Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/396

 396

Because of an old man weeping,

Just an old man in pain,

For David, his son David,

That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,

And I can see them still,

Not a word of the fighting

But just the sheep on the hill

And how he should get the crops in

Ere the year got stormier,

And the Bosches have got his body,

And I was his officer.

Your were only David's father,

But I had fifty sons

When we went up in the evening

Under the arch of the guns,

And we came back at twilight—

O God! I heard them call

To me for help and pity

That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,

My men that trusted me,

More my sons than your fathers',

For they could only see

The little helpless babies

And the young men in their pride.

They could not see you dying,

And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,

They saw their first-born go,

But not the strong limbs broken

And the beautiful men brought low,

The piteous writhing bodies,

The screamed, "Don't leave me, Sir,"

For they were only your fathers

And I was your officer. E. A. Mackintosh