That and the toot of the corporal's flute, Until he could blow no more, And the lilt of "Sussex by the Sea," The marching song of the corps. Those hills! My word, you would soon get fit, Be you ever so stale and slack, If you pad it with rifle and marching kit To Rotherfield Hill and back! Drills in hall, and drills outdoors, And drills of every type, Till we wore our boots with forming fours, And our coats with "Shoulder hipe!" No glory ours, no swank, no pay, One dull eventless grind; Find yourself, and nothing a day Were the terms that the old boys signed. Just drill and march and drill again, And swot at the old parade, But they got two hundred thousand men. Not bad for the old brigade! A good two hundred thousand came, On the chance of that east coast fight; They may have been old and stiff and lame, But, by George, their hearts were right! Discipline! My! "Eyes right!" they cried, As we passed the drill hall door, And left it at that--so we marched cock-eyed From three to half-past four. And solid! Why, after a real wet bout In a hole in the Flanders mud, It would puzzle the Boche to fetch us out, For we couldn't get out if we would! Some think we could have stood war's test, Some say that we could not, But a chap can only do his best, And offer all he's got. Fall out, the guard! The old home guard! Pile arms! Right turn! Dismiss! No grousing, even if it's hard To break our ranks like this. We can't show much in the way of fun For four and a half years gone; If we'd had our chance--just one! just one!-- Carry on, old Sport, carry on! THE NIGHT PATROL SEPTEMBER 1918 Behind me on the darkened pier They crowd and chatter, man and maid, A coon-song gently strikes the ear, A flapper giggles in the shade. There where the in-turned lantern gleams It shines on khaki and on brass; Across its yellow slanting beams The arm-locked lovers slowly pass. Out in the darkness one far light Throbs like a pulse, and fades away-- Some signal on the guarded Wight, From Helen's Point to Bembridge Bay. An eastern wind blows chill and raw, Cheerless and black the waters lie, And as I gaze athwart the haze, I see the night patrol go by. Creeping shadows blur the gloom, Thicken and darken, pass and fade; Again and yet again they loom, One ruby spark above each shade-- Twelve ships in all! They glide so near, One hears the wave the fore-foot curled, And yet to those upon the pier They seem some other sterner world. The coon-song whimpers to a wail, The treble laughter sinks and dies, The lovers cluster on the rail, With whispered words and straining eyes. One hush of awe, and then once more The vision fades for them and me, And there is laughter on the shore, And silent duty on the sea. THE WRECK ON LOCH McGARRY