TRAMPS
["In spite of the demand for recruits, the number of tramps remain, undiminished."—Daily Paper.]
Why does not patriotic fire
My all too torpid heart inspire
With irresistible desire
To seek the tented camp, sir,
Where Glory, with her bronze V.C.,
Waits for the brave, perhaps for me?
Because I much prefer to be
A lazy, idle tramp, sir.
I toil not, neither do I spin.
For me, the laggard days begin
Hours after all my kith and kin
Are weary with their labours;
The heat and burden of the day
They bear, poor fools, as best they may,
While I serenely smoke my clay
And pity my poor neighbours.
When Afric burns the trooper brown,
By leafy lanes I loiter down
Through Haslemere to Dorking town,
Each Surrey nook exploring;
Or 'neath a Berkshire hay-rick I
At listless length do love to lie,
And watch the river stealing by
Between the hills of Goring.
Why should I change these dear delights
For toilsome days and sleepless nights,
And red Bellona's bloody rites
That bear the devil's stamp, sir?
Let others hear the people cry
"A hero he!"—I care not, I,
So I may only live and die,
A lazy, idle tramp, sir.
