O'er many a battle-scene he loves to brood,
How Allah here was gracious to his legions,
How here, again, he was not quite so good,
Here by the Brown House, when the bombs began,
And they—don't mention it—they turned and ran.
And we no more shall see the great ships gather,
Nor hear their thundering on days of state,
Nor toil from trenches in an honest lather
To magic swimmings in the perfect Strait;
Nor sip Greek wine and see the slow sun dropping