This is the wish, as he told it to me,
Of Driver Macpherson of Battery B.
I WANT no praise, nor ribbons to wear ;
I 've done my bit, and I 've had my share
Of filth and fighting and blood and tears
And doubt and death in the last four years.
My team and I were among the first
Contemptible few when the war-clouds burst.
We sweated our gun through the dust and heat,
We hauled her back in the Big Retreat,
With weary horses and short of shell,
Turning our backs on them. That was Hell.
That was at Mons ; but we came back there,
With shine on the horses and shells to spare !
And much I've suffered and much I've seen
From Mons to Mons on the miles between,
But I want no praise, nor ribbons to wear
All I ask for my fighting share
Is this : that England will give to me
My offside leader in Battery B.
She was a round-ribbed blaze-faced brown,
Shy as a country girl in town,
Scared of the gangway and scared of the quay,
Lathered in sweat at a sight of the sea,
But brave as a lion and strong as a bull,
With the mud at the hub in an uphill pull.
She learned her job as the best ones do.
And we hadn't been over a week or two
Before she would stand like a rooted oak
While the bullets whined and the shrapnel
Broke,
And a mile of the ridges rocked in glee.
As the shells went over from Battery B.
One by one our team went down,
But the gods were good to the blaze-faced
Brown.
We swayed with the battles back and forth.
Lugging the limbers south and north.
Round us the world was red with flame
As we gained or gave in the changing game ;
Forward or backward, losses or gains,
There were empty saddles and idle chains.
For Death took some on the galloping track
And beckoned some from the bivouac ;
Till at last were left but my mare and me
Of all that went over with Battery B.
My mates have gone and left me alone ;
Their horses are heaps of ashes and bone.
Of all that went out in courage and speed
There is left but the little brown mare in the lead,
The little brown mare with the blaze on her face
That would die of shame at a slack in her trace,
That would swing the team to the least command,
That would charge a house at the slap of my hand,
That would turn from a shell to nuzzle my knee
The pride and the wonder of Battery B.
I look for no praise and no ribbons to wear.
If I 've done my bit it was only my share.
For a man has his pride and the strength of his Cause
And the love of his home they are unwritten laws.
But what of the horses that served at our side.
That in faith as of children fought with us and died ?
If I, through it all, have been true to my task,
I ask for no honours. This only I ask :
The gift of one gunner.
I know of a place
Where Id leave a brown mare with a blaze on her
Face,
'Mid low leafy lime-trees in cock's-foot and clover
To dream, with the dragon-flies glistening over.
