I wos took before the colonel, an’ I took a Bible oaf That I’d serve my Queen an’ country, an’ be square unto them boaf. Then they got a printed paper, an’ this Colonel on the starf Sez, ’You’ll kindly read this over, an’ affix your autygrarf!’ To affix my autygrarf! Larf! You orter ’eard me larf! Signin’ fings like ’’Enry Irvin,’ Knight Commornder of the Barf! Made me want to do a swagger Like a Piccadilly calf! On’y fancy! People wantin’ Tommy Atkins’ autygrarf! Then I signs my name an’ birfplace, an’ the county I wos from, An’ I dots the ’i’ in Atkins, an’ I crorst the ’t’ in tom. A recruit is wurf a dollar, an’ the sergeant gets an ’arf; Just for ’andin’ me a paper for to put my autygrarf! Just to put my autygrarf! Larf? You should ’ave ’eard them larf! From the colonel wiv ’is spurs on, to the sergeant in ’is scarf. When I sez, ’Wot’s this for, mister?’ Sez the colonel, ’Go to Barf!’ ’Don’t you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?’ I ’ave autygrarfed for clobber, I ’ave autygrarfed for pay; I ’ave signed it wiv a flourish, I ’ave signed it wiv a ’j’ On an Army Temperance pledge-book (O the straight an’ narrer parf!)— To a ’drunk’ fine in the pay list, I’ve affixed my autygrarf! Wot a name! An autygrarf! ’Nuff to drive a feller darf; Callin’ Christian name an ’auty’ an’ the uvver name a ’grarf,’ Writin’ in a pocket-ledger— ’Stead of album bound in calf— ’Doo to soldier: Nil’ (that’s Latin), an’ your bloomin’ autygrarf! *AT THE BRINK!* ’Tis now, as we tighten the girth, ’Tis now, as we buckle the sword, When bitterness hardens our mirth, ’Tis now that we seek you, O Lord! Give us hope now the future is black, From fatuous arrogance ward— The words that we cannot hold back! Give peace in our time, O Lord! You know of the hate—folly born; You know of the wrath—money bred; The impotent rage, and the scorn, The trust and the faith that are dead. Lest sorrow should spring from the land— The crop of the seed of the sword— O, stay the imperious hand; Give peace in our time, O Lord! ’Tis good when the man loves the land, ’Tis good when he falls for his creed, But woe to the hate that is fanned By folly begotten of greed. When the weak become foolishly strong, When peoples, unwitting, applaud,— The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong! Give peace in our time, O Lord! When the voice in the senate is stilled; When the councillor speaks in a tent; When the lands are untended, untilled; What use if the stubborn relent? What gain will the simpleton’s shame, The shrifts and lamentings, afford? To-day, on their conduct, the blame; Give peace in our time, O Lord!