Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/252
THE EPSOM-AND-ASCOT BRIGADE.
What foot that ever trod its floor
From Ascot Heath would turn away
Just for a little thing like War?
Be it not said, to Britain's shame,
That any sporting man forsook his
Devotion to the noble Game,
The hallowed trade of touts and bookies.
Others may figure at the Front,
But we have duties nearer home;
England expects that we should punt;
She also holds that on our heads
Is laid the patriot's obligation
To exercise her thoroughbreds
And keep them worthy of the nation.
Without a Derby or a Cup,
Nor taught to face the betting-ring,
The breed would simply crumple up;
Unless for heavy stakes they run,
The chivalry that we so cherish,
By which one pride of race was won,
Is ultimately bound to perish.
Those heirs of Arthur's Table Round,
Who ride for honour―shall they lose
Their annual thirty thousand pound?
Yet, if you close your paddock gates,
Our jockeys, poor embarrassed phantoms,
Would pine away upon the rates
(Unless they went and joined the Bantams).
Of athletes on the fighting quest;
Let Cambridge be an arméd camp
With Henley scratched and all the rest;
These are but amateurs of sport
Without a decent bet to flavour it,
Not like the true and turfy sort
Whose business is to back the favourite.
Our sporting schemes with eyes askance;
What do they know of England―pooh!―
Who only know the ways of France?
Her sport is just to fight and die,
Forgetting Longchamps' proud tradition;
But, War or no War, we will cry,
"Racing as usual―that's our mission!"
O. S.
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XVI.
(From the Rev. Henry Molesworth, Fairwell Vicarage, Bucks.)
Will your Majesty pardon me if I venture for a few moments to address myself to a person so sublime as yourself? I am encouraged to do so by the belief that, when all is said and done, you, with your store of gorgeous uniforms, with your immense armies moving obediently at your word, with your millions of subjects and the serried ranks of your flatterers commending your wisdom as though it were divine and chanting your power as though it were infinite and immutable―you, I think, are only a man like myself, an unfeathered two-legged thing, tossed by circumstance and blown about by the gusty winds of merely human passion. Your work, such as it is, is done in the glare of publicity and to the sound of big guns dooming thousands to death. I have my duty laid out for me in this quiet village; but some day the tremendous hour will begin to strike for each of us; our dear familiar things will fade and we shall be summoned to that dread tribunal where each shall give an account of his deeds. When that comes about it will profit you as little to have been great and worn a crown as it will avail me to plead my own obscurity and the humble nature of my tasks. Howitzers on that day will be as useless as hymns, and a military cloak will be no better defence for you than a cassock for me. I conclude, therefore, that we may talk together on equal terms.
This, as I say, is a quiet village, and we are said to be a slow folk. We discuss the weather, the price of wheat, the heavy amount of the rates, the poor supply of cottages and their high rent, and the more obvious aspects of political affairs. Before last August the thought of war had not been in our minds, and even when war came and we realised that we must take our share of it there was no sudden flame of excitement, but rather a steady glow of earnest resolution, deepening as the days went by. Since then we have come to know what war is. Fifty of the men of this district, splendid fellows from all ranks of life, have joined the colours. Six of these will never see their home and their village again. Four others have come back maimed and drag their slow steps about the roads, but the only thought of these is to get well quickly and return to the fighting-line. We speak now of Belgium and the unforgettable sufferings and outrages you have put upon her, and our prayers go forth for the success of our arms and those of our allies. Yes, the thoughts of men and the values of things have been deeply changed by six months of war.
For me, too, there has been much searching of heart. When Belgium was laid waste and her people massacred; when Scarborough and Whitby were bombarded and women and children were wantonly done to death; when your Admirals threatened to sink inoffensive merchantmen with their crews―then, I confess it, a flame leapt up within me and I asked myself of what use my manhood and my strength, and my thews and sinews hardened by the sports of youth, could be to me unless I employed them in fighting actively with my brothers for the country that gave me birth and sheltered me. Even a clergyman of thirty-three might learn his drill and in a short time help to fill a trench. So I thought and all but decided to present myself at the recruiting station and take my chance with the rest. But I paused and, as I think, I rightly paused. Here was my duty; to this my vows had bound me and I had no right to shirk doing it in order to follow the easier path. After all it was no small thing to be allowed to pray, to sustain, to comfort, and in carrying out my profession with all my heart and soul I might yet be helping to strike a blow at the accursed system which you represent and glorify. Thus reasoning I have stayed at home with my people. We help one another in the daily round and bear with such resignation as we can command the many shocks and fevers of the War, not faltering in our determination and rejoicing that we have so dear a country to serve.
Henry Molesworth
"We are informed that many British officers have arrived in Cairo from the Canal on short furlongs."―Times of Egypt.
The way seems shorter when the end is joy.