Poems by Jessie Pope

The Call (1915) Who's for the trench Are you, my laddie? Who'll follow French Will you, my laddie? Who's fretting to begin, Who's going out to win? And who wants to save his skin Do you, my laddie? Who's for the khaki suit Are you, my laddie? Who longs to charge and shoot Do you, my laddie? Who's keen on getting fit, Who means to show his grit, And who'd rather wait a bit Would you, my laddie? Who'll earn the Empire's thanks Will you, my laddie? Who'll swell the victor's ranks Will you, my laddie? When that procession comes, Banners and rolling drums Who'll stand and bite his thumbs Will you, my laddie? The Beau Ideal (1915) The lad who troth with Rose would plight, Nor apprehend rejection Must be in shabby khaki dight To compass her affection. Who buys her an engagement ring And finds her kind and kissing, Must her have one member in a sling Or, preferably, missing. Since Rose a classic taste possessed, It naturally follows Her girlish fancy was obsessed By Belvedere Apollos. And when she dreamed about a mate, If any hoped to suit, he Must in his person illustrate A type of manly beauty. He must be physically fit, A graceful, stalwart figure, Of iron and elastic knit And full of verve and vigour. Enough! I've made the bias plain That warped her heart and thrilled it. It was a maggot of her brain, And Germany has killed it. To-day, the sound in wind and limb Don't flatter Rose one tittle. Her maiden ardour cleaves to him Who's proved that he is brittle, Whose healing cicatrices show The colours of a prism, Whose back is bent into a bow By Flanders rheumatism.