there, Yet never in sound or sight."
"Oh, those are the ones who never shall leave,
As they once were afraid they would!
They marched away from the school at eve,
But at dawn came back for good,
With deathless blooms from uncoffin'd tombs
To lay at our Founder's shrine.
As many are they as ourselves to-day,
And their place is yours and mine."
"But who are the ones they can help or harm?"
"Each small boy, never so new,
Has an Elder Brother to take his arm,
And show him the thing to do—
And the thing to resist with a doubled fist,
If he'd be nor knave nor fool—
And the Game to play if he'd tread the way
Of the School behind the school."
Ruddy Young Ginger
(1915)
Ruddy young Ginger was somewhere in camp,
War broke it up in a day,
Packing cadets of the steadier stamp
Home with the smallest delay.
Ginger braves town in his O.T.C. rags —
Beards a Staff Marquis — the limb!
Saying, " Your son, Sir, is one of my fags,"
Gets a Commission through him.
Then to his tailor's for khaki complet; Then to Pall Mall for a sword; Lastly, a wire to his people to say, "Left school — joined the Line — are you bored? "
And it was a bit cool (A term's fees in the pool By a rule of the school). There were those who said " Fool! " Of young Ginger.
Ruddy young Ginger! Who gave him that name?
Tommies who had his own nerve!
"Into 'im, Ginger!" was heard in a game
With a neighbouring Special Reserve.
Blushing and grinning and looking fifteen,
Ginger, with howitzer punt,
Bags his man's wind as succinctly and clean
As he hopes to bag Huns at the front.
Death on recruits who fall out by the way,
Sentries who yawn at their post,
Yet he sang such a song at the Y.M.C.A.
That the C.O. turned green as a ghost!
Less the song than the stance,
And the dissolute dance,
Drew a glance so askance
That . . . they packed him to France,
Little Ginger.
Next month, to the haunts of fine Ladies and Lords
I ventured, in Grosvenor Square:
The stateliest chambers were hospital wards—
And ruddy young Ginger was there.
In spite of his hurts he looked never so red,
Nor ever less shy or sedate,
Though his hair had been cropped (by machine- gun, he said)
And bandages turbaned his pate.
He was mostly in holes—but his cheek was intact!
I could not but notice, with joy,
The loveliest Sisters had most to transact
With ruddy young Ginger—some boy!
Slaying Huns by the tons,
With a smile like a nun's—
Oh! of all the brave ones,
All the sons of our guns—
Give me Ginger!
The Ballad of Ensign Joy
(1917)
Solomon cited wonders three; One was the way of a ship at sea, One was the way of a mighty bird, And the way of a serpent was the third. But Solomon (since he was in the trade) Appended the way of a man with a maid: And Solomon (still in the flesh) might add The way of a maid with a soldier lad.
This is the story of Ensign Joy
(And the obsolete rank withal
That I love for each gentle English boy
Who jumped to his country's call.
By their fire and fun, and the deeds they've done,
I would gazette them Second to none Who faces a gun in Gaul!)
It is also the story of Ermyntrude
(A less appropriate name
For an idealistic Academy prude;
But under it, all the same,
The usual consanguineous squad
Had made her an honest child of God,
And cannot be held to blame).
It was just when the grind of the Special Reserves,
Employed upon Coast Defence,
Was getting on every Ensign's nerves—
Sick-keen to be drafted hence—
That they met and played tennis and danced and sang,
The lad with the laugh and the schoolboy slang,
The girl with the eyes intense.
