When the War is over, Charley,
We'll go fishing once again.
You'll be a new man, Charley,
When you walk with fishermen.
For we'll seek a leaping river
I know far among the fells;
You'll forget the War there, Charley,
Where the springing water wells.
It's God's own land for the nimble trout,
And ferns and waving flowers,
The bracken and the bilberry,
And the ash the coral dowers.
There are rolling leagues of heather,
Lone hills where the plovers call.
Oh, we'll climb those hills together
Ere the last dews fall!
And we'll talk to the wild creatures
In the crannies of the moors;
Oh, our hearts will mount to Heaven
When the merry lark soars!
All our days will shine with gladness,
All our nights with calm repose.
And we'll throw a fly together
Where the rushing stream flows.
Nature has been to me lately
As a fair and radiant bride,
She has drawn me with strange gentleness
To the hollow of her side.
She has gone forth like a warrior
With pricking glaive and spear,
And Grief has quailed in his ambush
When her flashing arms drew near.
I never loved sweet England
Till she kissed me in the West,
The sun upon her shining brows
And the purple on her breast,
Breathing songs of low compassion
To my spirit as it cried,
When I mourned that sinning country
Which had thrust me from her side.
All the wooded hills of the Eifel,
All the vine-bergs of the Rhine,
All the glimmering strands of the Baltic,
All the Brocken black with pine,
Hold no tenderness of Beauty,
(Beauty in the spirit dwells,)
Such as smiles from one sweet valley
Darkling 'mid the Western fells.
* * * *
Do you remember, old fellow,
When we fished near Altenahr,
Where the red wine was flowing
And the bowl flashed a star?
Do you remember the big schutzmann,
With his sword by his side,
Who guessed that you were poaching,
And scared you off to hide?
Oh, if he'd only known, Charley,
When you sought the bridge's cover
That you'd join the British
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