"[You're Dead] Joseph Arthur Brown"

Our Poet: Edward Adolphe Sinauer de Stein (1887–1965) was born in London and educated at Eton and Magdalen College, Oxford. He was commissioned into the King’s Royal Rifle Corps and served in France during the First World War. He wrote several war-themed poems that were published in the Times newspaper and Punch and The Bystander magazines and earned De Stein the nickname "The Trench Bard." He was promoted to the rank of major and survived the war.  His wartime poetry collection, The Poets in Picardy, was published in 1919. He later became a merchant banker and was knighted in 1946.

Joseph Arthur Brown

By  E. De Stein

The name of Joseph Arthur Brown

By some profound mischance

Was sent right through to G.H.Q.

As “Killed in action, France”.

So when poor Joseph went to draw

His bully beef and bread,

“You’re not upon the strength, my son”,

The Quartermaster said.

To Sergeant Baird then Joseph went

And told his fortune harsh,

But Sergeant Baird on Joseph glared

And pulled his great moustache.

“Have I not taught you discipline

For three long years?” said he,

“If you are down as dead, young Brown,

Why, dead you’ll have to be”.

In vain the journal of his town

Was brought by friends to please,

That he might see his eulogy

In local Journalese;

For to the Captain Joseph went

With teardrops in his eye,

And said, “I know I’m dead, but oh!

I am so young to die!”

 

And at the Captain’s feet he knelt

And clasped him by the knee.

But on his face no sign of grace

Poor Joseph Brown could see.

“Then to John Bull I’ll write”, he cried,

“Since supplication fails”.

“But you are dead”, the Captain said,

“And dead men tell no tales”.

So reckless passion seized upon

The luckless Private Brown,

And with two blows upon the nose

He knocked the Captain down.

’Mid cries of horror and surprise

They led the lad away.

Before the Colonel grim and stern

They brought him up next day.

But when the Colonel sentenced Brown

With thund’rous voice and language choice

To thirty days F.P. [field punishment],

Across the trembling prisoner’s face

A smile was seen to spread,

As he replied, with conscious pride,

“You can’t, ’cos I am dead”.

Sources: The Poets in Picardy, 1919; Forgotten Poets of the First World War.