"CARRY ON, MATES!"

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 16, 13 October 1917, Page 9

"CARRY ON, MATES!"

STIRRING APPEAL TO THE SHIRKER

AND SLACKER

(By Lieut. Martin FitzGcrald, in the American "Outlook.") [It is not often that tho "Outlook" receives a poem and a confession in' tho same envelope In this caso the poem and tho confession camo together, though they did not como from tho same writer. Lieutenant Martin FitzGernld, an English raachine-guu officer, recently felt moved to writo while in tho hospital pan appeal in vigorous trench language to his countrymon at homo to support tho troops in tho field. Through some curious mischance, or becauso ho possessed an ngreeablo sense of humour, lie sent this poem to Mr. Georgo Sylvester Viereck, editor of "Viereck's [alias "Fathcrland"7i The American Weekly." Mr. Viereck, whose 6ense of tho fitness of things is rather greater than liis loyalty, forwarded tho poem to the "Outlook" with tho statement: "I feel certain that the author could not have intended it for us." The reason why the editor of a magazine which possesses the . title "Tho American Weekly" considers a poem which makes an appeal for tho support of our Allies uiipublishnble is sufficiently obvious not to require any further comment.—The Editors.")

'Ere am 1 sweating my bloomin' soul out All lor a moldy bob a day. A bob a day, ayo, a bob a day and night as well. No eight or ten hours a day tor poor me, With a 'art 'ollday thrown iu as well. Not an hour in the blooniiu' twenty-lour Can I call my soul my own. Sentry-go And fatigue, fatigue, and sentry-go, till ifou prop yer eyelids with matches to keep Them from shutting right down, or for a chango Toil sweat up and down a mnddy bloody Trench with a few ton weight on your aching back. Mud to tho middle, pulling ouo foot out And then the other feeling like a dam' fly Stuck in tho bloomin' lly-pancr. biriko, you sayl ) Not bloody likely! The rations and Must get up the dam' lino to feed ourselves And our friend Fritz, if I drop dead in my Muddy bloody tracks. Then tor variety Youi shin over the bloomin' top, yer 'eart In yer mouth and 'ate in yer 'eart, over That devil's spit, No Man's Land, to.pay pur Afternoon-tea call to Old Fritz, or vise We're busy welcoming visitors that .Come without asking, with machine-gun, lUllc, bayonet, and bomb. What a life. All for a blinking, moldy hob a day! Mates of mine, who make tho "Iron rations" For old Fritz, you are 'omo in old Blighty With women and beer and bacciy galore. They sajj you strike; well, may Gawd strike them What told you to. What, mate, would you stab Yer old pal in the hack, and join 'ti'ds With old Fritz against me, me, your old Pal, Me, who gives my life and strength and blood To keep you, the gals, ami kiddies saf'j at home? Strike mo pink! you can't do it, not on yer life! For Gawd's sake, play the game, don i fail us now When wo'vo gripped tight with the devil and strain Every nerve for the straugle-'old, to crush him Once and for all; don't stab me in tho back And help him free again, l'ou can't, by , the blood Of those mates of ours who'vo paid the ' price, Who have gone West. Tlwy'U curse jou from eaven And 'ell as 1 shall curs? you froi.l Hits , bloody. Battered line.

T . , . , Carry oil, pale of mine! I: there 13 a grievance—wait, 'old your and. Beware of 'ot air ami llio German add behind it.. Death makes our vision clearer over 'ere And when this bloody war is over I'll come And Bide by aide we'll stand and sre lair play And clean ui) old, long-outstanding debts. But now, for Gawd's suite, malts, don't lail me. Carry on! Carry on!