The Ballad of Ensign Joy

HE may touch on the latest
type of bomb,
But Ermyntrude needn't
blench,
For he never says where you hurl
it from,
And it might be from your
trench.
He never might lead a stealthy
band,
Or toe the horrors of No Man's
Land,
Or swim at the sickly stench..

HER letters came up by
ration-cart
As the men stood-to before
dawn:
He followed the chart of her
soaring heart
With face transfigured yet
drawn:
It filled him with pride, touched
with chivalrous shame.
But – it spoilt the war, as a first-
class game,
For this particular pawn.

THE Sergeant sees it, and
damns the cause
In a truly terrible flow;
But turns and trounces, without
a pause,
A junior N. C. O.
For the crime of agreeing that
Ensign Joy
Isn't altogether the officer boy
That he was four months ago!

AT length he's dumfounded
(the month being May)
By a sample of Ermyntrude's
fun!
"You will kindly get leave over
Christmas Day,
Or make haste and finish the
But Christmas means presents,
she bids him beware:
"So what do you say to a son and
heir?
I'm thinking of giving you
Hun!"

WHAT, indeed, does the
Ensign say?
What does he sit and write?
What do his heart-strings drone all day?
What do they throb all night?
What does he add to his piteous
prayers? —
"Not for my own sake, Lord, but
– theirs,
See me safe through …"

THEY talk – and he writhes
– "of our spirit out here,
Our valour and all the rest!
There's my poor, lonely, delicate
dear,
As brave as the very best!
We stand or fall in a cheery
crowd,
And yet how often we grouse
aloud!
She faces that with a jest!"

HE has had no sleep for a day
and a night;
He has written her half a
ream;
He has Iain him down to wait for
the light,
And at last come sleep – and a
dream.
He's hopping on sticks up the
studio stair:
A telegraph-boy is waiting there,
And – that is his darling's
scream!

HE picks her up in a tender
storm —
But how does it come to pass
That he cannot see his reflected
form
With hers in the studio glass?
"What's wrong with that mir-
ror?"' he cries.
But only the Sergeant's voice
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