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Robert W Service - The Whistle Of Sandy McGraw
Work rating: Medium

You may talk o` your lutes and your dulcimers fine,
    Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a`,
But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine
    The wee penny whistle o` Sandy McGraw.
Oh, it`s: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?"
    And Sandy is willin` and trillin` like mad;
Sae silvery sweet that we a` throng aroun`,
    And some o` it`s gay, but the maist o` it`s sad.
Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert,
    And grup ye wi` love and wi` longin` for hame;
And ye glour like an owl till you`re feelin` the stert
    O` a tear, and you blink wi` a feelin` o` shame.
For his song`s o` the heather, and here in the dirt
    You listen and dream o` a land that`s sae braw,
And he mak`s you forget a` the harm and the hurt,
    For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.

        

At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank
    We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale,
Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank
    And the murderin` bullets came swishin` like hail:
Till a` that were left o` us faltered and broke;
    Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout,
When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke
    The wee valiant voice o` a whistle piped out.
`The Campbells are Comin``: Then into the fray
    We bounded wi` bayonets reekin` and raw,
And oh we fair revelled in glory that day,
    Jist thanks to the whistle o` Sandy McGraw.

        

At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht,
    On the field o` the slain I wis crawlin` aboot;
And the rockets were burnin` red holes in the nicht;
    And the guns they were veciously thunderin` oot;
When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh,
    And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw:
"Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I.
    "I`ve lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw.
"`Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack,
    It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn
There isna much time so I`m jist crawlin` back. . . ."
    "Ye`re daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.
Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel,
    And the big stuff wis gorin` and roarin` around,
And I seemed tae be under the oxter o` hell,
    And Creation wis crackin` tae bits by the sound.
And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!"
    When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma`;
And there in a crater, collected and cool,
    Wi` his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw.
Ay, there he wis playin` as gleg as could be,
    And listenin` hard wis a spectacled Boche;
Then Sandy turned roon` and he noddit tae me,
    And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh.
The auld chap is deein`. He likes me tae play.
    It`s makin` him happy. Jist see his een shine!"
And thrillin` and sweet in the hert o` the fray
    Wee Sandy wis playin` The Watch on the Rhine.

        

The last scene o` a` — `twas the day that we took
    That bit o` black ruin they ca` Labbiesell.
It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook,
    And the red skies were roarin` and spewin` oot shell.
And the Sergeants were cursin` tae keep us in hand,
    And hard on the leash we were strainin` like dugs,
When upward we shot at the word o` command,
    And the bullets were dingin` their songs in oor lugs.
And onward we swept wi` a yell and a cheer,
    And a` wis destruction, confusion and din,
And we knew that the trench o` the Boches wis near,
    And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in.
So we a` tumbled doon, and the Boches were there,
    And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!"
And I merched aff wi` ten, wi` their palms in the air,
    And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad.
And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . .
    When sudden I sobered at somethin` I saw,
And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men,
    For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.
Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please:
    "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin`," says he;
"But noo I can play in the street for bawbees,
    Wi` baith o` ma legs taken aff at the knee."
And though I could see he wis rackit wi` pain,
    He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play;
And quaverin` sweet wis the pensive refrain:
    The floors o` the forest are a` wede away.
Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand
    Hoo we took a` them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid:
"I`ll — no — play — nae — mair ——" feebly doon frae his hand
    Slipped the wee penny whistle and — Sandy wis deid.

        

And so you may talk o` your Steinways and Strads,
    Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw;
But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads,
    Yon wee penny whistle o` Sandy McGraw.
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