THE YOUNG GUARD – World War I Poems & Author's Memoirs from The Great War. E. W. Hornung

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THE YOUNG GUARD – World War I Poems & Author's Memoirs from The Great War - E. W. Hornung


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       E. W. Hornung

      The Young Guard – World War I Poems & Author's Memoirs From the Great War

      Consecration, Lord's Leave, Last Post, The Old Boys, Ruddy Young Ginger

       Published by

      

Books

      Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting

       [email protected] 2017 OK Publishing ISBN 978-80-7583-286-3

      Table of Contents

       Poems

       Consecration

       Lord’s Leave

       Last Post

       The Old Boys

       Ruddy Young Ginger

       The Ballad of Ensign Joy

       Bond and Free

       Shell-Shock in Arras

       The Big Thing

       Forerunners

       Uppingham Song

       Wooden Crosses

       Memoir

       Notes of a Camp Follower on the Western Front

      Poems

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Consecration

       Lord’s Leave

       Last Post

       The Old Boys

       Ruddy Young Ginger

       The Ballad of Ensign Joy

       Bond and Free

       Shell-Shock in Arras

       The Big Thing

       Forerunners

       Uppingham Song

       Wooden Crosses

      Consecration

       Table of Contents

      Children we deemed you all the days We vexed you with our care: But in a Universe ablaze, What was your childish share? To rush upon the flames of Hell, To quench them with your blood! To be of England's flower that fell Ere yet it brake the bud!

      And we who wither where we grew. And never shed but tears, As children now would follow you Through the remaining years; Tread in the steps we thought to guide, As firmly as you trod; And keep the name you glorified Clean before man and God.

      Lord’s Leave

       Table of Contents

      (1915)

      No Lord's this year: no silken lawn on which

       A dignified and dainty throng meanders.

       The Schools take guard upon a fierier pitch

       Somewhere in Flanders.

      Bigger the cricket here; yet some who tried

       In vain to earn a Colour while at Eton

       Have found a place upon an England side

       That can't be beaten!

      A demon bowler's bowling with his head—

       His heart's as black as skins in Carolina!

       Either he breaks, or shoots almost as dead

       As Anne Regina;

      While the deep-field-gun, trained upon your stumps,

       From concrete grand-stand far beyond the bound'ry,

       Lifts up his ugly mouth and fairly pumps

       Shells from Krupp's foundry.

      But like the time the game is out of joint—

       No screen, and too much mud for cricket lover;

       Both legs go slip, and there's sufficient point

       In extra cover!

      Cricket? 'Tis Sanscrit to the super-Hun—

       Cheap cross between Caligula and Cassius,

       To whom speech, prayer, and warfare are all one—

       Equally gaseous!

      Playing a game's beyond him and his hordes;

       Theirs but to play the snake or wolf or vulture:

       Better one sporting lesson learnt at Lord's

       Than all their Kultur. . . .

      Sinks a torpedoed Phoebus from our sight;

       Over the field of play see darkness stealing;

      


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