Classic Poem

Now is all business stopped, and work and traffic,
To give a doubly needless holiday;
Now do cold-footers howl and yell and “maffick”,
And “flappers” fling all modesty away.
This is the Antis' day, the day for Shirkers,
And racecourse scum, and touts—and worse than they—
For monkey tricks that shame all honest workers,
And pranks no decent larrikin would play.

The senseless jangle wakes the senseless city,
And, till the night, no wit nor humour clean,
No gleam of real sentiment or pity,
Or nation's pride illuminates the scene.
And, to complete it all, from alleys rotten,
Where nought save memories of vice remain,
The wretched “talent” and the long forgotten
Slum “push” creep out into the light again.

They bleat their ignorance to walls that smother,
While beach and breaker call for them alone;
And sad-eyed strangers—strangers to each other—
Our soldiers go unnoticed through the crowd.
Our soldiers pass, unnoticed and unheeding—
These are no more to them than “dug-out rats”—
They only dream of working and succeeding
And shake confetti from their honoured hats.

(The dear old face, black-bonnet framed, but brightened—
God-shielded on the kerb she stands alone—
The dear old faith—her load to-day is lightened;
The dear old smile—her pride is all her own.
All this is for her sons, she thinks; and hither
She drifted with the crowd, a tiny blur.
Mother of Men! Are shades of soldiers with her?
Does any of this rabble notice her?)

Now will each practised turncoat and seceder,
Of any class or party, clique or sect,
Say to his followers: “You can trust your leader!
Did I not tell you what you might expect?”
This is the time the perfect politician
Is always on the platform (and “the job”);
And glib, and smug in his assured position,
He periods the obvious to the mob.

Now will the Parties rave, and every faction,
And fighting sect, devoid of gratitude,
Refreshed by four years' rest, go into action
With all its old vindictiveness renewed.
Now we shall hear the things that danger banished:
The selfish crank, the shrieking suffragette;
And all such nightmares that we thought had vanished
Shall rush upon our sleep—lest we forget!

I ask myself: “Are these the things they fought for?
The boys who trained and fought and died like men?”
I ask myself: “Are these the things we wrought for?”
And think of long grim battles with the pen.
I raise my window sash, and sit and wonder,
While gazing upwards at the starry dome,
Will men say in their hearts, that grand sky under—
“If this be peace, God send us war at home?”