"WEE MACGREGOR" WRITES FROM FRANCE

“WEE MACGREGOR”

WRITES FROM FRANCE

Gifted North Land Pioneer a

“Poet of the Trenches”

Last week Mr. S.P. Lindsay, who himself got as far as England with the 2nd. Canadian Pioneers, but who was then turned back on account of being several years over age, received an interesting letter from R. Alpine Macgregor, now with the Pioneers in France. “Wee Macgregor,” as he was affectionately known in the North Land, was one of the old-timers in this country and known far and wide for his literary and social gifts. And even the trenches for seventeen months have failed to take the polish from his talents in this line. The Mattagami Heights is alike noteworthy for its contents and for its literary excellences. Much of the letter deals with matters of particular concern to the two friends, but there are many passages of general interest. For instance: – “Bill MacDonald is a sergeant, long since, Slim is Sergeant Major. Mallery, McLellan, O’Connor, other sergeants. And as for big Bob Stanley! Remarkable chap, Bob! He was wounded – no, not at the Somme, – but up Vimy way three or four days before Vimy Ridge was captured. Ten out of thirteen of No. 13 Platoon, – a carrying party, – quietly walked into a high explosive shell. Eight of them bit the dust, – Bob being one. He helped to carry the survivors to the dressing station without once saying that he was badly hit himself. He was sent then to England, where he got well again, but is still there acting as postmaster for some outfit there. He married, by the way, when he was on leave at the end of the year. Bob was a great Trench Sergeant. Better obtainable no where! He was always fanatic enough to be “on the spot” where danger was, just ever sane enough to remain responsible and coll. Men under Bob, when out with Bob, relied entirely on him. A towering cucumber of coolness, radiating out of a big Scotch maniless!”

“As for Bill MacDonald,” continues the letter, “he was quiet, calm, methodical, undeviating, unchangeable, but extremely capable of using tall outstanding oaths of common sense.”

“Wee Macgregor” also encloses in his letter the following poem of merit: –

“Viam Paramus”; as written on the badge of the 2nd Canadian Pioneers.

We are those men who simply serve

In labors that uphold the line;

The toil that nightly demands nerve,

Of unpretending cool design;

That done we leave the dawn to show

Consolidation’s moved apace

Thru the dark dip and o’er the brow

Across the enemy’s barbed face.

Oblique, opaque, aslant askew,

No matter how the battles rages,

We ne’er forget the devil’s due

And seldom honor’s wages.

Not ours the thrill of glory’s leap –

A past as rare we may unfold,

Done well, by pick and shovel deep,

That’ll live as long as tales are told.

From Ypres across the racked Spoilbank,

Athwart, St. Elois’ crat’rous hate,

Down Poziers’ Trench where first the Tank

Herald’d Courcelette’s grim fate;

Yea, up upon grey Vimy Ridge

With tightened lips and heightened fears,

We’ve gazed on Lons held hard a-bridge,

And done the work of Pioneers.

We’ve staggered dumb and stark and chill,

Nerved to the uttermost of breath,

Faced in single file yon hill

Where of the haggard guide’s been Death.

We’ve raced thru lanes of driv’n flame

Have “girned” and swayed thru mangled sound,

Have stuck and whimpered, “Let’s be game!

We’ll dig this ground, this awful ground!”

We’ve watched the star shells cleave the dawn

Of pallid grey – when no gun spake

Felt, we that lived were loathsome spawn

Oozed out some dark primeval lake;

Felt – as the birds sang in the day –

Asundered from life’s vibrant song,

Forlorned and fettered, part of the clay

We’ve dug, of hopelessness, and wrong.

B’yond all else is Home supreme.

Before us rise the pale white arms

Of Christlike women, as in a dream

To clasp the babe from night’s alarms.

We see ourselves – as they have prayed

With fingers interlocking God, –

Strong men, unbending, unafraid,

To lead the way where Honor’s trod.

We see the broad St. Lawrence sweep,

The gates of that rare land we love;

We know that as its waters leap

Soul would its manhood rive and rove,

Wave after wave tumultuous dash

’Pon the treacherous reefs of time;

E’en now our feet like wavelets wash

The crumbling battlements of crime.

O’er mountain peak and plain and sea,

We represent the great White Aim

Of Faith and Hope and Charity,

Those three that never stooped with shame.

So shall we reach to all mankind,

Consid’ring well our triune part

Wherein the triumph of the mind

Shall internationalize the heart.

Dawn is not yet, can never be

Till the foul beast of Might meets death;

Till we who are Humanity

Dare whisper “Freedom” with new breath;

Till then our part shall aye be played

Nor less nor more heroic than

Those countless others who have ’rrayed

Their lives against despotic man

R. Alpine Macgregor

France, July, 1917