How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage He swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool, If, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age He broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule. No, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war Never again would he bear this, no never more! "Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey. A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves." Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock. HERE THEY LIE. Here they lie who once learned here All that is taught of hurt or fear; Dead, but by free will they died: They were true men, they had pride. TOM TAYLOR. On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, Homeward (still dazzled by the spark Love kindled in some alley dark) Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, Start suddenly, turn about, are caught By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. Never was blown from human cheeks Music like this, that calls and speaks Till sots and lovers from one string Dangle and dance in the same ring. Tom, of your piping I've heard said And seen--that you can rouse the dead, Dead-drunken men awash who lie In stinking gutters hear your cry, I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then You set them dancing, these dead men. They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, Victims of wine or love or death, In ragged time they jump, they shake Their heads, sweating to overtake The impetuous tune flying ahead. They flounder after, with legs of lead. Now, suddenly as it started, play Stops, the short echo dies away, The corpses drop, a senseless heap, The drunk men gaze about like sheep. Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare Up at the broad moon hanging there, While Tom, five fingers to his nose, Skips off...And the last bugle blows. COUNTRY AT WAR.