The Young Guard. Hornung Ernest William

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      CHILDREN we deemed you all the days

      We vexed you with our care:

      But in a Universe ablaze,

      What was your childish share?

      To rush upon the flames of Hell,

      To quench them with your blood!

      To be of England's flower that fell

      Ere yet it brake the bud!

      And we who wither where we grew,

      And never shed but tears,

      As children now would follow you

      Through the remaining years;

      Tread' in the steps we thought to guide,

      As firmly as you trod;

      And keep the name you glorified

      Clean before matt and God.

      NO Lord's this year: no silken lawn on which

      A dignified and dainty throng meanders.

      The Schools take guard upon a fierier pitch

      Somewhere in Flanders.

      Bigger the cricket here; yet some who tried

      In vain to earn a Colour while at Eton

      Have found a place upon an England side

      That can't be beaten!

      A demon bowler's bowling with his head —

      His heart's as black as skins in Carolina!

      Either he breaks, or shoots almost as dead

      As Anne Regina;

      While the deep-field-gun, trained upon your

      stumps,

      From concrete grand-stand far beyond the

      bound'ry,

      Lifts up his ugly mouth and fairly pumps

      Shells from Krupp's foundry.

      But like the time the game is out of joint —

      No screen, and too much mud for cricket

      lover;

      Both legs go slip, and there's sufficient point

      In extra cover!

      Cricket? 'Tis Sanscrit to the super-Hun —

      Cheap cross between Caligula and Cassius,

      To whom speech, prayer, and warfare are all

      one —

      Equally gaseous!

      Playing a game's beyond him and his hordes;

      Theirs but to play the snake or wolf or

      vulture:

      Better one sporting lesson learnt at Lord's

      Than all their Kultur…

      Sinks a torpedoed Phoebus from our sight;

      Over the field of play see darkness stealing;

      Only in this one game, against the light

      There's no appealing.

      Now for their flares… and now at last the

      stars…

      Only the stars now, in their heavenly million,

      Glisten and blink for pity on our scars

      From the Pavilion.

      LAST summer, centuries ago,

      I watched the postman's lantern glow,

      As night by night on leaden feet

      He twinkled down our darkened street.

      So welcome on his beaten track,

      The bent man with the bulging sack!

      But dread of every sleepless couch,

      A whistling imp with leathern pouch!

      And now I meet him in the way,

      And earth is Heaven, night is Day,

      For oh! there shines before his lamp

      An envelope without a stamp!

      Address in pencil; overhead,

      The Censor's triangle in red.

      Indoors and up the stair I bound:

      One from the boy, still safe, still sound!

      "Still merry in a dubious trench

      They've taken over from the French;

      Still making light of duty done;

      Still full of Tommy, Fritz, and fun!

      Still finding War of games the cream,

      And his platoon a priceless team —

      Still running it by sportsman's rule,

      Just as he ran his house at school.

      "Still wild about the 'bombing stunt'

      He makes his hobby at the front.

      Still trustful of his wondrous luck —

      Prepared to take on old man Kluck!'"

      Awed only in the peaceful spells,

      And only scornful of their shells,

      His beaming eye yet found delight

      In ruins lit by flares at night,

      In clover field and hedgerow green,

      Apart from cover or a screen,

      In Nature spurting spick-and-span

      For all the devilries of Man.

      He said those weeks of blood and tears

      Were worth his score of radiant years.

      He said he had not lived before —

      Our boy who never dreamt of War!

      He gave us of his own dear glow,

      Last summer, centuries ago.

      Bronzed leaves still cling to every bough.

      I don't waylay the postman now.

      Doubtless upon his nightly beat

      He still comes twinkling down our street.

      I am not there with straining eye —

      A whistling imp could tell you why.

      WHO is the one with the empty sleeve?"

      "Some sport who was in the swim."

      "And the one with the ribbon who's home on

      leave?"

      "Good Lord! I remember him!

      A hulking fool, low down in the school,

      And no good at games was he —

      All fingers and thumbs – and very few chums.

      (I wish he'd shake hands with me!)"

      "Who is the one with the heavy stick,

      Who seems to walk from the shoulder?"

      "Why, many's the goal you have watched him

      kick!"

      "He's looking a lifetime older.

      Who is the one that's so full of fun —

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