
Cast off your silk and crêpe de chene,
    And be a simple “Waac.”

 

 
 

Leave

Just now and then I feel a little downed,
    My patriotic fervour seems to fade;
I grow impatient of the daily round,
    My temper gets a little worn and frayed.
At times like these the solace I require,
    My energy and vigour retrieve,
Is found in dreams of what I most desire
    When I go home on leave.

I hope the pantry holds a good supply,
    Not just of food-cards, but of things concrete,
The things that boil and roast and stew and fry,
    Big new-laid eggs, and milk that’s thick and sweet.
May mother o’er the kitchen stove preside,
    For day by day more earnestly I grieve
For tastes and smells I know she will provide
    When I go home on leave.

I long to lounge before my attic fire,
    That faded attic I have loved and lost;
To wear embroidered slippers I aspire,
    With dressing-gowns and things around me tossed.
I long to lie upon a feather bed,
    How ardent is my wish you can’t conceive;
And may an eider-down be on me spread
    When I go home on leave.

And when the morning comes I plan to rest,
    While mother patters up and down the stair,
And brings my breakfast to my downy nest,—
    No rising bell will pounce upon me there.
Thus daily do I dream, and to my dreams
    With unremitting hopefulness I cleave,
For some day, soon or late, it really seems
    I will go home on leave.

 

 

 

Edward

Now Peggy babbles all the time
                   Of Edward.
Her chatter is an endless rhyme
                   Of Edward.
She met him down on Prince’s Street,
And for one hour found joy complete,
In strolling round upon her feet
                   With Edward.

He is a soldier brave and bold,
                   Is Edward.
Australian, with a heart of gold,
                   Is Edward.
He may have other things—a few—
A wife, and little Edwards too.
An hour’s not long to see right through
                   An Edward.

Well, we don’t care if Peggy’s pleased
                   With Edward.
But why, we ask, should we be teased
                   With Edward?
He enters with our morning tea,
And, like an enterprising flea,
Pursues us wheresoe’er we be,
                   Does Edward.

The girls in Peggy’s room downstairs
                   Have Edward
Mixed with their toilettes and their prayers.
                   Oh, Edward!
Each night and morning 'tis the same,
And Peggy’s heart bursts into flame
At every mention of the name
                   Of Edward.

I wonder now, if all of us
                   Had Edwards,
And did at every meal discuss
                   Our Edwards,
Would Peggy, morning, noon, and night,
Endeavour to remain polite,
While we in chorus did recite
                   Of Edwards?

We’d hate to wish a soldier harm,
                   But, Edward,
We feel a pang of grave alarm,
                   For, Edward,
We find ourselves a bit inclined
To think of you in terms unkind,
So aggravating do we find
                   You, Edward.

 

 
 

My Army Hat

My comrades sniff and sneer about my hat,
    Regarding it a blemish on the Corps;
They cast aspersions on it from behind,
    And say it is disgraceful from before.
Their idle words do not excite my rage,
For there is no dishonour in old age.

For seven months now has it braved the blast,
    And, certainly, 'tis somewhat worn and frayed,
Upholding not the beauty but the worth
    Of that from which an army hat is made.
It is not yet, by any means, unfit,
And still must carry on and do its bit.

At any rate I would not change it now,
    Not even for a model from Paree.
Of envy for the sweetest hat on view
    My soul is most unutterably free.
'Tis old and scarred, but what care I for that?
I’m very proud to wear an army hat.

 

 

 

My Weakness

It's funny how I can resist
    All Officers’ advances,—
Although, to tell the honest truth,
    I am not rushed with chances.
But any little smiles I glean
    Have got no power to move me;
For flirting with the young Brass-hats
    The Major can’t reprove me.

But when a Sergeant comes along,
    Now, that’s a different story;
My little heart goes pit-a-pat,
    His smile to me is glory.
I’m not allowed to hold his hand,
    So hope I’m ne’er invited,
For certainly I could not bear
    To see a Sergeant slighted.

 

 
 

The Parcel

I’ve formed fours and left-inclined,
    Each morning, like a lamb;
At roll-call I have quite excelled
    In answering, “Here, ma’am.”
On army rations I have lived,
    And fattened on them, too,
Though, certainly, I’ve groused a bit,—
    The proper thing to do.
For many nights I’ve laid my frame
    Upon an army bed,
And drawn brown army blankets up
    Around my chilly head.
I’ve worn a khaki uniform
    That all who run may read;
I’ve got a number to my name,
    Significant indeed.
Still, that I am a soldier bold
    I really did not know,
Till Mother’s “soldier’s parcel” came
    To-night, and told me so.

 

 

 

To Little Porter

(with a block of writing paper)

I did resolve, my dear, to write
That promised little ode to-night;
A noble strain I did devise,
That would your charms immortalize.
But now I sit with pen and ink,
And lofty thoughts I cannot think;
The muse has fled my humble skull,
And left me uninspired and dull.

So, since I cannot cut the caper,
My dear young friend, I send the paper.
More useful it will prove no doubt,
For poems can be done without,
But not so paper. And, perchance,
Its pages you may send to France,
To cheer a lonely soldier’s heart,
Thus then will I have played a part
Among the lads who do the fighting—
I send the paper, you the writing.
With such a happy thought I close,
To seek a well-deserved repose.

 

 
 

A Day-Dream

My dear old scout, I wish the war was done,
I wish that we had strafed the last lone Hun;
            For then we would be free
            To go back across the sea,
And bask beneath the bright Alberta sun.

I think, my dear, we’ll go upon a farm;
The simple life won’t do us any harm.
            The City may be fine,
            But it’s Country life for mine,
And the lonelier it is the more its charm.

For neighbours we will have our cows and such;
Some hens,—I like the speckled ones so much;
            Some horses and some hogs,
            Some turkeys and some dogs,
And a cat to give our place a homely touch.

Our home will be a rugged little shack,
With prairie at its front and at its back;
            But inside it will be cute,
            And perfection absolute,
If of gentler arts I have not lost the knack.

And, while I run the kitchen, at the plough
You will officiate with wrinkled brow,
            And estimate your crop,—
            If the prices do not drop,—
Should stake you to an auto anyhow.

And, my! we’ll have such scrumptious things to eat—
The ration system will be obsolete.
            When I hear a man declare
            What he eats he doesn’t care,
I mark him for a monster of deceit.

At evening we will watch the fire’s red glow,
And talk about the folks we used to know;
            Or, on a summer night,
            It will be our chief delight
To stroll around our crops and watch them grow.

But, if there’s something else you’d rather do
Than farm, my dear old scout, it’s up to you
            To arrange your walk in life,
            And I’ll be your little wife,
Just sometimes good and kind, but always true.

And while you are a soldier I’m a “Waac”—
Our lonely years on service won’t come back.
            But we really had no choice;
            Had we stifled Duty’s voice,
Its ghost would sure have settled in our shack.

 

 

 

To My Hostel Quarters

House Thirty-nine, Room Sixty-nine,
Conflicting feelings will be mine,
When marching orders come my way,
And I go forth to join the fray.
Your shelter sometimes has been rude,
But, oh! the company has been good.
So when I come to leave your nest (unfeathered),
I doubt if 'twill be for the best;
But, soon or late, I’ll have to go;—
With soldiers it is always so.

 

 
 

The Ration Rabbits

Twelve little frozen rabbits, twelve little ration rabbits,
    Recruited from the hill-side, the sand-dune, and the glen,
Lie thawing in our kitchen, our nice, clean, army kitchen,
    Preparing to be cooked for lunch for sixty hungry men.

Our C.O. is a wonder, a rousing, red-tape wonder;
    He says they are the ration and we’ve got to make them do,—
The twelve poor conscript rabbits, the little ration rabbits,
    Not only are for luncheon, but must serve for dinner too.

The Officers may crave us, may humbly beg and crave us,
    For little second helpings they may urgently implore;
But twelve pathetic rabbits, poor little ration rabbits,
    Can give themselves completely, but they can’t give anymore.

Poor little frozen rabbits, poor little ration rabbits,
    Their ranks are thus paraded for a little army test.
And no one will believe it, no, never will believe it,
    In view of utter failure, that they did their little best.

 

 

 

The Reason Why

I’m going with a Sergeant
    To the picture-show to-night,
But the prospect does not move me
    To expressions of delight.
For my ticket won’t be paid for,
    And my hand will not be squeezed,
And I won’t get any chocolates,
    And I won’t be plagued and teased.
So I don’t feel much excited
    By this visit to the show,
For the Sergeant I am going with
    Is a lady one, you know.

 

 
 

Some Day

I’ve taken such a fancy, such a tantalizing fancy,
    To wear a little apron tuckered round with frills of lace;—
A foolish little apron, a fussy little apron,
    That in these strenuous war days would be sadly out of place.
               My uniform is neat, you know,
               Yes, very neat and smart,
But I want a little apron, a little muslin apron,
    And on that little apron I have fairly set my heart.

And then I’d like some tea-things, some pretty flowery tea-things,
    All shining on a cover, smooth and white as prairie snow;
And 'neath a nice big cosy, a nice big warm cosy,
    I’d like to find a teapot all a-sizzling and aglow.
               My army fare is very good,—
               Yes, very good, that’s true,—
But I want some pretty tea-things, some pretty, gilt-edged tea-things,
    I want some trifling tea-things, and I want the teapot too.

And, my! I’d like a fireplace, a real, big, roomy fireplace,
    And such a fire I’d build there ere I drew the table up.
The logs would blaze and crackle, would madly blaze and crackle,
    And throw their twinkling lustre on my little flowery cup.
               My Hostel room is wholesome,
               And maybe that were best;
But I crave that roomy fireplace, that homely, greedy fireplace,
    With a fender round the fireplace, where my weary feet would rest.

And, who knows? maybe, some day, some dim and distant some day,
    When Peace has come to free us, little dreams may all come true;
And I’ll have my little apron, and my tea-things and my fireplace.
    But, with all my little fancies, I must, also, dear, have you.
               My pleasant trips to dreamland,
               How swift I would resign,
If on that homely fender, that hospitable fender,
    If on that firelit fender your feet were not with mine.

 

 

 

Pay-Day

We do not feel so low to-night;
Indeed, our hearts are almost light.
Our meagre frames are quite unchilled,
Because we’re nicely warmed and filled;—
We’ve just been having such a treat,
At Ritchie’s, down in Prince’s Street.

They have real table-covers there,
And knives and forks and spoons to spare;
The price of things is never large,
While salt and such are free of charge.
And, oh! they have such things to eat,
At Ritchie’s, down in Prince’s street.

They have a fire, but more than that,
They have a dear old homely cat—
It makes one dream of home sweet home.
But while around the world we roam,
There’s comfort to be had complete
At Ritchie’s, down in Prince’s street.

 

 
 

Khaki

Say, girls, I’ve just been round the town,
    It took my breath away
To find that we have sisters still
    Who bow to fashion’s sway.
For nice Spring hats and nice Spring gowns
    Are everywhere displayed,
And purple seems to be just now
    The latest leading shade.

These purple hats are not for us,
    Nor purple frocks and hose;
Till times have changed, we’re proud to wear
    Our Country’s choice of clothes.
No envy do we feel for those
    In purple hue arrayed,
For surely khaki is, just now,
    A more becoming shade.

 

 

 

The "Waac's" Love-Letter

Dear Jack, another week has gone—
    How slowly weeks do go!
And what I am to write to-night
    I really do not know.
My hand is aching to be held,
    And, Jack, for you I pine,
So will you try and get your leave,
    Old dear, when I get mine?

The weather is just splendid now,
    I wish that you were here,
To stroll with me across the links
    Or sit upon the pier.
On moonlight nights, dear Jack, do you
    Think, too, of auld lang syne,
And will you try to get your leave,
    Old dear, when I get mine?

I hope that you are keeping well,
    And cheerful, too, dear Jack,
With love and kisses from your own
    Devoted little “Waac.”
P.S. I must, as usual, dear,
    Just add a little line,
To say be sure and get your leave,
    Old dear, when I get mine.

 

 
 

To A Comrade

Dear little friend,
Do please attend,
While thus I do advise you.—
I cannot write
A “poem” to-night,
A fact which may surprise you.
A gramophone,
Of horrid tone,
Above me now in droning;
And my comments
On its attempts
Amount to more than groaning.
Great thoughts, inspired,
By genius fired,
Within my mind were turning,
But now, my dreams
Are lost in screams
Of “Keep the Home Fires Burning.”
So now my name
The Hall of Fame
Is destined ne’er to enter,
And for the same
I can but blame
The gramophone’s inventor.

 

 

 

Small Mercies

“Good morning,” said the banker;
    “Good morning,” I replied.
“A nasty day,” he ventured;
    “Oh, not at all,” I cried.
He gazed upon the landscape,
    And said, “I think it’s wet”;
“But very fresh,” I told him,
    His puzzled frown I met.
“It’s really beastly windy,”
    He challenged me again;
“But really very bracing,”
    I answered him. And then
The argument was finished,
    He handed back my book,
And once more said, “Good morning,”
    With quite an absent look.
“Good morning,” I said brightly,
    And plodded through the rain,
Our intellectual converse
    Revolving in my brain.
For, since I am a soldier,
    'Tis seldom that I can
Permit myself the pleasure
    Of talking with a man.

 

 
 

My Army Pay

At one time I had thought to
    Live upon my Army Pay,
But now Ma says I’ve got to,
    And I shudder with dismay.
For an Army Pay is trifling,
    It so quickly melts away;
And economy is stifling,
    When you have it every day.
I don’t know how I spend it,
    For my tastes are far from gay;
I do not lose or lend it,
    And I don’t give much away.
I do not eat or drink it,
    For my tastes don’t run that way;
In War Bonds I don’t sink it,
    For it’s just an Army Pay.
The problem is quite vexing,
    And grows more so every day;
'Tis really most perplexing,
    How my dollars go astray.
My habits, so expensive,
    I must now locate and slay,
Then act on the defensive
    With my little Army Pay.

 

 

 

At the Edinburgh Hostel

I travel hourly to the hall,
    In time which I can ill afford,
To see if, at long last, my call
    Is waiting there upon the board.
I dread the day that soon must dawn,
    When from the Hostel I am hurled,
And must, once more, go marching on
    To cleave a pathway through the world.

I have been chilly here of nights,
    And in the daytime none too warm;
The table holds but few delights,
    I do not suit my uniform.
And yet, to me, this place is dear,—
    It marks a milestone on my way,
For I became a soldier here,
    And braced myself to join the fray.

My courage seems to ebb and flow,
    But, though I shiver on the brink,
When Duty calls I needs must go,
    And surely then I will not shrink.
So I go hourly to the hall,
    In time which I can ill afford,
To see if, at long last, my call
    Is waiting there upon the board.

 

 
 

Renunciation

'Tis nice of you to ask me out,
But till après la guerre,
I’m pledged to keep my hand unheld,
    So, Frank, 'tis “as you were.”
Besides a timid little “Waac”
    Is strictly on her honour
To scowl at every single man
    Who dares to smile upon her.
And Miss Maclean would be enraged,
The Adjutant would be enraged,
    The C.O. would be mad.
So, taking this and taking that,
I must refuse to go, that’s flat.
    It really is too bad.

If you were not engaged, old scout,
    And I were not engaged,
And there were prospects in the scheme
    Of business being staged,—
I might then lend a listening ear
    (Although I rather doubt it)
To your request, but hardly know,—
    I haven’t thought about it.
For you’re engaged, and I’m engaged,
Yes, both of us are quite engaged,
    'Tis therefore plain to me,
To let our trails run wide apart,
As they’ve been doing from the start,
    The wiser course will be.

 

 

 

My Delayed Great-Coat

When, after many days, my great-coat comes,
Thank Miss MacKenzie for it in my name;
And come, with mournful steps and muffled drums,
That symphony and sorrow do proclaim,
To where I have been laid in my last rest.
And let my tale unto the world be told,
That for my country I but did my best,
In dying quietly of the cruel cold.
Lay down my coat upon the snow-clad mound,
'Neath which I sleep, clad in my uniform,
And ponder deeply, as you stand around,
How nice it is to be alive and warm.

 

 
 

Room Sixty-Nine

Behold, in this, the model room,
All nicely swept and garnished,
The Persian rugs all smartly brushed,
The grate just newly varnished.
               (With a newspaper.)
Our counterpanes bear not a crease,
Their gloss is quite unbroken;
And down-quilts folded on our beds
Of comfort are the token.
Our mirrors catch the sun’s first rays,
So highly are they polished;
So are our dressing-tables, too,
Since covers are abolished.
Our wardrobes all are stowed away,
'Neath pillows and in the cases.
Of crêpe de chene and lingerie
There are not many traces.
Ten years hence, when we are discharged,
And, covered o’er with glory,
We march home to our feather-beds,
My! won’t we tell the story?

 

 

 

Potter

    an adventure in 1920

When strolling round in gay Paree,
A lady Brass-hat I did see.
    She looked at me intently.
She presently on me did smile,
And I was thinking all the while,
    “She knows me, evidently.”
Then cordially she shook my hand,
A thing I couldn’t understand,
    So finally besought her
To tell me her distinguished name;
“My dear,” she said, “'tis still the same,
    The one and only Potter.”

“Come on,” said she, “we’ll celebrate”;
But sadly I did hesitate,
    A fact which may surprise you.
Said I, “You can’t be seen with me—
I’m just a private, as you see.”
    Said she, “Then I’ll disguise you.”
She did. And I, a Brass-hat too,
The City sights did proudly view;—
    A good old scout I thought her.
But members of the W.A.C.,
In passing, only seemed to see
    The one and only Potter.

 

 
 

Optimism

There's to be a family wedding,
    But I guess I won’t be there,
For I’ve gone and joined the Army,
    And I might be anywhere.
You can bet I’ll do my utmost,—
    Though the C.O. is my dread,—
But you can’t be sure of furlough
    In the Army, till you’re dead,
So I fear my little sister
    Won’t have me to see her through,
And a little wire at ninepence
    Will be all that I can do.
If my darling baby nieces
    Do not rush their love-affairs,
But have weddings twenty years hence,
    Then I’ll maybe get to theirs.

 

 

 

The Hanky-Box Lid

The Adjutant’s artistic tastes do not agree with mine,
    For he didn’t like the picture on the wall.
I tidied up the office, and he seemed to think it fine,
    But he didn’t like the picture on the wall.
'Twas of an Irish soldier, with a daring Irish face,
A most inspiring sort of youth to have around the place.
But when the Adjutant arrived, I floundered in disgrace,
    For he didn’t like the picture on the wall.

The Major will not let us chum with soldiers if they’re real,
    But why forbid a picture on the wall?
My Irish lad ne’er held my hand, nor tried a kiss to steal,
    But still I liked his picture on the wall.
But when the Adjutant stood up and eyed it with a frown,
I knew the day was coming when I’d have to take it down.
And, being well acquainted with the Adjutant’s renown,
    I didn’t leave the picture on the wall.

So now my Irish soldier does our dining-room adorn,
    And the girls all like the picture on the wall.
But in my little office I am lonely and forlorn,
    For I surely liked the picture on the wall.
To be forbidden soldier friends is really rather rough,
And now we can’t have paper ones.—Red tape is horrid stuff!
But when you know the Adjutant a look is quite enough,
    And he didn’t like the picture on the wall.

 

 
 

My Fortune

I’ve just had Annie read my cup,
    And very pleased am I because
A new admirer she foretells.
    (I wonder who the last one was?)
His hair, she tells me, will be brown,—
    'Tis wonderful what’s in a cup,—
My very ideal of a man.
    I only wish he’d hurry up.

My lot in life is rather bright,
    She promised me a parcel too,—
That doesn’t interest me so much,
    My laundry is so nearly due.
A journey,—not an unmixed joy.
    If called on duty I don’t care,
But otherwise I’d rather not,
    For then I pay full railway fare.

A wedding I will soon attend,
    Which means a present,—not so good;
Three letters and a postcard I
    Will soon receive; at least I should.
Prosperity was there in chunks,
    But for how long she could not see.
Perhaps, in case I change my luck,
    I should give over drinking tea.

A cancelled journey would not hurt,
    The parcel’s loss I’d calmly bear;
But truly I would like to keep
    That lover with the nice brown hair.
With shining badge and polished shoes,
    Impatiently his step I wait.
I wish when Annie read my cup
    She’d fixed the hour and day and date.

 

 

 

May's Folly

I think that Cathie has a beau,
Although his name I do not know;
And Martha also has her laddie,
An Irish lad—she calls him Paddy.
Elizabeth has learnt, I’m told,
A gay Australian’s hand to hold;
While Mary Quinn, I have no doubt,
Has got a nice young man looked out;
And Jean is happy as can be,
Engaged to Willie of Lochee.
To Harold Meg has pledged her heart,
The war alone keeps them apart;
And Mary Steward has her eye
On some brave lad in distant Skye.
But one lad will not do for May,
She wants a new one every day;
Her love is warm while it lasts,
But fresh lines she for ever casts.
I do not know what is her bait,
But, sorrowfully, I relate,
That Toms and Berts around her flock,—
Or so I gather from her talk,—
And I am very much afraid
That May will end a cross old maid.
'Tis idle, everybody knows,
To have an endless string of beaus.

 

 
 

A Letter to Santa Claus

Dear Santa Claus, pray lend your ear,
    And listen to our humble plea,
That on your travels, two weeks hence,
    You won’t forget the W.A.C.
We do not ask fine things to eat,
    In that line what we now receive
Is ample for our modest needs;
    And all we ask is ten days’ leave.

Now lots of girls want furs and muffs,
    And chocolate creams, and diamond rings,
And buckled shoes, and silken hose,
    And jewelled combs, and such like things.
But, Santa, for such vanities
    And trifles we would scorn to grieve.
One favour only we implore,
    So do please give us ten days’ leave.

If, in the goodness of your heart,
    You wish to give us something more,
A travelling warrant would be nice,—
    We hadn’t thought of that before.
Dear Santa, we are feeling sad,
    But all out hopes you will retrieve,
If, when old Christmas comes along,
    You do but send us ten days’ leave.

 

 

 

Home

With money anybody can acquire
A house,—a thing of plaster, wood and stone,
Designed and built to suit his heart’s desire,
To have and hold and be his very own.
    When Peace comes and no longer need we roam,
    I do not want a house,—I want a home.

It’s shell may be a castle or a tent,
In smoke-rimmed town or spacious silent lands;
Within, it may be rich in ornament,
Or simply fashioned by your own strong hands
    I dream no dreams of grandeur or display,
    Which oft the spirit of a Home betray.

Yet, woman-like, I secretly conspire
To little dreams of comfort unawares,—
To winter evenings by a blazing fire,
With light, and books, and deep caressing chairs.
    The scourge of war has dried the fount of mirth.
    But peace and love will sanctify our hearth.

On summer twilights, when the homeward sun
Has blazed its trail of glory to the West,
I would with you,—our day’s work truly done,—
Upon a cool veranda take my rest.
    Enough to have a calm, untroubled heart,
    And be, at last, from war and woe apart.

Together, then, when Peace comes, we will find
A Home, and, having found it, rove no more.
To simple joys by war’s harsh creed inclined,
The simple faith now dimmed we may restore.
    I crave the joyous hour we cease to roam,
    And turn towards the priceless gift of Home.

 

 
 

A Xmas Letter to Hunter, B.

Dear Hunter, B., a line from me,
    I think, will be expected.
Although this year, with Xmas cheer,
    I am not much infected.
Are you, old scout? I rather doubt
    You can’t feel very jolly;
But never mind, our pals won’t find
    Us really melancholy.

The hearts that bound to mirthful sound
    Are made of india-rubber,
And yet, 'tis true, it wouldn’t do
    To sit right down and blubber.
A cheerful face helps on the pace,
    So you and I must wear them.
But 'way down deep, thoughts lurk and creep,
    So sad, we may not share them.

Our friends, I guess, are more or less
    The selfsame pangs enduring;
The Germans shamed and Peace proclaimed
    Are needed for the curing.
When that day comes, with bells and drums,
    We’ll kick aside our traces,
Our flags unfurled, we’ll charge the world
    With hearts to match our faces.

Till then, old friend, I recommend
    The same old smile. Pray, wear it.
If things go wrong, be brave and strong,
    And always “grin and bear it.”
Your task begun, it must be done,
    But ponder while you do it,
You share by right your Country’s fight,
    And that will help you through it.

 

 

 

A Dream

I had a dream—two nights ago it was—
    A very horrid dream I must confess.
I dreamt that Mrs. Dickinson, my friend
    Who does the cooking at the Sergeant’s Mess,
Took round my “poem” and read it to the boys,—
    The one in which I am so indiscreet,
In telling of my transports of delight,
    When Sergeants of the B.E.F. I meet.
And, lo, on Saturday, just after tea,
    Full forty Sergeants lined up in a row,
Outside my office window in the street,
    And each one held two tickets for the show.
So, all unseen by them I scanned the line,
    And chose a stout one with a cheerful nose,
Whom I would honour with my company,—
    You know my taste for fat ones, I suppose.
Then, from the side-door, calmly I emerged,
    And called attention with a gentle cough.
They viewed me up and down and round about,
    Then, at the double, everyone made off.
I knew my beauty wasn’t just the kind
    That picture-papers gloat upon,—not quite;
But didn’t know I was so very plain
    Till so informed by the Sergeants’ flight.
So you may guess how glad I was to hear
    James Bunce’s morning growl outside my door.
I rose at once, so pleased was I to learn
    'Twas but a horrid dream, and nothing more.

 

 
 

To Mary Quinn

      Mary Quinn, Mary Quinn,
      Tell me, how can I begin
To express the pangs of sorrow we are feeling?
      Duty’s call you must obey,
      So we dare not bid you stay,
Or we would to have you with us be appealing.
      That our loss will be your gain,
      Seems, moreover, very plain,
And for that alone we’re proud to see you going.
      But, Mary, don’t forget
      To think sometimes, with regret,
Of the little flowers of friendship you left growing.

      And when you’re settled down
      In some other camp or town,
And for other grateful “Waacs” you do the cooking,
      As you poke among the stew,
      Or the supper soup review,
Or while into the oven you are looking—
      At odd times such as these,
      Little memories will tease,
And you’ll wonder how your comrades here are faring.
      We will likely follow you,
      One by one, to pastures new,
But still our friendly thoughts you will be sharing.

      And we heartily unite,
      As we say farewell to-night,—
Our wishes are not dimmed with reservations.
      We are pleased indeed to know,
      You are now an N.C.O.;
And we offer our sincere congratulations.
      Till the war is fought and won,
      Just go on as you’ve begun,
And keep your collar white and hat-badge shining.
      Be a loyal little “Waac,”
      And at times, when you look back,
Let it be with pride and pleasure, not repining.

 

 

 

The Party

“There was a sound of revelry by night,”
And echoes of hilarious delight.
Good people passing, paused and shook their heads,
And growled, “These ‘Waacs’ should all be in their beds.”
But, safe behind the shuttered window-panes,
The dance went madly on to mellow strains
Of music, mirth-inspiring in its tone,
Ground from the vitals of the gramophone.
The waltzing couples made a goodly show,
Each soldier girl had her gallant beau;
The military swing did but enhance
The bunny-hugging motions of the dance.
The ladies looked their best in evening dress,
And jewels flashed in many a silken tress,
Recalling, to the thoughtful, old-time scenes.
What though the dresses smacked of window-screens?
The floating veil and lace-encircled throat
Served but to strike a soothing, pre-war note.
Sometimes a youth, moved by the charm of this,
Did punctuate the two-step with a kiss.
In joyous song the gay young voices swelled,
Right bravely were the shrill top-notes upheld,
With awe-inspiring whoops and shrieks and skirls,
A talent with young soldiers—lads and girls.
The supper was an elegant affair,
With witty talk and rations, both to spare.
'Twas nice to have a partner once again,
'Tis wonderful how much we care for men.
But stay, an old-time saying I recall,—
“'Tis only human nature after all.”
The banquet past, the fun rose to its height,
Until, alas! how eager is Time’s flight,
It struck the hour of twelve, when all good “Waacs”
Must sing “God Save the King!” and then make tracks
For bed. So, standing in a ring,
The anthem they right lustily did sing.
Ten minutes after all the lights were out,
Naught save the two black cats did prowl about.
And citizens, nearby, shook sleepy heads,
And said, “These ‘Waacs’ must all be in their beds.”
To the C.O.:
Respected sir, if chance should bring this ode
Before your eyes, let not your rage explode.
My little tale one explanation lacks,
The “gallant beaus” were camouflaged young “Waacs.”

 

 
 

A "Waac's" Thoughts in Church

We join the Sabbath morning prayer, imploring
    For mercy wheresoever war is known,
And, from our hearts, the whispered names go soaring
    Of those who are our own.

When urgently we crave release and healing
    For broken bodies, snatched from Death’s red zone,
The stranger is forgotten while appealing
    For those who are our own.

Perchance we dream of valiant men returning,
    With Victory their hardships to atone;
But more than pride of triumph is the yearning
    For those who are our own.

Or, when our thoughts, with troubled vision, wander
    To soldier’s graves, on battlefields far strewn,
How fierce a light illumes, while we ponder,
    The cross that is our own.

We vaguely comprehend that others sorrow,
    But self we cannot conquer or dethrone.
We greet the dawn of each uncertain morrow
    With trembling for our own.

Our humble minds seek vainly to discover
    The blessings of a world to blood-shed thrown.
By faith alone rebellious thoughts we smother,
    And sadly give our own.

 

 

 

Carry On

If you’re feeling discontented and disgusted with your lot,—
    “Fed-up” is comprehensive and expresses what I mean,—
If with anger and resentment you are feeling rather hot,
    And every day you wonder when you’ll get a change of scene.
If the lack of human feeling in the army gets your goat,
    And rebel thoughts engulf you every time you feel the screw,
You might as well go easy, for a rescue is remote,
    And, you know, there is a war on, and we’ve got to see it through.

When the letters come from home and tell of little ups and downs,
    And you’d like to trek back homewards all the joys and griefs to share,
It is then you feel the fetters as you wander round strange towns,
    And desertion seems the only thing if only you might dare.
But you’ve got to carry on, despite your hours of silent pain,—
    There’s no nonsense in the army, and you needn’t make ado;
Its rules are often callous, and its dictates always plain,
    But, you know, there is a war on, and we’ve got to see it through.

Then perhaps you had your plans made and were thinking to be wed,
    But, alas! there’s nothing doing till the war is past and done.
Or, perchance, you have no sweetheart, but you had it on your head,
    That the army was a likely place to look around for one.
But the C.O. will not have it.—He persistently declines
    To allow you any soldier friends—not even one or two,
And your army pay,—it doesn’t run to many half-crown fines,
    But, you know there is a war on, and we’ve got to see it through.

But, of course, it isn’t often that your spirits fall so low.
    And you mostly feel quite happy and content to do your bit.
A continual round of grousing is the proper thing you know,
    Though it’s really very seldom that you don’t feel bright and fit.
You have grievances and hardships, but these things are in the game,
    And you air them good and plenty, but are seldom really blue.
And in spite of all your grumbling you are happy just the same,
    For, you know, there is a war on, and we’ve got to see it through.

 

 
 

Sacrifice

When I wore nice civilian clothes,
And tripped along on patent toes,
And had a pretty feather ruff around my little neck,
My hat had spangles round the brim,
My ankles were silk-clad and slim,
My gowns were frilled and up-to-date, without a spot or speck.
And wounded soldiers smiled to me,
And other soldiers smiled to me,
    And I, of course, smiled back,
They don’t smile now; but if they did,
To smile to them I am forbid,
    Because I am a “Waac.”

I do feel rather grieved by this,
And, certainly, the smiles I miss.—
I think I still could get them if it wasn’t for my hat.
But 'twouldn’t be a bit of good,
I’d have to be so cold and rude,
And leave the soldiers thinking me as blind as any bat.
Though wounded soldiers I adore,
And other soldiers I adore,
    On them I turn my back.—
Our good, old, kind, old, sweet C.O.
Demands this frame of mind, you know,
    Because I am a “Waac.”

 

 

 

To Departing Comrades

To Mrs. Clement:
Good-bye, old sport, it seems you must abandon
The safety of our fold for pastures new.
A cosy billet we will hope you land on,
And that our loss will be a gain to you.
Though flags don’t fly, nor any pipes be skirling,
When you arrive, let that not dim your zest.—
March on, brave heart, along the streets of Stirling,
And start right in to do your little best.

 
 

To M. R. Kerr:
Poor Kerr, M. R., must go
To seek another home;
A wanderer upon the earth,
Abroad she now must roam.
A soldier’s heart is hers,
It grieves her not to flit;—
She does not care how, when, or where,
She does her little bit.
Before Peace comes again,
We may have travelled far,
But, when as veterans we meet,
We hope to see M.R.

 
 

To Gertie Langton:
Well, Gertie, dear, you’ve got to go,
    We grudge to see you going,
But what our orders are to be
    There’s never any knowing.
We hustle on from post to post,
    Our wishes all unspoken,
And friendship’s ties are scarcely knit
    Until they must be broken.
Perhaps, ere long, the war will end,
    And Peace will homeward speed us.
But meantime, 'tis enough to know
    Our King and Country need us.
Some day, among the winding trails,
    Perchance we yet may find you;
Till then you have the loving thoughts
    Of those you leave behind you.

 
 

To Meg Downie:
Dear Meg, farewell,
Since I’ve heard tell
That you are drafted to Montrose.
I hope you’ll find
Your comrades kind,
And nothing added to your woes.
We may, by chance,
Yet meet in France,
I most sincerely hope we do.
For the meantime,
In this brief rhyme,
I wish the best of luck to you.

 
 

To I. Cruden:
Go, dainty maid, your needle ply
Among those daring men who fly,
    But oh, my dear, be wary.
For compliments, like aeroplanes,
Are sometimes bent on hostile gains,
    Though, sometimes, the contrary.
You have a clear, well-balanced mind,
So need not be just too unkind,
    When offered some attention.
The good and bad you’ll separate,
And not just rise to every bait,
    But surely I may mention,
That in our conversations here,
We may have been a bit severe;
    For 'mong our fighting brothers,
There is a black sheep now and then,
But most of them are good, brave men,
    The sons of noble mothers.

Britain's Daughters

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