The Return

(ALL ARMS)


  Peace is declared, an’ I return
    To ’Ackneystadt, but not the same;
  Things ’ave transpired which made me learn
    The size and meanin’ of the game.
  I did no more than others did,
    I don’t know where the change began;
  I started as a average kid,
    I finished as a thinkin’ man.

  _If England was what England seems,
    An’ not the England of our dreams,
  But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
    ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er!_ But she ain’t!

  Before my gappin’ mouth could speak
    I ’eard it in my comrade’s tone;
  I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek
    Before I felt it flush my own.
  An’ last it come to me--not pride,
    Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole
  (If such a term may be applied),
    The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

  Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer,
    Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
  Mountains that never let you near,
    An’ stars to all eternity;
  An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills
    The ’ollows of the wilderness,
  When the wind worries through the ’ills--
    These may ’ave taught me more or less.

  Towns without people, ten times took,
    An’ ten times left an’ burned at last;
  An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look
    For owners when a column passed;
  An’ quiet, ’omesick talks between
    Men, met by night, you never knew
  Until--’is face--by shellfire seen--
    Once--an’ struck off. They taught me too.

  The day’s lay-out--the mornin’ sun
    Beneath your ’at-brim as you sight;
  The dinner-’ush from noon till one,
    An’ the full roar that lasts till night;
  An’ the pore dead that look so old
    An’ was so young an hour ago,
  An’ legs tied down before they’re cold--
    These are the things which make you know.

  Also Time runnin’ into years--
    A thousand Places left be’ind--
  An’ Men from both two ’emispheres
    Discussin’ things of every kind;
  So much more near than I ’ad known,
    So much more great than I ’ad guessed--
  An’ me, like all the rest, alone--
    But reachin’ out to all the rest!

  So ’ath it come to me--not pride,
    Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole
  (If such a term may be applied),
    The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.
  But now, discharged, I fall away
    To do with little things again....
  Gawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say,
    Look after me in Thamesfontein!

  _If England was what England seems,
    An’ not the England of our dreams,
  But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
    ’Ow quick we’d chuck ’er!_ But she ain’t!