WESTWARD HO!
James, if from life's little worries and trouble you
Sigh to be wafted afar,
Meet me at Paddington Station, G.W.
R.
Thence, if our plans be not baulked by some latterday
Railwayman-unionist freak,
We'll make a bold bid for freedom on Saturday
Week.
Care may ride pillion or on the ship's deck set her
Foot, but she'll hunt us in vain
Once we've set ours on the ten-thirty Exeter
Train.
Ours no "resort" where you run up iniquitous
Bills at the "Royal" or "Grand,"
Blatant with pier and parade and ubiquitous
Band.
No "silver sea" where the gaudy and giddy come;
We're for a peacefuller air
Breathing of Uncle Tom Cobley and Widdicombe
Fair.
Warm as a welcome the red of the tillage is,
Green are the pastures, and deep
Down in the combes little thatch-covered villages
Sleep.
Far from society (praises to Allah be!),
Wearing demobilised boots,
Clad in our countrified (Deeley-cum-Mallaby)
Suits,
We'll o'er the moor where the ways never weary us,
Lunch at a primitive pub,
Loaf till it's time to get back to more serious
Grub.
Haply some neighbouring Dartymoor brooklet'll
Tempt us at eve to set out,
Greenheart in hand, and endeavour to hook little
Trout.
Well, there's a programme for three weeks of heaven, sheer
Bliss, if you add to the scheme
Farm eggs and bacon and junket and Devonshire
Cream.
Customer. "I say—do you ever play anything by request?"
Delighted Musician. "Certainly, Sir."
Customer. "Then I wonder if you'd be so good as to play a game of dominoes until I've finished my lunch!"