We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. 20 Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? Silent, they drift away over the glimmer- And where's my pipe? 'Tis lucky I've a ing sand. Kantara, April, 1918. THE OLD HUNTSMAN I've never ceased to curse the day I signed A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece. 'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough It cost me, what with my daft management, And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, And backing losers; and the local bucks Egging me on with whiskies while I bragged The man I was when huntsman to the Squire. I'd have been prosperous if I'd took a farm Of seventy acres, drove by gig and haggled 10 At Monday markets; now I've squandered all My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got As testimonial when I'd grown too stiff And slow to press a beaten fox. The Fleece! 'Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, The wife of thirty years who served me well; |