ge--if you want to know
The truth.

Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:--
Make others' happiness this once your own;
All else may pass: that joy can never be
Outgrown!

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART

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.[4]

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] "_It's a long way to Tipperary_," the most popular song of the
Allied armies during the World's War.

_Henry Newbolt_

Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work was frankly
imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add to the Arthurian
legends with a drama in blank verse entitled _Mordred_ (1895). It was
not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he struck his own note. With
the publication of _Admirals All_ (1897) his fame was widespread. The
popularity of his lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of
Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of
rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.

In 1898 Newbolt published _The Island Race_, which contains about
thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet,
Newbolt has written many essays and his critical volume, _A New Study
of English Poetry_ (1917), is a collection of articles that are both
analytical and alive.

DRAKE'S DRUM

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Ho