'Our Wounded' from the Front

March 1916

We look to find a Hospital a restful, quiet place,
With wards all hushed and silent - but that is not quite the case
In those which fling wide open doors for men who've borne the brunt,
And welcome them with outstretched arms; 'Our Wounded' from the Front.

You see a boy - he's little more - whose life has but begun,
Skylarking with an older man, whose years are nearly run.
The one mayhap has lost an arm, the other p'raps a leg;
'Are they downhearted?' No, not they, nor for your pity beg.

Some other man, with bandaged head, perhaps is passing by;
They chaff him, and he chaffs them back, and swift the words will fly.
The worst of wounds can't bring a groan, tho' teeth may be clenched tight;
'Our wounded' are the boys who at the Front put up a fight.

And those who cannot walk will each just sit him in a chair,
And race along the corridors to see who'll first be there.
You talk of gloom - not they - although they've freely risked their lives
That you and I may be in peace, with sisters, mothers, wives.

They're boys we're might proud of, but can scarce restrain a tear,
For oh! the wreck war's made of them, and many we hold dear.
They don't like to be pitied now they've done their valiant stunt,
For each and all are heroes, are 'our wounded' from the Front.

P. R. CRAFT, Cpl., R.A.M.C.(T.)