A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR.
'Tis sad to read of these young lives
Poured out to please a tyrant's whim;
My manly soul within me strives
To burst its bonds and have at him.
But peace, my soul! we must be strong,
For conscience whispers, "War is wrong."
Poor lads! Poor lads! Their duty calls;
Their duty calls—no more they know;
No fear of death their faith appals;
All the clear summons hear, and go.
'Tis right, of course, they should; but I—
I serve a duty still more high.
And yet not all. Some few, I fear,
In this their country's hour of need
Keep undemonstratively clear,
Or, if they're called, exemption plead.
For these—no conscience-clause have they—
Conscription is the thing, I say.
But worse than these, who simply shirk,
Are those employed to fashion arms,
Who tempt their fellows not to work,
And give us all such grave alarms—
Traitors! If their deserts they got
They would be either hanged or shot.
The wind blows shrewdly here to-night,
My heart bleeds, as I think, perchance,
How numbed with cold our heroes fight;
How chill those trenches, there in France.
The thought unmans me. Ere I weep,
I'll drink my gruel—and to sleep.
An officer in Egypt writes:—
"Cairo is a gay city, at least so they say. The chief hotels put up boards showing the amusements to be enjoyed. A sample of an eventful week follows:—
'Coming Events.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday. Museum will not open.
Saturday.
Sunday.
——, Manager, —— Hotel.'"
"A very interesting cricket-match took place at Ghain Tuffieha on Wednesday last, 24th inst., when eleven Nursing Sisters played eleven officers. The game throughout was very keen and the Sisters have nothing to learn from the Officers in the way of wicket-keeping, batting and yielding."
Daily Malta Chronicle.
In the last-mentioned art British soldiers notoriously do not excel.
