IN times of peace, so clean and bright, <br />And with a new-washed morning face, <br />He walked Pall Mall, a goodly sight, <br />The finished flower of all the race. <br /> <br />Or through Bond Street and Piccadilly, <br />Went spick-and-span, without a soil, <br />As careless as the July lily <br />That spins not, neither does she toil. <br /> <br />He took his soldiering as sport, <br />And beauteous in his mufti stirred <br />Romance i' the simple female sort <br />That loves a guardsman or a lord. <br /> <br />And now, knee-deep in muddy water, <br />Unwashed, unshaven, see him go! <br />His garments stained with mud and slaughter <br />Would break the heart of Savile Row. <br /> <br />The danger's in his blood like wine, <br />The old heroic passion leaps; <br />The son of the mighty fighting line <br />Goes glad whatever woman weeps. <br /> <br />He plays the game, winning or losing, <br />As in the playing-fields at home; <br />This picnic's nothing of his choosing, <br />But since it's started, let it come! <br /> <br />He lives his hour with keenest zest, <br />And midst the flying death he spares <br />A laugh to the light-heart schoolboy jest, <br />Mingled with curses and with prayers. <br /> <br />Gay as at Eton or at Harrow, <br />Counts battles as by goals and runs <br />God keep him from Death's flying arrow <br />To give his England fighting sons.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-golden-boy-3/
