Voices of Silence Read Online Free PDF Page A

mouth-organ,
    Leading us as we go!
    ‘Highland laddie, Highland laddie; whar hae you been a’ the day?’
    And when this life is ended,
    And Morgan gone aloft,
    He will not carp
    Tho’ he get no harp,
    Nor trumpet sweet and soft;
    But if there be a place for him
    In the Angelic choir,
    Give Jimmy Morgan
    His old mouth-organ,
    And he’ll play and never tire.
    Joseph Lee
    Singing ‘Tipperary’
    We’ve each our Tipperary, who shout that haunting song,
    And all the more worth reaching because the way is long;
    You’ll hear the hackneyed chorus until it tires your brain
    Unless you feel the thousand hopes disguised in that refrain.
    We’ve each our Tipperary – some hamlet, village, town,
    To which our ghosts would hasten though we laid our bodies down,
    Some spot of little showing our spirits still would seek,
    And strive, unseen, to utter what now we fear to speak.
    We’ve each our Tipperary, our labour to inspire,
    Some mountain-top or haven, some goal of far desire –
    Some old forlorn ambition, or humble, happy hope
    That shines beyond the doubting with which our spirits cope.
    We’ve each our Tipperary – near by or wildly far;
    For some it means a fireside, for some it means a star;
    For some it’s but a journey by homely roads they know,
    For some a spirit’s venture where none but theirs may go.
    We’ve each our Tipperary, where rest and love and peace
    Mean just a mortal maiden, or Dante’s Beatrice:
    We growl a song together, to keep the marching swing,
    But who shall dare interpret the chorus that we sing?
    W. Kersley Holmes
    Another ‘Scrap of Paper’
    ( The Times of October 1st vouches for the following Army Order issued by the German Kaiser on August 19th. ‘It is my Royal and Imperial Command that you concentrate your energies, for the immediate present, upon one single purpose, and that is that you address all your skill and all the valour of my soldiers to exterminate first the treacherous English and walk over General French’s contemptible little Army.’)
    Wilhelm, I do not know your whereabouts.
    The gods elude us. When we would detect your
    Earthly address, ’tis veiled in misty doubts
    Of devious conjecture.
    At Nancy, in a moist trench, I am told
    That you performed an unrehearsed lustration;
    That there you linger, having caught a cold,
    Followed by inflammation.
    Others assert that your asbestos hut,
    Conveyed (with you inside) to Polish regions,
    Promises to afford a likely butt
    To Russia’s wingèd legions.
    But, whether this or that (or both) be true,
    Or merely tales of which we have the air full,
    In any case I say, ‘O Wilhelm, do,
    Do, if you can, be careful!’
    For if, by evil chance, upon your head,
    Your precious head, some impious shell alighted,
    I should regard my dearest hopes as dead,
    My occupation blighted.
    I want to save you for another scene,
    Having perused a certain Manifesto
    That stimulates an itching, very keen,
    In every Briton’s best toe –
    An Order issued to your Army’s flower,
    Giving instructions most precise and stringent
    For the immediate wiping out of our
    ‘Contemptible’ contingent.
    Well, that’s a reason why I’d see you spared;
    So take no risks, but rather heed my warning,
    Because I have a little plan prepared
    For Potsdam, one fine morning.
    I see you ringed about with conquering foes –
    See you, in penitential robe (with taper),
    Invited to assume a bending pose
    And eat that scrap of paper!
    Owen Seaman
    The Freedom of the Press
    Waking at six, I lie and wait
    Until the papers come at eight.
    I skim them with an anxious eye
    Ere duly to my bath I hie,
    Postponing till I’m fully dressed
    My study of the daily pest.
    Then, seated at my frugal board,
    My rasher served, my tea outpoured,
    I disentangle news official
    From reams of comment unjudicial,
    Until at half-past nine I rise
    Bemused by all this ‘wild surmise’,
    And for my daily treadmill bound
    Fare eastward on the underground.
    But, whether in the train or