The Young Guard

The Young Guard
Ernest Hornung

E. W. Hornung

The Young Guard

CONSECRATION

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.

LORD'S LEAVE

(1915)

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 POST

(1915)

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,