Today is the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the First World War. There was a military convalescent hospital at Whitby from 1917 to 1919 for soldiers wounded in the war. The following is a poem written by a returned solder who was a patient at the hospital. It was published as a post card. The hospital later became the Whitby Psychiatric Hospital. A DAY IN WHITBY Hark! There it is: the sound I love dear, The bugle that calls us, from far and near, It is time for breakfast, and we all know it well, So to the dining hall we go, MY, what a smell! At the table such a scene, sausage and toast piping hot, Then a cry from us all, whose dog has been shot, And above it we hear a most fatherly rebuke, As the sergeant cries, “Order”, or I’ll have your name in the Book. So we proceed with our meal, with never a look, OR even a smile for our blooming cook, But he loves us dearly, and knows only too well, That if anything was wrong, there would be a yell. Attention! Orderly Officer, any complaints? None sir, we reply like dear little saints.......... Alright boys, carry on, is the cheery reply As our breakfast to eat we have a good try. At last we have finished, and to our cottage we go, For it has to be cleaned the Sergeant says so, We take out our brooms, our pail and our mop, And then scrub and polish from bottom to top. My word, it is clean said the sister so sweet, You have done wonders to make it so neat, Then we polish our buttons and dress for stand too, For we have finished, and the work is all through. Fall in, cries the sergeant as the doctor he spies, Coming towards the door, with fire in his eyes, Here he is, Attention! All present and correct Sir, Except Private Jones who is helping the sister. Quickly he inspects us both front and rear, Along with our only Sergeant whom we all love dear, Then the cry comes along Stand at Ease, The suspense is over, so we straighten our knees. Then through the cottage on his inspection he goes, Followed by Sergeant who walks on his toes, Oh how thankful we are today, Of faults that are none so he has nothing to say. And then we dismiss, our various treatments to take, Perhaps it is PT or Massage, which for our sake, The doctor does order according to our complaint, Others to the sister do go, for medicines, pills or paint. There goes the dear little bugle once more, Telling us to get our mail from the cottage next door, So with a smile on our faces, we quickly do go, To see if there is mail from those we love. Picture yourself a jovial remark of delight, As one by one their names they catch sight, Then one of the boys gave a loud shout, Oshawa......It must be from the girl I took out. Then comes a cry of happiness so true, From one of the boys who using Que, It is a letter from his dear home town, Wanting to know when he will come down. I think it is from his girl by the smile on his face, For with a whoop of joy he walked out of the place To ask for a pass for Toronto, “the good” So now for a few days, he will be out of the mud. The fun is all over, so once more we prepare, To while away one hour that we have to spare, Some play crib and others play pool, While a few at poker just act the fool. Once more we hear the familiar call, And make our way through the mud to the dining hall, The doors are not opened but they soon will be, For here comes the orderly man with the key. My word, it is a jolly meal with plenty to eat, Real good soup with plenty of potatoes and meat; Then we have some pudding a mystery, ‘tis true, One of the cooks own patent for to us it is new. Dinner is over and to rest we do go, And take a quiet nap for an hour or so, Then to our classes or treatments again, Do we wend our way through the rain, rain, rain. Classes are over, we are free for the day, So we go to the Major and ask for some pay, But to our regret, he tells us quite true, That this is a thing that he cannot do. Then we go to the sister to tease, In this way our thoughts to appease, Gee, she got mad when one of the boys told her, That in his arms he would like to hold her. Supper is on, we are feeding again, My word it’s a wonder we are never in pain, But the sweet sister dopes us after each meal, So we should worry if we eat a great deal. The evening slowly approaches, with amusements galore, Then some of us make our way to the theatre door, To enjoy ourselves with the pictures or a dance, My word, the pretty girls put us all in a trance. The fun is all over, my day has gone by, So to all who read I will say goodbye, For there goes “lights out,” I’m off to my bed, To dream of the morrow, gee, enough said. A Returned Soldier
Posted on: Mon, 04 Aug 2014 16:29:39 +0000
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