I had a favourite shirt for many moons,

Soft, silken, soothing and of tenderest tone,

Gossamer-light withal. The Subs., my peers,

Envied the garment, ransacking the land

To find a shirt its equal—all in vain.

For, when we tired of shooting at the Hun

And other Batteries clamoured for their share

And we resigned positions at the front

To dally for a space behind the line,

To shed my war-worn vesture I was wont—

The G.S. boots, the puttees and the pants

That mock at cut and mar the neatest leg,

The battle-jacket with its elbows patched

And bands of leather, round its hard-used cuffs,

And, worst of all, the fuggy flannel shirt,

Rough and uncouth, that suffocates the soul;

And in their stead I donned habiliments

Cadets might dream of—serges with a waist,

And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man,

Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots,

And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties

Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD—

And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt.

It was a woven breeze, a melody

Constrained by seams from melting in the air,

A summer perfume tethered to a stud,

The cool of evening cut to lit my form—

And I shall wear it now no more, no more!

There came a day we took it to be washed,

I and my batman, after due debate.

A little cottage stood hard by the road

Whose one small window said, in manuscript,

"Wasching for soldiers and for officers,"

And there we left my shirt with anxious fears

And fond injunctions to the Belgian dame.

So it was washed. I marked it as I passed

Waving svelte arms beneath the kindly sun

As if it semaphored to its own shade

That answered from the grass. I saw it fill

And plunge against its bonds—methought it yearned

To join its tameless kin, the airy clouds.

And as I saw it so, I sang aloud,

"To-morrow I shall wear thee! Haste, O Time!"

Fond, futile dream! That very afternoon,

Her washing taken in and folded up

(My shirt, my shirt I mourn for, with the rest),

The frugal creature locked and left her cot

To cut a cabbage from a neighbour's field.

Then, without warning, from the empurpled sky,

Swift with grim dreadful purpose, swooped a shell

(Perishing Percy was the name he bore

Amongst, the irreverent soldiery), ah me!

And where the cottage stood there gaped a gulf;

The jewel and the casket vanished both.

Were there no other humble homes but that

For the vile Hun to fire at? Did some spy,

In bitter jealousy, betray my shirt?

What boots it to lament? The shirt is gone.

It was not meant for such an one as I,

A plain rough gunner with one only pip.

No doubt 'twas destined for some lofty soul

Who in a deck-chair lolls, and marks the map

And says, "Push here," while I and all my kind

Scrabble and slaughter in the appointed slough.

But I, presumptuous, wore it, till the gods

Called for my laundry with a thunderbolt.