THE DRAFT.
So it is done—the calling and the counting,
The solemn mustering, the ritual care,
The fevered messages, the tempers mounting
For some old rogue who never can be there;
No more the Adjutant explodes and splutter.
Because the rifles are too few by four;
No longer now the Quartermaster mutters
It's time that bedding was returned to store;
But all is ship-shape, and, to cut it fine,
The draft has now departed down the line.
These were the men that we have trained from tyros;
We took them in, we dressed them for the wars;
For us they first arranged themselves in wry rows,
For us they formed their first unlovely fours;
We taught them cleanliness (by easy stages)
And cursed them daily by platoons and squads,
And they, unmoved by months of mimic rages,
Regarded us—most properly—as gods:
They were our very own and, being such,
For all our blasphemy we loved them much.
But strangers now will have them in their keeping,
Unfeeling folk who understand them ill,
Nor know what energies, what fires unsleeping
Inform the frames that seem so stupid still;
Who'll share their struggles and curtail their slumbers,
And get conceited when the men do well,
Nor think of us who brought them up by numbers,
Save in the seasons when they don't excel.
And then they'll say, "The fellows should be strafed
Whoever trained this blooming awful draft."
But not the men; they will not slight so early
The mild-eyed masters who reviled them first,
But, mindful still of marches out to Shirley,
Wet walks at Hayes and romps round Chislehurst;
When in some ditch, untroubled yet though thinner,
They talk old days and feelingly refer
Over their bully to the Depot dinner,
They'll speak (I hope) about "the officer,"
And say at least, as Sub-Lieutenants go,
He was the most intelligent they know.
And now is life bereft of half its beauty,
Now the C.O., like some afflicted mare
Whose cherished colts have been detailed for duty,
Paws the parade where lute his yearlings were;
We shall not lie with them in East-bound vessels,
Nor see new shores in sunlit sweeper-craft,
Nor (save in soul) be with them in their wrestles,
Nor wear the ribbons that shall deck the draft;
Not in our praise will laureates be loud;
We must turn to and train another crowd.
Villages are Cheap To-day.
"Locum Tenens wanted for 3 months at least. Little or no week-day work. Offered: comfortable village, 6 or more bedrooms, garden produce: possibly small stipend.
"Wanted Retired or Invalid Clergyman to accept nice house, stable, fowl-run, picturesque village, in return for one service on Sundays,"—Church Times.
"News by Telegraph and Telephone.
Napoleon died 95 years ago to-day."—Daily Mail.
Delayed in transmission.