On the eve of one Field Day poor Bandy was in hospital. On the Monday afternoon he had a tumour removed from his throat, and the corps paraded early on Tuesday morning. One “turn out” then he was bound to miss. But the corps had just fallen in when, as the first word of command rang out, there was a gasp heard. The faithful soldier had managed to escape, and had just enough strength to crawl to his usual place. Is it wonder that such heroism was duly recorded in verse? “Exit Bandy” testifies to the place he held in the affections of his friends. These lines, like the others I have quoted, were written after the dog’s death.
EXIT BANDY
A truce to all your games to-day,
Put football, racquet-ball away,
Not now the hour for sport and play,
But sorrow sore instead.
A friend has vanished from our view
Whom all of our six hundred knew.
O sad Six Hundred when to you
The news came—“Bandy’s dead.”