The Target

Ivor Gurney, (1890-1937)

Gassed in September 1917, he spent the rest of his life in psychiatric care

Published in 1919

I shot him, and it had to be

One of us! `Twas him or me.

`Couldn't be helped,' and none can blame

Me, for you would do the same.

My mother, she can't sleep for fear

Of what might be a-happening here

To me. Perhaps it might be best

To die, and set her fears at rest.

For worst is worst, and worry's done.

Perhaps he was the only son ...

Yet God keeps still, and does not say

A word of guidance any way.

Click to return to our Poets' corner

Well, if they get me, first I'll find

That boy, and tell him all my mind,

And see who felt the bullet worst,

And ask his pardon, if I durst.

All's tangle, Here's my job.

A man might rave, or shout, or sob;

And God He takes no sort of heed.

This is a bloody mess indeed.