Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/318

276 —Bob, who finds my Parisian accent a blemish,

Goes one better himself in a torrent of Flemish.

It's a fortnight on Friday since Christopher died,

And John's at Boulogne with a hole in his side,

While poor Harry's got lost, the Lord only knows where;—

May the Lord keep them all and ourselves in His care.

Mustn't think we don't mind when a chap gets laid out,

They've taken the best of us, never a doubt;

But with life pretty busy and death rather near

We've no time for regret any more than for fear.

Here's a health to our host, Isidore Deschildre,

Himself and his wife and their plentiful childer,

And the brave aboyeur who bays our return;

More power to his paws when he treads by the churn!

You may speak of the Ritz or the Curzon (Mayfair)

And maintain that they keep you in luxury there:

If you've lain for six weeks on a water-logged plain,

Here's the acme of comfort, in billets again.

.

February 1915.