Not theirs the popular uniform <br />That takes the feminine heart by storm, <br />And wins soft glances, shy or warm, <br />The perquisites of pluck. <br />But theirs the commonplace city kit, <br />With a blue and white stripe round the sleeve of it, <br />And a stout little truncheon to do the trick, <br />If ever they have the luck. <br /> <br />Not theirs to fight on the Allies' wing, <br />Or even to march with soldierly swing, <br />While the people are cheering like anything, <br />To the stirring roll of drums. <br />But theirs to stand 'neath a pitchy sky. <br />On a lonely beat, with a vigilant eye <br />For the skulking shape of a German spy <br />Who bother him ! never comes. <br /> <br />By night they guard though possibly bored <br />Those places where light and water are stored, <br />And since the family can't be ignored <br />Business as usual by day. <br />Though sport may be scanty compared with the <br />blanks, <br />They're doing their level, the armletted ranks, <br />With no expectation of ha'pence or thanks, <br />For that is the S.C.'s way.<br /><br />Jessie Pope<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/comrades-in-arms-lets/
