Page:For remembrance, soldier poets who have fallen in the war, Adcock, 1920.djvu/95

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While the cold night wind through the door

Keeps time to rats that scour the floor;

A sergeant stern with language rude

Who tells me that my drilling 's crude,

And boots two inches thick which they

Make me to clean three times a day....

Who would have thought that I should go

To fight against a foreign foe?

If I return with half a leg

You 'll run much faster than me, Meg,

And in a race around the yard

You 'll beat me hollow, which is hard.

I shall forget in forming fours,

And other motions used by corps,

That ever I took interest

In dulce et decorum est.

And so—farewell! if when May comes,

And snow-white gleam the garden plums,

You run across the yard to school,

Hair-braided, with your reticule,

Then think of me, my little maid,

Forming for nine o'clock parade,

And making an egregious hash

Of drill, and growing a moustache!

This thought, that the same evening star

Shines on us both, though severed far,

And guides us on our unknown way,

Should cheer us all from day to day.

This 'gentle and vivacious little figure,' after six months of soldiering, was killed