THE OLD SOLDIER.
By a "Temporary" Sub.
There are some men—and such is Jones—
Who love to vent their antique spleens
On any subaltern that owns
He's not a soldier in his bones
(I'm not, by any means);
Who fiercely watch us drill our men
And tell us things were different when
(In, I imagine, 1810)
They joined the Blue Marines.
I like them not, yet I affect
That air of awed humility
Which I should certainly expect,
If I were old and medal-deck'd,
From young men under me;
But when they hint their wondrous wit
Is what has made them feel so fit
To do their military bit,
I simply can't agree.
I said to Jones—or should have said
But feared the Articles of War—
"You must not think you have a head
Because you know from A to Z
This military lore,
By years of study slowly gat
(And somewhat out-of-date at that),
When lo, I had the whole thing pat
In six small months—not more."
Maybe the mystic art appals
Unlearned souls of low degrees,
But men to whom the high Muse calls,
Men who are good enough for Smalls,
Imbibe it all with ease;
While where would Jones, I wonder, be
If someone took the man for me
And asked him for some jeu d'esprit,
A few bright lines (like these)?
Possibly Jones will one day tire
Of fours and fights and iron shards,
Will seize his pencil and aspire
To court the Muse and match the fire
Of us poetic cards;
Then I shall mock his meagre strain
And gaily make the moral plain,
How barren is the soldier's brain
Compared with any bard's.