I met an old friend in Whitlock’s End who was all but on the mend. He had been fighting night and day: over the hills, and far away, from the silent night and bloody hill, he had returned to the ruddy mill.
Swapped his musket for a bucket, his bayonet for a scythe. All for crown and country, he did kindly obliged; served old, mad, King George, killed enemies abroad. All for a stinking pension and small papered mention that was read by none at all.
As we walked together, he insisted I call him Corporal. He talked of all old soldier’s stories: battles, lost and won in the Spanish heat of yesteryear He missed his mates, his rum, hell, even his officer at a pinch. He ends his days with a bottomless drink.
Following our walk, I took my leave, at the crossroads by the kirk of St Steve’s. I wished him the best of days to come, with what little he had to fund. Offered him I did a few shillings, which he hid with a wink and tipped his battered shako hat. A few moments after we parted, I turned to see him marching away; one arm up by his side, where once held a weapon, now only rests wounded pride.
Extract from ‘The Singing Scrapbook’ by Henry J. Melville – June 1831.
Parisian Poetry 