A Christian friend, Mark J. L. Strain, sends me the following letter: ―
Dear Dr. Wreford,
“A dear Canadian Christian soldier heard me tell the story of the boy ‘Shot at Dawn,’ and wrote the enclosed lines, which many think well worth publishing, as they may reach some other soldier-lad’s heart with the glorious message.”
At Dawn
Down came the rain in a steady slant, and the mud and slush was such
As almost to quench the ardor of the gavest in the bunch
As they splashed and tramped thro’ chalky clay―that awful chalky clay!
Towards the end, as the Laddie said, “the end of a Perfect Day”!
You know what it is to tramp all day in that steady insistent rain,
Wet to the skin, and the straps of your pack so tight you breathe with pain;
And the clay of the tortured shell-ripped land hangs to your feet like lead,
And the night comes down and the ruined towns disappear like ghosts of the dead!
Through the narrow winding trench, stolidly humping on,
Hardly a sound save squelching noise, as on! and ever on!
Oh! would we never reach the end? and away from thoughts of home!
Thoughts that hurt, and―ah! here we are! Somewhere on the Somme!
The Lad was put on sentry-go, for “Fritz” might spring a surprise;
The flares that went up were not so bright as the light in that laddie’s eyes:
His heart was glowing with happy pride―he was playing a manly part―
He was just nineteen, and a Christian too; to Christ he had given his heart.
But you know how it is when the hours drag on, and the stars sink low in the sky;
The boy was so weary — all danger seemed past. “No, I will not close my eye!
Well, just for one minute, after that flare, I’ll be able to see better then.
“Then awake with a start, and” No! I wasn’t asleep; yet I thought I saw mother again.
As she came to the train to bid me good-bye, and kissed me so soft on the cheek;
Then stepped aside to let Sweetheart Nell, so soft, demure, and sweet,
Whisper―whisper in my ear―whisper—what―” Ah! his head sinks down;
Nature denied will claim her price—the laddie sinks to the ground.
Dry-lipped and wan, he faces them, the judges of his fate:
“Slept at his post! Shot at dawn!” Just nineteen! “Said she’d wait!”
“O Jesus! don’t let mother know; I’m her only one, her boy; And Nellie, said she’d wait―she whispered! ―and now I’m to die!”
Dry-eyed and wan, he faces the squad, in the murky dawn of France.
“Have you any message to send, or a letter to write perchance?”
“None! no request to make? Not a single thing to say?
What about your friends in England far away!”
“What! Sing a hymn? Certainly! We’ve got a few minutes to spare.”
Then he straightened up and his shoulders squared, and out on the morning air
His clear young voice rang pure and sweet, and the tears rolled down my cheek;
Facing death he sang so brave, in the murky dawn and bleak:
“There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.
There was none other good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gates
Of heaven, and let us in.
Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His work to do.
I learned it, sir, in the Sunday School. That’s all, sir, I’m ready now.” Then the fatal order―rapid volley―and the young life’s laid so low; But the spirit’s fled to heaven above, to Jesus on the throne, Who paid the price on that “green hill,” and now has called him home!
T. M. Gilmore. Stillbrook. Sask Canada.