And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this manuscript, and have added to it a few more verses, written in hospitals. Let it represent me. If I can find a publisher for it, tant mieux. If not, I will print it at my own cost, and any one who cares for a copy can write to me–
Stephen Poore,
12 bis, Rue des Petits Moineaux,
Paris.
MICHAEL
“There's something in your face, Michael, I’ve seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away.…”
“It’s just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin’ in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight.…”
“There’s something in your eyes, Michael, an’ how they stare and stare–
You’re lookin’ at me now, me boy, as if I wasn’t there.…”
“It’s just the things I’ve seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o’ broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum.…”
