The voice that once in strident tones
Across the barrack-square could carry,
Reverberates and megaphones
A rich vocabulary.
(His "rude forefathers," you'll agree,
Were never half so rude as he.)
As blatantly he catalogues
The grievances from which he suffers:—
"The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!"
"The men, sir, all damduffers!"
In so invet'rate a complainer
You recognise the "old champaigner."
His raven locks (just two or three)
Recall their retrospective splendour;
One of the brave Old Guard is he,
That dyes but won't surrender;
With fits of petulance afflicted,
When questioned, crossed, or contradicted.
But as, alas! from poor-man's gout,
Combined with chronic indigestion,
The breed is quickly dying out—
(The fact admits no question)—
I'll give you, if advice you're taking,
A recipe for Colonel-making.
Select some subaltern whose tone
Is bluff and anything but "soul-y;"
Transplant him to a torrid zone;
There leave him stewing slowly;
Remove his liver and his hair,
Then serve up hot in an armchair.
[A] Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.