When It’s Over

“Young soldier, what will you be
When it’s all over?”
“I shall get out and across the sea,
Where land’s cheap and a man can thrive.
I shall make money. Perhaps I’ll wive
In a place where there’s room for a family.
I’m a bit of a rover.”

“Young soldier, what will you be
At the last ‘Dismiss’?”
“Bucked to get back to old Leicester Square,
Where there’s good champagne and a glad eye winking,
And no more ‘Verey Lights’ damnably blinking
Their weary, dreary, white-eyed stare.
I’ll be out of this.”

“Young soldier, what will you be
When they sign the peace?”
“Blowed if I know; perhaps I shall stick it.
The job’s all right if you take it steady.
After all, somebody’s got to be ready,
And tons of the blighters ‘ll get their ticket.
Wars don’t cease.”

“Young soldier, what will you be At the day’s end?”
“Tired’s what I’ll be. I shall lie on the beach
Of a shore where the rippling waves just sigh,
And listen and dream and sleep and lie
Forgetting what I’ve had to learn and teach
And attack and defend.”

“Young soldier, what will you be
When you’re next a-bed?”
“God knows what; but it doesn’t matter,
For whenever I think, I always remember
The Belgians massacred that September,
And England’s pledge – and the rest seems chatter.
What if I am dead?”

“Young soldier, what will you be
When it’s all done?”
“I shall come back and live alone
On an English farm in the Sussex Weald,
Where the wounds in my mind will be slowly sealed,
And the graves in my heart will be overgrown;
And I’ll sit in the sun.”

“Young soldier, what will you be
At the ‘Last Post’?”
“Cold, cold in the tender earth,
A cold body in foreign soil;
But a happy spirit fate can’t spoil,
And an extra note in the blackbird’s mirth
From a khaki ghost.”