LIMBERFINGERS.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 5, 16 April 1920, Page 1

LIMBERFINGERS.

He wasn't so good with a rifle, couldn't throw hand-grenades much, And when in a fight, though his nerves was all right, - He got in the other men's way; But puh him before a piano, believe me, the kid had the touch; He knew every note that had ever heen wrote — Oh, Baddy, that soldier could play ! He'd make you feel classical music 'way down to the tip of your spine, Your pulses would thrill and the heart of you fill With songs and with marches of war, Or you would be swaying to ragtime that tingled and bubbled like wine, Till sudden you'd find that with care you was blind, You didn't know why or what for! He'd fmd an old battered piano somewhere in a ruined chateau, With half the stringa broke and the keyboard a joke And both of the pedals napco ; But if the white keys wasn't present he'd play on the black ones, and so He'd pick out an air we could whistle to, there — ■ And say, but it cheered us, beaueoup ! For some guys is best in the trenches, and others is best down at Tours; But he done his bit with each key that he hit. His fingers was magical things That wove us a spell of enchantment against all we had to endure And gave us the heart to go on with our part, By tunes from a boxful of strings. He wasn't much use with a shovel, though willing and anxious enough ; His hands wasn't inade for the ditchdigger's trade, But they could dig down in your soul And bring up your drearns and youf visions to make you forget life wai tough Forget, for a time, all the muck and the slime Of 'some damned detestable hole. No matter how weary or sleepless or worn with the march he might be, He'd coax from the keys any tune that you please If there was a box he could try. And if I was passing out medals, I'd slip him the old D.S.C. The service he gave was to help us tc live And help us to know how to die!