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THE GOLDEN BOY
15
The danger's in his blood like wine,
The old heroic passion leaps;
The son of the mighty fighting line
Goes glad whatever woman weeps.
He plays the game, winning or losing,
As in the playing-fields at home;
This picnic's nothing of his choosing,
But since it's started, let it come!
He lives his hour with keenest zest,
And midst the flying death he spares
A laugh to the light-heart schoolboy jest,
Mingled with curses and with prayers.
Gay as at Eton or at Harrow,
Counts battles as by goals and runs:
God keep him from Death's flying arrow
To give his England fighting sons.
