That humour’s just the Saxon cloak for fear,
Our English substitute for “Vive la France,”
Or else a trick to keep the folk at home
From being scared to death—as we are scared;
That honour ... damn it, honour’s the one thing
No soldier yaps about, except of course
A soldier-poet—three-and-sixpence net.
Honest to God, it makes me sick and tired
To think that you, who lived a year with us,
Should be content to write such tommy-rot.