RUDDY young Ginger was somewhere in camp,

War broke it up in a day,

Packing cadets of the steadier stamp

Home with the smallest delay.

Ginger braves town in his O.T.C. rags—

Beards a Staff Marquis—the limb!

Saying, "Your son, Sir, is one of my fags,"

Gets a Commission through him.

Then to his tailor's for khaki complet;

Then to Pall Mall for a sword;

Lastly, a wire to his people to say,

"Left school—joined the Line—are you

bored?"

And it was a bit cool

(A term's fees in the pool

By a rule of the school).

There were those who said "Fool!"

Of young Ginger.

Ruddy young Ginger! Who gave him that name?

Tommies who had his own nerve!

"Into 'im, Ginger!" was heard in a game

With a neighbouring Special Reserve.

Blushing and grinning and looking fifteen,

Ginger, with howitzer punt,

Bags his man's wind as succinctly and clean

As he hopes to bag Huns at the front.

Death on recruits who fall out by the way,

Sentries who yawn at their post,

Yet he sang such a song at the Y.M.C.A.

That the C.O. turned green as a ghost!

Less the song than the stance,

And the dissolute dance,

Drew a glance so askance

That... they packed him to France,

Little Ginger.

Next month, to the haunts of fine Ladies and

Lords

I ventured, in Grosvenor Square:

The stateliest chambers were hospital wards—

And ruddy young Ginger was there.

In spite of his hurts he looked never so red,

Nor ever less shy or sedate,

Though his hair had been cropped (by machine-

gun, he said)

And bandages turbaned his pate.

He was mostly in holes—but his cheek was

intact!

I could not but notice, with joy,

The loveliest Sisters had most to transact

With ruddy young Ginger—some boy!

Slaying Huns by the tons,

With a smile like a nun's—

Oh! of all the brave ones,

All the sons of our guns—

Give me Ginger!