Curly head, and laughing eyes,—
Mischief that all blame defies.
Cricket,—footer,—Eton-jacket,—
Everlasting din and racket.
Tennis,—boating,—socks and ties,—
Tragedies,—and comedies.
Business,—sobered,—getting on,—
One girl now,—The Only One.
London Scottish,—sporran,—kilt,—
Bonnet cocked at proper tilt.
Dies Irae!—Off to France,—
Lord,—a safe deliverance!
Deadly work,—foul gases,—trenches;
Naught that radiant spirit quenches.
Letters dated “Somewhere—France,”—
Mud,—and grub,—and no romance.
Hearts at home all on the quiver,
Telegrams make backbones shiver.
Silence!—Feverish enquiry;—
Dies Irae!—Dies Irae!
His the joy,—and ours the pain,
But, ere long, we’ll meet again.
Not too much we’ll sorrow—for
It’s both "à Dieu!" and “au revoir!”
