TO MY BATH
This lyric may be bad, O Muse,
But do not press on me too hard;
In times of war you must excuse
Somewhat your bard.
A dug-out where I have to bend
My back, and even lodge my knees
Against the roof, would suit our friend
Diogenes—
But hardly seems a meet abode
For any would-be laureate
Who’ll sing, ad lib., an epic—ode—
Or hymn of hate.
Consider my attempt to write
Iambic tetrametric lines
As influenced by gelignite
And bombs—and mines.
No high falutin’ stilted phrase,
No feeble tribute of a “sub.,”
Can ever adequately praise
Thee, dearest Tub.
Perchance I’m sun-scorched: then I sigh
To hear thy crystal waters lap
And trickle o’er my toes when I
Turn on the tap.
If blizzards fresh from Samothrace
Are mingling with December snows,
When icicles in clusters grace
“My youthful hose
A world too wide for my shrunk shanks”——
Then I, nostalgia stricken, dream,
And see thy white enamelled banks
Through clouds of steam.
Just as when corybantic drakes
(Or ducks, just as the case may be),
With clamorous quack, seek limpid lakes,
So seek I thee.
But baths are not our rations in
Gallipoli. ’Tis too far south—
“The bubble reputation’s in
The cannon’s mouth.”
H. H. U.,
Northamptonshire Regt.