Very lovely is Kyoto
In the days of cherry blossom;
Very lovely is the splendour
Of the snow-wrapped Rocky Mountains;
Lovely are the coral islands
Strung like jade in the Pacific,
And the palm trees of Malaya,
Black against an orange sunset.
Lovely are the long white breakers
On the beach at Honolulu.
Even as the Thames Embankment
On a misty day in autumn.
Gib. at dawn, Hong Kong at evening,
Lights of Rio in the darkness,
And the Golden Gate of ’Frisco,
All of these are very lovely,
Yet I know a sight still fairer,
Doiran red and grey and yellow,
Clustered on the Serbian hillside,
Gleaming in the morning sunlight,
Ever gazing, like Narcissus,
Down upon its own reflection
In the lake that laps its houses—
Lovely when you first behold it,
It becomes a trifle boring
When week after week it greets you
Every morning as the dawn breaks,
And the cry “Stand down” is given
When the sun comes stealing gently
Sure as Fate above the hill-tops,
And the Bulgar starts his sniping.
Thus my Tiadatha saw it
Every morning as the dawn broke,
Through the livelong Serbian winter,
Saw its church and battered houses,
Saw the Bulgars’ lines before it,
Snow-capped Beles to the Eastward,
Grand Couronné to the Westward.
All those winter months the Dudshires
Picked and dug the Serbian hillside.
Left their mark on Macedonia
Like a tripper on a tree trunk,
Slaved their souls out making trenches,
Slaved their souls out making dug-outs,
That they might be somewhat safer
From the beastly little pipsqueaks,
From the most unpleasant whizzbangs,
From the great big five-point-niners,
And the crumps the eight-inch how. sends.
Then one day quoth Tiadatha,
“I am sick of leafy bowers,
I am sick of bivvy shelters;
They are too darned cold for one thing,
Much too narrow for another.
I will also make a dug-out,
Make myself a home to live in,
Furnish it unto my liking,
Coax perhaps a little comfort
Even out of Macedonia.”
So he called for Woggs, his batman,
Bade him fetch a pick and shovel,
Doffed his tunic, tie and collar,
Set to work with Woggs in earnest.
All day long they picked and shovelled,
Pausing only when a crump came,
Pausing only for a pipsqueak,
Till poor Tiadatha’s back ached,
Till his hands were badly blistered,
And he wearied of the labour.
Called in four stout private soldiers,
Set them too upon the digging,
Helped to fill and tie the sandbags,
Helped to get them in position,
Leaving spaces for a window
And a little narrow doorway.
Then he called again his batman,
Called for Woggs the faithful batman,
Whispered certain secret orders,
And, upon the morning after,
Found himself the proud possessor
Of a dozen sheets of iron,
Sheets of corrugated iron,
And some bits of brand-new timber.
Little recked my Tiadatha
That a certain R.E. Captain
Even then was musing darkly
As to where the stuff had got to.
So they roofed the little dug-out
With the scraps of purloined timber,
With the bits of stolen iron,
Then they piled the roof with sandbags,
Fondly hoping it would keep out
Anyhow a dud or pipsqueak.
Then the tireless Woggs got busy,
Hung the walls with bits of sacking,
Made a chair and made a table
And some shelves from ration boxes,
Even made a little washstand,
With an old tin hat for basin,
And a rather dicky bedstead,
From a few odd wiring pickets
And a roll of rabbit netting
(Borrowed from the Sergeant-Major
When that worthy wasn’t looking),
Filled an old tin mug with flowers,
Decked the walls with dreadful pictures
From La Vie and from The Tatler.
“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,
“One thing even now is lacking.
What about a little fireplace,
What about it, O my batman?”
Not a word spoke Woggs the batman,
Save to murmur, “Very good, sir,”
Went and pinched an empty oil drum,
Spent the afternoon in hammering;
Hammered till he woke the Colonel,
Hammered till he woke the Major.
Moved away a little farther,
Till he’d got his job of work done,
Then he fixed it in the dug-out,
With some puddled mud he fixed it,
Got a piece of tin for chimney,
Dug some vine roots up for firewood,
Eked them out with bits of charcoal
Wangled from Headquarters’ cookhouse.
And that night my Tiadatha,
Wet and weary from the trenches,
Found a cheery wood fire blazing,
Found a most uncommon fug up.
“It is well,” said Tiadatha,
“It is well, my soldier servant,
Well and truly have you served me.
Take this tin of Craven Mixture,
Take this tin of Royal Beauties,
Take this tin of Cadbury’s chocolate.
Also there is my rum ration,
You are very welcome to it,
And I’ll see the Sergeant-Major,
Get you off parade to-morrow.”
Then he drew his crazy chair up,
Lit his pipe and stretched his legs out,
Heaved a sigh of great contentment,
Gazed into the flames in silence,
Dreaming of his green-eyed Phyllis,
And of Murray’s where he met her,
Dreaming of his loved St. James’s,
So forgot the war a little.
Tiadatha’d learnt the lesson
Which is learnt by every traveller,
That wherever you may wander
You should never be uncomfy
Any longer than you’ve got to,
Never play the Spartan hero
When there isn’t any need to.
If you set your mind upon it,
You can always coax some comfort
Out of life and barren hillsides,
Coax it as you’d coax a fiver
From a very mean old uncle.
Meliden, N. Wales,
March 1918.