abs shall we kn

own affairs And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. It further
seemed a work uncommon light For one like you, a casual civilian, To
order half a hemisphere to fight And slaughter one another by

the million, While you yourself,
a paper Galahad, Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.
The days are gone when sword

and poet's pen One gallant
gifted hand was wont to wield; When Taillefer in face of Harold's men
Rode foremost on to Senlac's

fatal field, And tossed his sword in air, and sang a

spell Of Roland's battle-song,
and, singing, fell. The days are gone when troubadours by dozens
Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, Strumming,
in memory of pretty
cousins, _The Girl I left behind

Me_, on parade; They often used to rattle off a ballad in The intervals
of punishing the Saladin. In later times, of course I know there's
Byron, Who by his own report could pla