Cicely Fox Smith

(1 February 1882 – 8 April 1954 / Lymm, Cheshire)

The Little Things - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

I used to be a peaceful chap as didn't ask for trouble,
An' as for rows an' fightin', why, I'd mostly rather not,
But now I'd charge an army single-'anded at the double,
An' it's all along o' little things I've learned to feel so 'ot.

It's 'orrid seein' burnin' farms, which I 'ave often seen 'ere,
An' fields all stinks an' shell-'oles, an' dead among the flowers,
But the thing I've 'ated seein' all the bloomin' time I've been 'ere
Is the little gardens rooted up - the same as might be ours.

It's bad to see the chattos - which means castles - gone to ruin,
An' the big cathedrals knocked to bits as used to look so fine,
But what puts me in a paddy more than all them sorts o' doin's
Is the little 'ouses all in 'eaps - the same as might be mine.

An' when the what's-it line is bust an' we go rompin' through it,
An' knock the lid off Potsdam an' the Kaiser off 'is throne,
Why, what'll get our monkey up an' give us 'eart to do it?
Just thinkin' o' them little things as might have been our own,
(An' most of all the little kids as might 'ave been our own!)


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, August 31, 2010



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