JOY-BELLS

JOY-BELLS

Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells


To the green-vista'd gladness of the past


That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells


To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.

What means this metal in windy belfries hung


When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells


Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue


Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.

Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim


That "if our Lord returned He'd fight for us."


So let our bells and bishops do the same,


Shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus.

ARMS AND THE MAN

Young Croesus went to pay his call


On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall:


And, though his wound was healed and mended,


He hoped he'd get his leave extended.

The waiting-room was dark and bare.


He eyed a neat-framed notice there


Above the fireplace hung to show


Disabled heroes where to go


For arms and legs; with scale of price,


And words of dignified advice


How officers could get them free.

Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee,—


Two arms, two legs, though all were lost,


They'd be restored him free of cost.

Then a Girl-Guide looked in to say,


"Will Captain Croesus come this way?"