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Punch's Almanack for 1915.
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Officer (to Tommy, who is having his hair cut with horse-clippers). "Does it hurt much?"
Tommy. "Not much, Sir, only when 'is foot slips and 'e 'angs on to me by the machine."
TO POESY—FOR THIS CHRISTMAS.
O Poesy, them chaste and heavenly maid, Whom all right-minded persons call divine, How long, how long is it since I essayed Aught in thy line;
Since last I wooed thee, wooed thee as a queen, And thou didst not unswervingly say "No"? On rough estimate, it must have besn Some months ago.
I had a temple sacred to thy name, A quiet shrine, where never sound could steal, Wherein I fanned the favourable flame And did a deal.
Then, as from flower to flower the deep bees sup, I lit on themes of general bounteousness, And, at a pinch, could always pick one up Out of the Press;
And sat aloof, and plied my gentle role, And, if afflicted by a sudden blight, In soft communion with some poet-soul Got myself right.
Now, now, alas! that time has passed away; The Huns have hoch-ed, the Huns are hoch-ing yet; A stranger occupies the shrine to-day (My flat is let).
The measures and the motives that I sang, And hoped to go on singing, are decayed; Nor do the folk about me give a hang For thee, sweet maid.
That they have hearts attuned to warrior feats And high emprise, I cheerfully admit ; But I believe that, if I spoke of Keats, They'd have a fit.
And men are round me who, with cries of brass, Would drag me down if I essayed to climb; All, all is changed, and as a rule, alas! I haven't time.
So if, at this frail hour of hollow cheer, I still attempt the seasonable strain, 'Tis but to notify the fact that "Here We are again." Dum-dum.
