We never were unkind to them and never turned them out When unto England's sh.o.r.es they came, to trade and look about.

But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies, So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they'd take us by surprise.

Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared, The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.

Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand, I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.

And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be supplied With splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside; But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall reach, Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.

So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun, And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then G.o.d's will be done!

We applauded Percy minimus for his sporting attempt, feeling of course, it was piffle really, but good for a kid. Then the Doctor said he was going to read Rice.

"Mr. Fortescue," said Dunston, "has evinced the deepest interest in the achievement of Rice. He tells me that there is now a movement in art--including the sacred art of poesy--which is known as the Futurist Movement. Rice's effort reminds Mr. Fortescue of this lamentable outrage on the Muses, for it appears that the Futurists desire to thrust all that man has done for art into the flames--to forget the glories of Greece, to pour scorn on the Renaissance, to begin again with primal chaos in a world where all shall be without form and void. This is Nihilism and a crime against culture. For some mysterious reason, the boy Rice, who we may safely a.s.sume has never heard of the Futurists until this moment, appears to have emulated their methods and shared their unholy extravagance of epithets, their frenzied anarchy, their scorn of all that is lovely and of good repute. He even permits himself expressions that at another time would win something more than a rebuke.

I will now read Rice, not for my pleasure or yours, but that at least you may learn what is not poetry, and can never be mistaken for poetry by those who, like ourselves, have drunk at the Pierian spring."

WAR

BY RICE

Smash! Crash! Crash! Bang! Crash! Bang!

Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.

Air full of puffs of smoke where sh.e.l.ls are bursting overhead, Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!

Roar of men charging and howling a savage song--- "Now we shan't be long!" Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall, Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling head over heels like rabbits.

And some sit up after the charge, and some don't.

Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all in!

But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleeding and not knowing it.

As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are at the charge and the bayonets are white-- The white arm that goes in in front and out behind-- Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.

The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to h.e.l.l by the million!

Crash! Crash! Squash! Smash! Smash! Smash!

The trench is reached. Blood spurts and bones crack like china.

Gurgles! Chokes! Yells! Helmets fly, bayonets stick And won't come out! Everybody is dead or dying in the trench--except twelve Tommies!

d.a.m.ns, growls, yells choked with blood!

Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all separate!

The trench is taken, and England has gained A hundred yards! Hoorooh!

Hoorooh! Hoorooh! Hoorooh!

And what must it be to be there!!!

Signed RICE.

I looked at Rice while his poem was being intoned by the Doctor. He had turned very red, but he stuck it well, and somehow, though, of course, it was right bang off, and no rhymes or anything, I liked it. And Mr.

Fortescue liked it, as he afterwards told Rice; but the Doctor and Mr.

Peac.o.c.k fairly hated it, so that was the end of Rice.

They thought nothing of Tracey's poem, either. The Doctor said:

"Tracey has produced what, for reasons best known to himself, he calls 'a satire.' It possesses a certain element of crude humour, which, on such a solemn theme, is utterly out of place. Upon the whole, I regard it as discreditable in a Sixth Form boy, and do not think the better of Tracey for having written it."

He then read Tracey.

A SATIRE

BY TRACEY

No doubt, O Kaiser, you have thought Napoleon was a duffer Compared to you, when you set out To make Old England suffer.

But if you read your history books, You'll very quickly find, Sir, That Boney knew, despite his faults, How to make up his mind, Sir.

You flutter up, you flutter down, You flutter night and day, Sir, Yet somehow victory won't look Your mad and fluttering way, Sir, But when the war by us is won, And in Berlin our men, Sir, You'll be a bit surprised to find Where you will flutter then, Sir.

We laughed and thought it ripping; but the Doctor seemed to be hurt, and said: "Silence, silence, boys! It ill becomes us to jest at the spectacle of a fallen potentate, and still less so before he has fallen.

"A more pleasing effort is that of Travers minor," went on the Doctor, picking up the poem of Travers. "We have here nothing to be described as a picture of war, but rather the views of an intelligent and Christian boy upon war. Personally, I think well of these verses. They are unostentatious--no flash of fire--but a temperate lament on war in general and a final conviction not lacking in shrewdness. I will not say that I entirely agree with Travers minor in his concluding a.s.sertion, but he may be right--he may be right. At any rate, the poem is a worthy expression of an educated mind, and by no means the worst of those with which we are called to deal."

He then read Travers minor, and we were all frightfully disappointed, for it turned out that Travers hated war, so the result wasn't a war poem at all, but a very tame affair without any dash about it--in fact, very feeble, I thought. His brother would have despised him for writing it. Of course, Peac.o.c.k wanted a poem praising up the glory of war, not sitting on it, like Travers minor did.

THE FOG OF WAR

BY TRAVERS MINOR

From out the awful fog of war One thing too well we see-- That man has not yet reached unto His highest majesty.

For battle is a fiendish art We share with wolf and bear, But man has got a soul to save-- He will not save it there.

This is the twentieth century, We boast our great good sense.

And yet can only go to war At horrible expense Of human life. It makes us beasts; We shout and spend our breath To hear a thousand enemies Have all been blown to death.

And each of all those thousand men Was doubtless good and kind, As those, no doubt, remember well Whom he has left behind.

And when I hear that war brings out Our finest qualities, I do believe with all my heart That is a pack of lies.

A deadly silence greeted the prize poem of Travers minor, and I believe the Doctor felt rather sick with us for not applauding it. And Tracey, who was very mad at what the Doctor had said about him, whispered rather loud that Travers minor's effort was almost worthy of _Hymns Ancient and Modern_.

There were only three poems left now, and the excitement increased a good deal, because n.o.body had won Peac.o.c.k's guinea yet, so it was clear that either Mitch.e.l.l, or Thwaites, or Sutherland minor was the lucky bargee. Both Mitch.e.l.l and Thwaites seemed beyond the wildest hope, and we felt pretty sure that Sutherland must have done the trick. But he hadn't. The Doctor picked up his poem and put on a doubtful expression.

"I confess that Sutherland gives me pause," he said. "For skill in rhyming, Sutherland deserves all praise--he is ingenious and correct--but such is the faultiness of his ear that he flouts the fundamentals of prosody in each of his four stanzas. In fact, Sutherland's poetry, regarded as such, is excruciating. He has ideas, though not of a particularly exalted character; and even if he had given us something better worthy to be called a poem, his lamentable failure in metre would have debarred him from victory. His last verse contains an objectionable suspicion we might a.s.sociate rather with a commercial traveller or small tradesman, than with one of us."

Well, Sutherland's wasn't bad really, though rather rocky from a poetical point of view, as the Doctor truly said.

KHAKI FOR EVER

BY SUTHERLAND

Loud roars the dreadful cannon above the b.l.o.o.d.y 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.