The War’s deep waters o’er him rolled As he beheld Young England giving Life prodigally, while the old Lived on without the cause for living; And yet he never heaved a sigh Although his heart was inly riven; He only craved one boon—to die In harness, and the boon was given. THE OLD MATRON A stone’s-throw from the College gate There lives a very noble lady; A cottage-lawn her whole estate, Without a tree to keep it shady; For thirty years she served the school In quite a number of positions, And by her character and rule Upheld its very best traditions. School generations came and went, Head followed Head—but in this story ’Tis foreign to my main intent To say which gained the greatest glory; Enough that minds of every size, Hustlers and scholars, bloods and boobies, All came in time to recognize Her price was far above all rubies. For, though immersed in household cares And such extremely mundane matters As washing, packing and repairs Of wardrobes normally in tatters, She found with unobtrusive tact A hundred ways of help and healing, And never overlooked an act Of cruelty or double-dealing. Her office and her Spartan breed Forbade her to be sentimental, But in an hour of real need She could be wonderfully gentle; To fashion, to the swift or strong She was incapable of truckling, But helped the lonely soul along And comforted the ugly duckling. Robust in body and in mind, Free from all feminine caprices, Seeing the best in all her kind, Though loving nephews more than nieces, She made no pets; if haply one Appealed to her beyond another, It was the orphan or the son Neglected by a selfish mother. Too fond to quit a scene so dear, Too wise to fancy she was slighted, Loth to intrude or interfere, Though always helpful when invited, She is the first whom boys on leave Greet when they seek their _alma mater_, The last they part from on the eve Of their return to trench and crater. For in her strong and homely face, Her life serene and self-forgetting, They see the Genius of the Place Incarnate in a human setting; And, though they readily would own Their debt to Founder, Saint and Patron, Keep in their heart of hearts a throne Of special glory for the Matron. CONSTABLE JINKS Our village policeman is tall and well-grown, He stands six feet two and he weighs sixteen stone; His gait is majestic, his visage serene, And his boots are the biggest that ever I’ve seen. Fame sealed his renown with a definite stamp When two German waiters escaped from a camp. Unaided he captured those runaway Huns Who had lived for a week on three halfpenny buns.