15 DECEMBER 1900, Page 14

POETRY.

THE ENGLISH OFFICER.

THROUGH bitter nights and burning days

He watched the veldt stretch bare and grim ; At home beside the cheerful blaze We wrote our views of him. We mourned his curious lack of brain; We judged him stupid, judged him slow ; How much of what he knew was vain,— How much he did not know !

Where Duty called, he pressed in haste; That, too, was wrong, that haste undue ; Why practice with such wanton waste The only art he knew ?

Too well he loved each foolish game; " Is War a game ? " we sternly cried. And while we talked of England's name For England's sake he died.

H. C. MACDOWALL.