Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria." He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary. His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames." He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith -- be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 5 by JAMES JOYCE VILLA PAULINE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD OVID, OLD BUDDY, I WOULD DISCOURSE WITH YOU A WHILE by HAYDEN CARRUTH HERO-WORSHIP; SONNET by AMY LOWELL BROTHERHOOD (2) by EDWIN MARKHAM TO HELEN KELLER - HUMANITARIAN, SOCIAL DEMOCRAT, GREAT SOUL by EDWIN MARKHAM FLEMING HELPHENSTINE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON FACADE: 24. AN OLD WOMAN LAMENTS IN SPRINGTIME by EDITH SITWELL |