POETRY.
JONATHAN, MY BROTHER JONATHAN. BALLOO, Boulogne and Blighty, that's what 'e sez to me, A-smiling from 'is stretcher as cooshy as c'd be A fag stuck in 'is napper an' a twinkle in 'is eye, An' 'is poor smashed 'sad all bandaged up, a-starin' at the sky.
'E knew 'is number 'ad gone up, but Bill was always game, For mud and blood an' night-fatigue 'e'd stuck 'em all the same. An' so 'c went off smilin' an' ler me :—but I knowed That my 'cart went in 'is stretcher, down the Plugstreet-Menin Road.
They sewed 'im in 'is blanket that very day an' all, An' buried 'im by the dressing-shed as dusk began to fall. The Padre said a prayer or two, but me I couldn't pray, But I swore I'd 'ave the price of 'im before I went away.
For I've 'ad pals before an' since—an good enough for me, Good for a scrap in No Man's Land or a back-in-billets spree, But such a right down pal as 'im I never yet 'ave knowed, Oo left me standing lonely on the Plugstreet-Menin Road.
The Skipper wrote 'is Pa and Ma and said we missed 'ins so, The Skipper ain't a bad ole bloke, but Gawd, what do 'e know f I 'aven't wrote to tell my grief, but I done what's as well :- I've got three nicks on my rifle-butt for 'Uns I've sent to 'ell.
J. H. KNIGHT-ADS/IL
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