Loud roars the dreadful cannon above the bloody field,
While, like the lightning, through the smoke's dim shroud
The tongues of flame are flashing, where, concealed,
The vainglorious enemy's battery doth vaunt and laugh aloud,
Thinking that men of British race are going to yield.
Poor German cannon-fodder! Little do they know
That those who wear khaki have never yet
Wherever, at the call of Bellona, they may go,
Surrendered to a lesser foe than Death. They've met
Far finer fighters than the Boche, and made their life's-blood
flow.
Whether upon the open battle-front, or in a trench,
Or in a fort, or keeping communications,
With such a leader as great General French
The British khaki boys defeat all nations,
And in the foeman's gore their glittering bayonets they quench.
And they will win, for right is on their side;
And when they do, the neutrals shall not share
The rich-earned booty the Allies divide;
For, as they would not sail in and fight, it is not fair
That they should win the fruits of this bloody tide.
We could see what the Doctor meant about Sutherland's poem--it didn't
flow exactly; but it might have been worse. Then Dr. Dunston picked up
Mitchell's poem and frowned; and Peacock frowned; and Fortescue also
frowned. We didn't know what was going to happen, for the Doctor made
no preliminary remarks on the subject of Mitchell. He just gave his
glasses a hitch and glared over the top of Mitchell's effort and then
read it out.