Volume 150 — THE OLD SOLDIER.

There are some men—and such is Jones— Who love to vent their antique spleens On any subaltern that owns He's not a soldier in his bones (I'm not, by any means); Who fiercely watch us drill our men And tell us things were different when (In, I imagine, 1810) They joined the Blue Marines. I like them not, yet I affect That air of awed humility Which I should certainly expect, If I were old and medal-deck'd, From young men under me; But when they hint their wondrous wit Is what has made them feel so fit To do their military bit, I simply can't agree. I said to Jones—or should have said But feared the Articles of War— "You must not think you have a head Because you know from A to Z This military lore, By years of study slowly gat (And somewhat out-of-date at that), When lo, I had the whole thing pat In six small months—not more." Maybe the mystic art appals Unlearned souls of low degrees, But men to whom the high Muse calls, Men who are good enough for Smalls, Imbibe it all with ease; While where would Jones, I wonder, be If someone took the man for me And asked him for some jeu d'esprit, A few bright lines (like these)? Possibly Jones will one day tire Of fours and fights and iron shards, Will seize his pencil and aspire To court the Muse and match the fire Of us poetic cards; Then I shall mock his meagre strain And gaily make the moral plain, How barren is the soldier's brain Compared with any bard's.