‘Night. Fog. Tall through the murky gloom
The coloured lights of signals loom,
And underneath my boot I feel
The long recumbent lines of steel.
As up and down the beat I tramp
My face and hair are wet with damp;
My hands are cold – but that’s a trifle –
And I must mind the sentry’s rifle.
‘Twould be a foolish way to die,
Mistaken for a German spy!
Hardest of all is jsut to keep
Open my eyelids drugged with sleep.
Stand back! With loud metallic crash
And lighted windows all a-flash
The train to Bristol past me booms.
I wonder who has got my rooms!
I like to think that Frank is there,
An d Willie in the basket-chair,
While Ernest, with his guileless looks,
Is making havoc in my books.
The smoke-rings rise, and we discuss
Friendship, and What Life Means To Us,
What is it that the kitchens lack,
And where we’ll take our tramp next vac.
Those girls at Newham whom I taught
I’ll spare them each a friendly thought....
An hour to dawn! I’d better keep
Moving, or I shall fall asleep.
I’ve had before my eyes these days
The fires of Antwerp all ablaze.
(The startled women scream and weep;
Only the dead have time to sleep.)
I’d like to feel that I was helping
To send the German curs a-yelping.
Well, if i serve the Belgian nation
By guarding Ealing Broadway station,
I’ll guard it gladly, never fear
Sister, good-night; the dawn is here’
Aelfrida Catharine Wetenhall Tillyard
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