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F'r in front iv each iv these war-battered vethrans shtud a bottle, in some cases bar'ly half filled with a brownish-yellow flood with bubbles on top iv it. What was it, says ye? Hardened as I am to dhrink iv ivry kind, I hesitate to mention th' wurrud. But concealment is useless. 'Twas beer.
The little child in life notices none of these distinctions, he marks nothing of them. Let us come as little children before Him. We may be war-battered, sin-marked, toil-stained, care-burdened. Let us forget it all this Christmas morning. It was a poor place, that manger the poorest place on earth but it was a place. It was somewhere. Let us give humanity even as little as a manger.
Far fairer the fields of the morning than I had known them erst, And the acres where I wended, and the corn with its half-slaked thirst; And the noble Roof of the Wolfings, and the hawks that sat thereon; And the bodies of my kindred whose deliverance I had won; And the glimmering of the Hall-Sun in the dusky house of old; And my name in the mouth of the maidens, and the praises of the bold, As I sat in my battle-raiment, and the ruddy spear well steeled Leaned 'gainst my side war-battered, and the wounds thine hand had healed.
A singing voice broke the talk, rolling strongly, vibrantly through the leaves, a lawless, insistent voice, and Dermott McDermott, with the reins loosened on his horse's neck, and his ardent eyes looking upward to heaven's blue, rode by the other side of the privet hedge: "'War-battered dogs are we, Fighters in every clime, Fillers of trench and grave, Mockers be-mocked by time.
What it proves is that the Ireland that emerges into history, war-battered and largely decivilized by long unsettled conditions as she was, remembered and was the inheiritor of an Ireland consummately civilized.
War-battered dogs are we, Fighters in every clime, Fillers of trench and of grave, Mockers, bemocked by Time; War-dogs, hungry and grey, Gnawing a naked bone, Fighting in every clime Every cause but our own.
I used to see them lined up on the parade ground, war-battered men, who looked old though they were young, with their kits spread out for inspection. The least unfit went first; but indeed there was little choice among them. Not a man of them but had been wounded grievously or mourned a constitution broken by hardship.
Jimmie had seen so many tens of thousands of them that he had no doubt. Compared with the war-battered poilus, they were like soldiers out of a fashion-plate: smooth-shaven, with long chins and thin lips, and a thousand other details which made you realize that home was home, and better than any other place in the world.
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