Jessie Pope: Verses about Spring

In the nonage of the year,
When anemones appear,
And the buffets of the breeze are soft as silk,
When each sparrow spars and heckles,
I begin to think of freckles,
And of bi-chloride of mercury and milk.

When the silver slanting shower
Hangs the almond-blossom bower
With a fringe of diamond dew and crystal link,
When the azure brooklet dimples
I begin to think of pimples,
And of benzoin and precipitated zinc.

When beneath the feathered breast
Lie the treasures of the nest,
When the sap begins to turn the birches red ;
When the lambs grow energetic
I apply a new cosmetic
Made of potash, camphor, glycerine and lead.

Then I care not if it snows,
I've a powder for the nose,
And a veil of chiffon warranted to cling ;
While my armour on I buckle,
I acknowledge with a chuckle
I'm hermetically sealed against the Spring.

Not theirs the popular uniform
That takes the feminine heart by storm,
And wins soft glances, shy or warm,
The perquisites of pluck.
But theirs the commonplace city kit,
With a blue and white stripe round the sleeve of it,
And a stout little truncheon to do the trick,
If ever they have the luck.

Not theirs to fight on the Allies' wing,
Or even to march with soldierly swing,
While the people are cheering like anything,
To the stirring roll of drums.
But theirs to stand 'neath a pitchy sky.
On a lonely beat, with a vigilant eye
For the skulking shape of a German spy
Who bother him ! never comes.

By night they guard though possibly bored
Those places where light and water are stored,
And since the family can't be ignored
Business as usual by day.
Though sport may be scanty compared with the
blanks,
They're doing their level, the armletted ranks,
With no expectation of ha'pence or thanks,
For that is the S.C.'s way.