Then the lilt of a boyish voice
Rang out through the murky night:
"Say, Dad -- I'm hurt -- and, why, here's Joyce:
Play -- up -- old school -- Good-night!"
And wan and dreary crept up the day
On a lonely outpost place;
For the light of life had stolen away
From a dear brown smiling face.
Then pray to your gods for the life, grit and power,
To tear with your hands, sword and gun --
O! English sons, avenge that hour! --
And CHOKE that chuckling Hun.
A. E. WHITING-BAKER.
