Much loved by all who know you, Especially you seem Envied for smiles that show you Kindness in a gleam. _Church of England Chaplain._ Helm of our literary ship, Editor of this Gazette,[2] Luck be yours, although you whip My muse into an awful sweat. [2] _Fifth Gloucester Gazette._ See Introduction. WALT WHITMAN DESCRIBES MAJOR W. Nonchalantly he stands On every step of life Tapping his legging. It is just the same Whether we’re expecting A Boche attack Or Church Parade. Nothing flusters him. Men Confidently go To do his bidding: While he stands there Revolving stunts; And nonchalantly Tapping his legging. SERGEANT FINCH He’s a popular sergeant, you bet, For he’ll rough it along with his men, And start up a song in the wet To set ’em all smiling again. His stories are naughty, I’m told, His voice has a sonorous sound; But the envy of all who behold Is the way that his puttees are wound. Blue-eyed, debonair, with a hat Cocked sideways the eighth of an inch, He’s sparrow-like: but for all that The name in his pay-book is Finch. C COMPANY COOK “Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say, Twirling a red moustache. We chaffed him over rations every day, “Say, is this tea or hash?” “Jim, tell us, do, Why you put sugar in the blooming stew.” “--And there’s a heap o’ coal in this--not half!...” To all our chaff “Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say. EPITAPH (_T. D._, 13/3/16) A shallow trench for one so tall! “Heads down”--no need for that old call Beneath the upturned sod. Safe lies his body, never fret, Behind that crumpled parapet, And over all this wind and wet His soul sits safe with God. SONNET (_To H. M._) Him, the gods, loving, took while life was young.... Say rather (clinging to a wiser creed) God took, and suddenly on wings of speed Bore to the utter quietness far flung Of fields Elysian where the horrid tongue Of battle is not. For He knew his need Better than those who knew him well indeed, Loving him best. Above his grave is rung The death-bell of all things which hurt the sense And vex the mind and plague the soul of man, Tingeing the rainbow colours of his best Dreams drably: and hath cried a voice, “Go hence! Old Angel Time, to weary whom you can, The while my well-beloved child hath rest.” THE FIRST SPRING DAY (_To A. E. S._) We laid you fast in frozen clay When Winter had enchained the land. (Lad, was it but three weeks to-day?) And now comes Springtime’s messenger with golden tidings in his hand. A mist blows off the thawing earth, And drips from every budding tree, The springs are loosed, and mad with mirth Run lisping in the fallen leaves, or laughing in the sunlight free.