“The last tattoo is beating, boys,
The pickets are fast retreating, boys,
Let every man
Fill up his can
And drink to our next merry meeting, boys!”
“Do you call that poetry?”
“No.”
This was rather awkward. Dormer had intended a snub. Not caring for poetry himself, he had tried to take a high line. He went on lamely:
“Oh! What do you call it then?”
“A most amazing picture of the mentality of 1815. Compare it with that of 1915. In that old war of ours against the French, we swore, we drank, we conquered. What do you think that same fellow would have to write about us to-day?”