The Project Gutenberg eBook, Fairies and Fusiliers, by Robert Graves
FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS
BY
ROBERT GRAVES
1918
I have to thank Mr. Harold Monro, of The Poetry Book Shop, for permission to include in this volume certain poems of which he possesses the copyright; also the editor of the "Nation" for a similar courtesy.
R.G.
CONTENTS
TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC AN OLD TWENTY-THIRD MAN TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WAR—FOR THE FOURTH TIME TWO FUSILIERS TO ROBERT NICHOLS DEAD COW FARM GOLIATH AND DAVID BABYLON MR. PHILOSOPHER THE CRUEL MOON FINLAND A PINCH OF SALT THE CATERPILLAR SORLEY'S WEATHER THE COTTAGE THE LAST POST WHEN I'M KILLED LETTER TO S.S. FROM MAMETZ WOOD A DEAD BOCHE FAUN THE SPOILSPORT THE SHIVERING BEGGAR JONAH
JOHN SKELTON I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED? DOUBLE RED DAISIES CAREERS I'D LOVE TO BE A FAIRY'S CHILD THE NEXT WAR STRONG BEER MARIGOLDS THE LADY VISITOR IN THE PAUPER WARD LOVE AND BLACK MAGIC SMOKE-RINGS A CHILD'S NIGHTMARE ESCAPE THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE NOT DEAD A BOY IN CHURCH CORPORAL STARE THE ASSAULT HEROIC THE POET IN THE NURSERY IN THE WILDERNESS CHERRY-TIME 1915 FREE VERSE
TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC
The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine.... But what's the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? You'll only skip the page, you'll look For newer pictures in this book; You've read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds.... But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air? You'll only frown; you'll turn the page, But find no glimpse of your "New Age Of Poetry" in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel And sunsets swimming in Volnay, The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal For something new: "Write something new: We've read this poem—that one too, And twelve more like 'em yesterday"?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl Just what I fancy as I strike it, Fairies and Fusiliers, and all Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the classic way. And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fashioned folk still like it.
AN OLD TWENTY-THIRD MAN
"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?" From the sad magic of his fragrant cup The red-faced old centurion started up, Cursed, battered on the table. "No," he said, "Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion's dead, Dead in the first year of this damned campaign— The Legion's dead, dead, and won't rise again. Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die, But we need pity also, you and I, Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss, Who live to see the Legion come to this, Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot, Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot. O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh! Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by, The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine. Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!" "Strabo," said Gracchus, "you are strange tonight. The Legion is the Legion; it's all right. If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, God damn it! you'll not better them by drinking. They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands. The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands, And these same men before the autumn's fall Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul."
TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WAR—FOR THE FOURTH TIME
It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, When we're to do the fighting! And since we lads are proud and true, What else remains to do? Lucasta, when to France your man Returns his fourth time, hating war, Yet laughs as calmly as he can And flings an oath, but says no more, That is not courage, that's not fear— Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride sends him here.
Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray, And so decide who started This bloody war, and who's to pay, But he must be stout-hearted, Must sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death. Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love, or hate, But let us do the things we do; It's pride that makes the heart be great; It is not anger, no, nor fear— Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here.
TWO FUSILIERS
And have we done with War at last? Well, we've been lucky devils both, And there's no need of pledge or oath To bind our lovely friendship fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough.
By wire and wood and stake we're bound, By Fricourt and by Festubert, By whipping rain, by the sun's glare, By all the misery and loud sound, By a Spring day, By Picard clay.
Show me the two so closely bound As we, by the red bond of blood, By friendship, blossoming from mud, By Death: we faced him, and we found Beauty in Death, In dead men breath.
TO ROBERT NICHOLS
(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: "I am just finishing my 'Faun's Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.")
Here by a snowbound river In scrapen holes we shiver, And like old bitterns we Boom to you plaintively: Robert how can I rhyme Verses for your desire— Sleek fauns and cherry-time, Vague music and green trees, Hot sun and gentle breeze, England in June attire, And life born young again, For your gay goatish brute Drunk with warm melody Singing on beds of thyme With red and rolling eye, All the Devonian plain, Lips dark with juicy stain, Ears hung with bobbing fruit? Why should I keep him time? Why in this cold and rime, Where even to dream is pain? No, Robert, there's no reason: Cherries are out of season, Ice grips at branch and root, And singing birds are mute.
DEAD COW FARM
An ancient saga tells us how In the beginning the First Cow (For nothing living yet had birth But Elemental Cow on earth) Began to lick cold stones and mud: Under her warm tongue flesh and blood Blossomed, a miracle to believe: And so was Adam born, and Eve. Here now is chaos once again, Primeval mud, cold stones and rain. Here flesh decays and blood drips red, And the Cow's dead, the old Cow's dead.
