A Gloucestershire Lad

A
Gloucestershire Lad
at Home and Abroad

by
F. W. Harvey

Fourth Impression

London
Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd.
1917

First Impression, September 1916.

Second Impression, October 1916.

Third Impression, January 1917.

Fourth Impression, March 1917.

All rights reserved.

TO
ALL COMRADES OF MINE
WHO LIE DEAD IN FOREIGN FIELDS
FOR LOVE OF ENGLAND,
OR WHO LIVE TO PROSECUTE THE WAR
FOR ANOTHER ENGLAND

PREFACE

Most of these poems were written at the Front, and appeared in the Fifth Gloucester Gazette—the first paper ever published from the trenches.

The author was then a Lance-Corporal in the 5th Battalion of the Gloucestershire Regiment, and as such gained the Distinguished Conduct Medal in August, 1915.

The award appears as follows in the London Gazette—

F. W. Harvey.—“For conspicuous gallantry on the night of the 3rd-4th August, 1915, near Hebuterne, when, with a patrol, he and another Non-Commissioned Officer went out to reconnoitre in the direction of a suspected listening post. In advancing they encountered the hostile post evidently covering a working party in the rear. Corporal Knight at once shot one of the enemy, and, with Lance-Corporal Harvey, rushed the post, shooting two others, and assistance arriving the enemy fled. Lance-Corporal Harvey pursued, felling one of the retreating Germans with a bludgeon. He seized him, but finding his revolver empty and the enemy having opened fire, he was called back by Corporal Knight, and the prisoner escaped. Three Germans were killed and their rifles and a Mauser pistol were brought in. The patrol had no loss.”

The poems are written by a soldier and reflect a soldier’s outlook. Mud, blood and khaki are rather conspicuously absent. They are, in fact, the last things a soldier wishes to think or talk about.

What he does think of is his home.

Bishop Frodsham, preaching in Gloucester Cathedral, after visiting the Troops in France, quoted the following poem in a passage which admirably expresses the feelings of most of our fighting men.

“To suppose that these men enjoy the fighting would be sheer nonsense. The soldier does not want to go on killing and maiming Germans or Turks. He wants to get the dreadful war finished, so that he can get back to England again. But he wants the matter fought to a finish because he has seen in the villages and towns of France what German domination means. It has made him think furiously, as the French say. Many regiments and ships’ companies while away the impracticable hours by publishing little newspapers.

“The Fifth Gloucester Gazette is one of these journals. We are proud of the courage and the gaiety these little papers show. We laugh at their quips and jokes: then suddenly we find that the corners of our mouths are quivering and the tears are gathering in our eyes. We see that the boys are thinking about England below their gaiety. One young poet lifts the veil in this exquisite little rondeau—

“‘If we return, will England be

Just England still to you and me—

The place where we must earn our bread?

We who have walked among the dead,

And watched the smile of agony,

And seen the price of liberty,

Which we have taken carelessly

From other hands. Nay, we shall dread:

If we return,

Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily

The thing that men have died to free.

Our English fields shall blossom red

In all the blood that has been shed,

By men whose guardians are we,

If we return.’”

That is perhaps the keynote of a book which the author has dedicated to all dead and living comrades who have loved England.

J. H. Collett, C.M.G., Colonel
Commanding the Fifth Battalion of the
Gloucestershire Regiment in France.

CONTENTS

IN FLANDERS

I’m homesick for my hills again—

My hills again!

To see above the Severn plain

Unscabbarded against the sky

The blue high blade of Cotswold lie;

The giant clouds go royally

By jagged Malvern with a train

Of shadows. Where the land is low

Like a huge imprisoning O

I hear a heart that’s sound and high,

I hear the heart within me cry:

“I’m homesick for my hills again—

My hills again!

Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain!

My hills again!”

A SONG OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE

(Dedicated to the Gloucestershire Society)

North, South, East, and West:

Think of whichever you love the best.

Forest and vale and high blue hill:

You may have whichever you will,

And quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul

Before we drink to the lovely whole.

Here are high hills with towns all stone,

(Did you come from the Cotswolds then?)

And an architecture all their own,

And a breed of sturdy men.

But here’s a forest old and stern,

(Say, do you know the Wye?)

Where sunlight dapples green miles of fern,

A river wandering by.

Here’s peaceful meadow-land and kine,

(Do you see a fair grey tower?)

Where sweet together close entwine

Grass, clover, and daisy flower.

Here stretches the land toward the sea

(Behold the castle bold!)

Where men live out life merrily,

And die merry and old.

North, South, East, and West:

Think of whichever you love the best.

Forest and vale and high blue hill:

You shall have whichever you will,

To quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul

Before we drink to the lovely whole.

BALLADE OF THE RICH HEART

What thief is he can rob this treasury,

Which hath not gold but dreams within its gates?

What power can enter in to take from me

My treasure, while upon the threshold waits

“Courage,” my watch-dog, keeping back the fates

Which follow close until I do depart

In safety from their little loves and hates?

Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Guarded of dreams against all evil chance,

With young Adventure arm in arm I go

To laugh at Luck and silly Circumstance.

And, counting naught that comes to me my foe,

I change, if ’tis my whim, the winter snow

To blowing blossom: and by that same art

I fashion as I will Life’s weal and woe:

Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Let me go lame and lousy like a tramp

But feel the wind and know the moonlit sky!

What matter if the falling dew be damp—

Still is it dew! And well contented I

Among my dreams (in seeming poverty)

Far from the cities and the noisy mart,—

With Life and Death—my dearest friends—to lie,

Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Envoi.

Prince of this world, high monarch of all those

Who deem Reality life’s better part,

Herewith I tweak thy crooked royal nose—

Singing of all I carry in my heart.

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH PERRY

When Noe went sailing with his crew

And waters covered over the earth,

Trees that in Eden-orchard grew

Got washed away to Minsterworth.

Now every year they bloom again,

(All of the trees spread healthy root)

And after Summer’s shine and rain

We gather up the blessed fruit;

Whereof we get a heavenly drink

(Two rather!) for to make us merry;

Oh! Cider’s one, and I do think

The name o’ t’other one is Perry!

A GLOUCESTERSHIRE WISH AT EASTERTIDE

Here’s luck, my lads, while Birdlip Hill is steep:—

—As long as Cotswold’s high or Severn’s deep.

Our thoughts of you shall blossom and abide

While blow the orchards about Severn side:—

—While a round bubble like the children blow,

May Hill floats purple in the sunset glow.

Our prayers go up to bless you where you lie,

While Gloucester tower stands up against the sky

To write old thoughts of loveliness, and trace

Dead men’s long living will to give God praise:—

—Who of His mercy doth His Own Son give

This blessed morn, that you, and all, may live!

SONG OF THE ROAD

Cheerily upon the road

Tramp we all together,

Bearing every one his load

Through the changeful weather.

To one Hope we all belong,

To one Fate a debtor,

Songs must cheer our steps along,

Mirth the road make better.

Wishes cannot make a horse,

Only beggars would ride;

We must meet the fairy force

In each sombre wood-side.

We must bravely tread the way,

Gaily sing together,

Till we reach the endless day,

Heaven’s golden weather.

PIPER’S WOOD

In Minsterworth when March is in,

And Spring begins to gild the days,

Oh! then starts up a joyous din,

For Piper’s Wood is full of praise,

Because the birds deem winter gone

And welcome the returning sun.

Blackbird and thrush and robin dear

Within that wood try over all

The songs they mean to shout so clear

Before green leaves grow red and fall;

And harkening in its shadows you

Must needs sing out of Summer too.

BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING

The Dorothy was very small: a boat

Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows

With oars! We got her for a five-pound note

At second-hand. Yet when the river flows

Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows,

Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll

Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes

Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat,

(The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!)

Scramble aboard: then find an antidote

For every care a jaded spirit knows:

While round the boat the broken water crows

With laughter, casting pretty ridicule

On human life and all its little woes,

Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote

Upon the outspread waters—gold and rose:

Or how the white sail of our little boat

Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose

With blue solemnity: each white scar shows

Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool.

And high and cool a fevered spirit grows

Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

Envoi.

Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose,

As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool.

But have you got a little boat that blows

Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool?

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH

Air: “The Vicar of Bray”

In olden, olden centuries

On Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,

The monks did pray and chant all day,

And grow exceeding round, sir;

And here’s the reason that they throve

To praise their pleasant fortune,

“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,

“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]

So this is the chorus we will sing,

And this is the spot we’ll drink to,

While blossom blows and Severn flows,

And Earth has mugs to clink to.

Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds

The drowsy drone of bees, sir,

And there in Winter paints the sun

His patterns ’neath the trees, sir;

And there with merry song doth run

A river full of fish, sir,

That Thursday sees upon the flood

And Friday on the dish, sir.

So this is the chorus we will sing

And this is the spot we’ll drink to,

While blossom blows and Severn flows,

And Earth has mugs to clink to.

The jovial priests to dust are gone,

We cannot hear their singing;

But still their merry chorus-song

From newer lips runs ringing.

And we who drink the sunny air

And see the blossoms drifting,

Will sit and sing the self-same thing

Until the roof we’re lifting.

So this is the chorus we will sing,

And this is the spot we’ll drink to,

While blossom blows and Severn flows,

And Earth has mugs to clink to.

[1] The ancient name of the parish was Mortune—that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.—F. W. H.

CRICKET: THE CATCH

Whizzing, fierce, it came

Down the summer air,

Burning like a flame

On my fingers bare,

And it brought to me

As swift—a memory.

Happy days long dead

Clear I saw once more.

Childhood that is fled:—

Rossall on the shore,

Where the sea sobs wild

Like a homesick child.

Oh, the blue bird’s fled!

Never man can follow.

Yet at times instead

Comes this scarlet swallow,

Bearing on its wings

(Where it skims and dips,

Gleaming through the slips)

Sweet Time-strangled things.

WONDERS

What magic is in common grass

To bring this miracle to pass?

That within it one should find

Salves to give him peace of mind?

—It’s very queer that garden weed

Should minister to my soul’s need.

What fairy in the falling rain

Takes the robin’s small refrain,

And twists it to a tiny charm

To keep a tempted heart from harm?

—It puzzles me a wild bird’s song

Should save my soul from doing wrong.

TRIOLET

If Beauty were a mortal thing

That died like laughter, grief, and lust,

The poet would not need to sing.

If Beauty were a mortal thing

It would not wound us with its sting.

We should lie happy in the dust

If Beauty were a mortal thing

That died like laughter, grief, and lust.

TRIOLET

Winter has hardened all the ground,

But flowers are on the window-pane;

No others are there to be found:—

Winter has hardened all the ground.

But here, while Earth is bare and bound,

Bloom ghosts of those his frost has slain.

Winter has hardened all the ground,

But flowers are on the window-pane.

WHAT GOD SAID

“This be a lesson,” said Life, with a frown—

And knocked me down.

“And serve him right!” cried the goodly men,

While I—I picked myself up, and then