From the archives of the British Library in London
Written by Robert Ashton, 1946
“The Kindest Reaper”
There I saw, on winter’s day
A beast of bone and bird
With beak, pitch black as the night
From which its name was heard
“Evermore”, cried the beast
With a voice like siren’s tune
Rolling in like the fog
Under a London New Moon
Though I did not know it then
It had a second name
The Grim Reaper, death itself
Had come here for the claim
It brushed a hand against my cheek
Said I wasn't yet to go
It rode through my brother's trenches
Bathing them in ghastly glow
And through the black of the night
I thought I saw a tear
Dripping down the reaper’s eyes
With cries for me to hear
“Here lies good men,” cried the beast
With a haunting, solemn voice
“Stolen from them was their lives
With no sort of say or choice.”
The reaper turned right to me
And asked me for their tales
Listening to every word
Intense like winter gales
And once the dawn began to break
The reaper did farewell
Wishing me luck for the fight
So I have more to tell
Now I write here in my home
Thinking about the day
I join my brothers when
The reaper comes to stay
