 | Ballads of the War |  |
46
An Arm-Chair Critic
I am sitting here in my easy chair,
If the cat purred loud I should turn to scold;
Flowers from Italy scent the air,
The servant who gave the paper a fold
Rustled it well, as if to say,
“News from the front, my lord, to-day.”
If the cat purred loud I should turn to scold;
Flowers from Italy scent the air,
The servant who gave the paper a fold
Rustled it well, as if to say,
“News from the front, my lord, to-day.”
They are sitting there in the trenches grim,
Deaf for the cannon, black for the smoke,
The last faint flower of hope is dim,
The foe through the strongest lines have broke.
Famished, they fold tired hands and say,
“To die is all we can do to-day.”
Deaf for the cannon, black for the smoke,
The last faint flower of hope is dim,
The foe through the strongest lines have broke.
Famished, they fold tired hands and say,
“To die is all we can do to-day.”
Yet here as I sit I am talking grand
Of what born fools our generals are—
I, whose millions were made in the Rand;
I, for whose mines we are now at war—
And all I find in my heart to say
Is, let who love fighting fight—I pay.
Of what born fools our generals are—
I, whose millions were made in the Rand;
I, for whose mines we are now at war—
And all I find in my heart to say
Is, let who love fighting fight—I pay.
The dinner is served and we fall to talk:
“Methuen's incompetent! Buller's a fool!
The War Office, hardly able to walk,
Must go to a French or a German school.”
Sirs, if we Britons talk this way,
No wonder the battle was lost to-day!
“Methuen's incompetent! Buller's a fool!
The War Office, hardly able to walk,
Must go to a French or a German school.”
Sirs, if we Britons talk this way,
No wonder the battle was lost to-day!
| Ballads of the War | |