(_Private Whidden, who ate his Iron Rations and came to an untimely
end_.)
Private Tom Whidden had a passion
For eating of his iron ration--
A thing, you know, which isn't _done_
(Except, just now and then, for fun),
Because there is a rule about it
And decent people rarely flout it.
But Tom was greedy and each day
He'd put a tin or two away,
Though duty told him, clear and plain,
To keep them safe as brewers' grain,
For eating _as a last resort_
When eatables were running short.
His Corporal said, "My lad, don't do it!"
His Sergeant groaned, "I'm _sure_ you'll rue it!"
But still he never stopped. At last
His Captain heard and stood aghast....
Then he said sternly, "Private Whidden,
Really, you know, this is forbidden.
Some day, Sir, if you _will_ devour
Your ration thus from hour to hour,
You'll find yourself in No Man's Land
With neither bite nor sup at hand.
Yes, when it _is_ your proper fare,
Your iron ration won't be there;
Then in your hour of bitter need
You will be sorry for your greed."
He ceased. But Private Thomas Whidden,
Being thus seriously chidden,
Said simply (with a Devon burr),
"Law bless us! do 'ee zay zo, Zur?"
Then with an uncontrolléd passion
He went and ate his iron ration.
So, since he chose, from day to-day,
Persistently to disobey,
As you'd expect, the man is dead,
Though not the way his Captain said.
The fate of starving out of hand,
Or nearly so, in No Man's Land--
Alas! it never came in question.
He died of chronic indigestion.
* * * * *