A SELECTION OF FOUR POEMS
BY SGT. W. A. McKAY
SASKATOON LIGHT INFANTRY (M.G.)
Through the courtesy of Sgt. W. A. McKay these poems have been included in this historical record. They represent the many poems which have been written by several poets of the unit.
SASKATOON LIGHT INFANTRY (M.G.)
Through the courtesy of Sgt. W. A. McKay these poems have been included in this historical record. They represent the many poems which have been written by several poets of the unit.
|
PRAIRIE BOY
He leans upon the after rail His eyes a-dream in reverie. He eyes the churning, boiling wake That stretches back across the sea. What thoughts are his as gazing back He dreams of things that used to be? The gulls dip low and wheel and cry There where the furrows turn and boil And suddenly he's home again Ploughing the level prairie soil As yesterday, when life was sane And there was happiness in toil. Again he smells the fresh-turned earth And breathes the air of prairie spring.. Above the fleecy, breeze-blown clouds Drift by on silent, unseen wing And in the sky, all clear and sweet The meadow larks are carolling. Again he sees the waving grain From green to gold change with the day, The hot winds blow across the plain And shimmering lies the summer haze. Parched grows the land, and brown the grass Where listlessly the cattle graze. Then come the rains, and 'neath a sky Of gray the parched prairie turns Her sun-scorched face to feel the balm Of nature's blessing on her burns. And sighs to feel the rain-cooled breeze Bring the caress for which she yearns. 'Tis harvest time. The golden days Drop one by one into the West. Each day an age of toil, and yet He seemed to love these days the best. The toil, the sweat, the heat, the dust. Yet, after all, how sweet the rest. Now Winter's blanket wraps the land In shroud of white, as one new dead And o'er the moonlit fields there comes The jingle of a distant sled- A coyote's cry-an owl's dim call- Sweet echoes from the life he leads. So flit the seasons through his mind, Each with it's store of memory. He views again the plans he made- Plans that were never meant to be. Plans that are wrecked now, scattered, lost, Gone with the winds of destiny. Where have they gone, the wasted years Since he was free to work and plan And live the life he loved the best At peace there, with his fellow-man? Like the ship's wake, they're dropped astern To mar the ocean's stately plan. What have the wasted years to show? Given in return for what they stole? What will the harvest be, and then, After the harvest, what the toll? Three golden years of youth were these Wastefully stricken from the scroll. Stop now and think. The years have passed. Could you time's pages backwards turn Back to the life you say you love, Back to the home for which you yearn, Back to the day when first you felt The fires of Patriotism burn- Could you ignore your country's call Knowing the years would pass you by? Knowing the things for which you fight, Knowing that even-you may die? Say that you could, and Prairie Boy, Son of a Prairie Man-you lie! It is not given to your breed To do ought else than you have done. Proud is your race, and proud are you Of your heritage of wind and sun. Your's is the land to have and hold 'Til the last sands of time are run. Your's is a land that garners all Things held dear to the heart of man. Freedom of Life and Speech and Thought, Freedom to build and plan Your's be the task to keep it thus Free from the tyrant's ban. Your's be this task. And could you ask Of your life a prouder plan Than the guardianship of this treasure chest? Let him pilfer it who can, He will find to his cost that the Prairie Boy Is a son of the Prairie Man. On board ship, 9 July, 1943. LILY MARLENE
We will debouch into the valley of the Po. We will strike the Hun a mighty, mighty blow. We will debouch into the Po. This we know for corps says so. So onward to Bologna, Onward to the Po. We'll unleash the recce, we will let them go, For we know the maroon machine is mighty, mighty slow. While they are lagging far behind We'll be there to smash that line So onward to Bologna, Onward to the Po. Fourth British Division are trailing in our wake, We will take the towns that they should ought to take They get casa's free of rent while we are living in a tent So onward to Bologna, Onward to the Po. Eleventh Brigade are sitting on our right, We really wonder if they are ever going to fight, We have waited so Gol Darn long- We just sat down and wrote this song. So onward to Bologna, Onward to the Po. ZULU-WARRIORS SOUTH AFRICAN SONG Hi zig a zumba, zumba zumba, Hi siz a zumba, zumba, zig. Hi zig a zumba, zumba zumba, Hi siz a zumba, zumba, zig. Hold them down, you Zulu warriors Hold them down, you Zulu Chief-Chief-Chief-Chief. I'VE GOT SIXPENCE I've got sixpence, Jolly, jolly sixpence, I've got sixpence to last me all my life I've got tuppence to spend And tuppence to lend And tuppence to send on to my wife. Chorus No cares have I to grieve me, No naughtly little girls to deceive me, I'm as happy as a King! Believe me. As I go rolling, rolling home. Rolling home-Rolling home By the light of the silvery moo-oo-oo-oon Happy as the day, when a soldier gets his pay Rolling, rolling, rolling home. S.L.I. SONG
CHORUS: You can talk about your Kings Guards, Scots, Greys, and all You can talk about your Kilties and your gallant forty-twa But of all the other regiments beneath the King's Command Sure the Saskatoon Light Infantry's the finest in the land. CHORUS At the presentation of the colours the regiment marched by The Queen she reviewed us with a keen and martial eye She said "Oh Colonel Dudley, those men of yours look grand." Well, they ought to be, Your Majesty, they're the finest in the land. CHORUS T'was early in the summer that we landed in Sic'ly The news about the Regiment went spreading up and down Lord God, said Hitler, we had better quit the land For the Saskatoon Light Infantry, is the terror of the land. CHORUS There was a man called Hitler, who thought he had built a line, The people said, mein fuehrer, that line is very fine But if the S.L.I. is around, you had better cut and run For the 'Saskatoon Light Infantry is the finest neath the sun. |
THE ONES THAT KNOW
DEDICATED TO SGT. E. RUPERT, OF MELFORT. Died of wounds, 20 July,1943. It's a road that we've travelled together The trail leads back twixt the terraced hills, A ribbon of dusty tract. White in the light of the moon it lies Twisting and winding back. While the years have slipped away And it's hard to believe that the end of the trail Came for you, Buddy, today. At the end of the moon-bathed valley Where the billowed mountains toss, The trail winds back through a dim seen cleft Under the Southern Cross. Back through the desert lowlands Where the dust lies thick and white, And it's hard to believe that we're not going on Together, Buddy, tonight. When first we chose to travel The Trail that led us here, I remember the cheers and the shouting, The bands and the flags-and the beer. But tonight, in this moon-drenched valley Where your Trail has ended today, There is only a Peace, a Stillness, And I think it is better that way. I know that we planned it different, There were things we were going to do. Adventure. New worlds to conquer. And maybe a medal or two. And then at the end of the journey Back to the crowds and the roar, Cheering us back from the battle As they cheered us to it before. Oh yes, we had planned it different When the trail was fresh to our feet. How after the dust of the battle The praises and cheers would be sweet. But here in the star-studded stillness Though never a bugle may blow, There are those who pay silent tribute, And these are The Ones That Know. What are the cheers and the praises That strangers may hold in store Compared to the silent tribute Of the men that know the score? Of the men that have travelled with you? Though they leave you here today, It is they who will remember When the cheering dies away. And so, though we leave you, Buddy, Here by the side of the Trail, Though it leads us on a thousand miles Your memory will not fail. You are one of us still, and Buddy, Though the years may come and go You will travel along with us just the same And we are The Ones That Know. Sicily, 20. July, 1943. BEACH CONTROL "It will be the task of Beach Control to ensure that controlled vehement is maintained ." Have you ever done a loading on a strange and hostile shore With several thousand people you've never met before And tried to find your unit where there's units by the score? It's a job for Beach Control. Picture several thousand people heading shoreward in a throng And they've brought a thousand guns and tanks and vehicles along And they haven't been invited and the natives think it's wrong. It's a job for Beach Control. Let us say that you have landed and you don't know where to go To get into position and get scrapping with the foe. There is one who knows the answer and will gladly let you know. It's a job for Beach Control. Let us say that you have landed and are sitting on the sand Giving thanks to your creator that you've made it to the land And a voice as loud as thunder bellows "Clear the blasted strand." It's a job for Beach Control. Your landing craft is grounded and is sticking like a leach And you and a dozen others are shoving side by each When a voice upon the shingle orders "Come on-clear the Beach." It's a job for Beach Control. Private Jones has lost his section and his mood is black as night For they have his compo ration and he has an appetite. Oh, who will take him by the hand and quickly put him right? It's a job for Beach Control. Oh, the Major's lost his batman and his driver and his car And he's sent a dozen runners to search both near and far And now he's lost the runners and the Lord knows where they are. It's a job for Beach Control. Oh, the Colonel is lamenting at the troubles he has got. Headquarters, A, B, C, are here, D Company it is not. Now who will find the missing ones and lead them to the spot? You've guessed it-Beach Control. So, whatever is your trouble, upon the landing shore, Be not misled by those who merely rush about and roar But bear your troubles straightway to the men who know the score. It's a job for Beach Control. And when this war is over, as all wars are sometime And they're handing out the bouquets to the men who held the line, Let us not forget the ones to whom I dedicate this rhyme- The men of Beach Control. Pachino Beach, Sicily, 10 July, 1943.
MY LITTLE DUTCH GIRL FRIEND
Ok Zal nooit Vergeten Mun Holland Meisje That is the theme of this song, Mun Holland Meisje Do you or don't you verstaan. I'll never forget my little Dutch girl friend She's chasing all my troubles away I'll never forget my little Dutch girl friend She's teaching me to laugh and be gay. Whenever I look at her she's smiling I'd love to spend a little while in The arms of my little Dutch girl friend She's chasing all my troubles away. A PATCH OF RED
CHORUS: Find a man who is mindful of Regalbuto and the River Moro; Find a man who is mindful of Old Ortona and Pontecorvo, He will be a man who hails from a young land over the seas, And he is a man who would die for such things as Maple Trees. Ev'ry man who wears a patch of Red upon his shoulder is a proud Canadian, Ev'ry man who wears a patch of Red upon his shoulder above all thing is a man, Ev'ry man who wears a patch of Red upon his shoulder proudly dreams of days to be, When he will help to bring the end of ev'ry foe of his liberty And he will help to bring the end of ev'ry foe of his liberty. Find a man who is dreaming of Mighty Mountains and a Rolling Prairie! Find a man who is dreaming of his own Helen or precious Mary, He will be a man who hails from a young land under a sky That blends with the freedom beneath it and heads are carried high. CHORUS BEER, BEER
Beer, beer, beer, for the old S.L.I. Shake up a cocktail, bring on the rye, Send a corporal out for gin Don't let a sober private in We never stagger, we never fall, We sober up on wood alcohol Mothers if your sons return, don't blame the S.L.I. |
A PRAYER
Almighty Power, Thou hast willed
That there be war among mankind, Thy will is law; it stands fulfilled; I do not question-I am blind.
Thy vast, unalterable plan
Unfolding through a million years,
To spare the life of any man
May not be changed by prayer or tears.
Thou knowest that my life to me
Is far more sacred than Thy plan, Thou knowest too, that if I live 'Tis but to slay my fellow man.
And so this prayer I make to Thee
When in the Battle death is nigh, If Thou my life must take from me
Be Thou beside me when I die.
Campobasso, Italy,
12th July, 1944.
Almighty Power, Thou hast willed
That there be war among mankind, Thy will is law; it stands fulfilled; I do not question-I am blind.
Thy vast, unalterable plan
Unfolding through a million years,
To spare the life of any man
May not be changed by prayer or tears.
Thou knowest that my life to me
Is far more sacred than Thy plan, Thou knowest too, that if I live 'Tis but to slay my fellow man.
And so this prayer I make to Thee
When in the Battle death is nigh, If Thou my life must take from me
Be Thou beside me when I die.
Campobasso, Italy,
12th July, 1944.
