Six years ago—or is it six-and-twenty?
(How vast the gulf from those ecstatic days!)—
When the whole earth snored on in slothful plenty
(Tho’ poets cashed small pittance for their lays);
When war appeared less real than G. A. Henty,
And Oxo’s snaky signs were yet ablaze;
When all seemed peaceful as the press of Cadbury,
And no one dreamed of bombs, or bet a Bradbury;
Or e’er stern Mars had roped us in his tether,
Ere British guns had thundered at Le Câteau: