grand-stand far beyond the bound'ry,Lifts up his ugly mouth and fairly pumps
Shells from Krupp's foundry.
But like the time the game is out of joint—
No screen, and too much mud for cricket lover;
Both legs go slip, and there's sufficient point
In extra cover!
Cricket? 'Tis Sanscrit to the super-Hun—
Cheap cross between Caligula and Cassius,
To whom speech, prayer, and warfare are all one—
Equally gaseous!
Playing a game's beyond him and his hordes;
Theirs but to play the snake or wolf or vulture:
Better one sporting lesson learnt at Lord's
Than all their Kultur. . . .
Sinks a torpedoed Phoebus from our sight;
Over the field of play see darkness stealing;
Only in this one game, against the light
There's no appealing.
Now for their flares . . . and now at last the stars . . .
Only the stars now, in their heavenly million,
Glisten and blink for pity on our scars
From the Pavilion.
Last Post
(1915)
Last summer, centuries ago,
I watched the postman's lantern glow,
As night by night on leaden feet
He twinkled down our darkened street.
So welcome on his beaten track,
The bent man with the bulging sack!
But dread of every sleepless couch,
A whistling imp with leathern pouch!
And now I meet him in the way,
And earth is Heaven, night is Day,
For oh! there shines before his lamp
An envelope without a stamp!
Address in pencil; overhead,
The Censor's triangle in red.
Indoors and up the stair I bound:
"One from the boy, still safe, still sound!
"Still merry in a dubious trench
They've taken over from the French;
Still making light of duty done;
Still full of Tommy, Fritz, and fun!
"Still finding War of games the cream,
And his platoon a priceless team—
Still running it by sportsman's rule,
Just as he ran his house at school.
"Still wild about the 'bombing stunt'
He makes his hobby at the front.
Still trustful of his wondrous luck—
Prepared to take on old man Kluck! "
Awed only in the peaceful spells,
And only scornful of their shells,
His beaming eye yet found delight
In ruins lit by flares at night,
In clover field and hedgerow green,
Apart from cover or a screen,
In Nature spurting spick-and-span
For all the devilries of Man.
He said those weeks of blood and tears
Were worth his score of radiant years.
He said he had not lived before—
Our boy who never dreamt of War!
He gave us of his own dear glow,
Last summer, centuries ago.
Bronzed leaves still cling to every bough.
I don't waylay the postman now.
Doubtless upon his nightly beat
He still comes twinkling down our street.
I am not there with straining eye—
A whistling imp could tell you why.
The Old Boys
(1917)
"Who is the one with the empty sleeve?"
"Some sport who was in the swim."
"And the one with the ribbon who's home on leave?"
"Good Lord! I remember him! A hulking fool, low down in the school, And no good at games was he— All fingers and thumbs—and very few chums. (I wish he'd shake hands with me!) "
"Who is the one with the heavy stick,
Who seems to walk from the shoulder?"
"Why, many's the goal you have watched him kick!"
"He's looking a lifetime older.
Who is the one that's so full of fun—
I never beheld a blither—
Yet his eyes are fixt as the furrow betwixt?"
"He cannot see out of either."
"Who are the ones that we cannot see, Though we feel them as near as near? In Chapel one felt them bend the knee, At the match one felt them cheer. In the deep still shade of the Colonnade, In the ringing quad's full light, They are laughing
