The Ballad of Ensign Joy
E. Hornung




E.W. Hornung

The Ballad of Ensign Joy





THE BALLAD of ENSIGN JOY


		IT is the story of
		Ensign Joy
		And the obsolete
		rank withal
		That I love for each gentle English
		boy
		Who jumped to his country's
		call.
		By their fire and fun, and the
		deeds they've done,
		I would gazette them Second to
		none
		Who faces a gun in Gaul!)

		IT is also the story of Ermyntrude
		A less appropriate name
		For the dearest prig and the
		prettiest prude!
		But under it, all the same,
		The usual consanguineous squad
		Had made her an honest child
		of God —
		And left her to play the game.

		IT was just when the grind of
		the Special Reserves,
		Employed upon Coast Defence,
		Was getting on every Ensign's
		nerves —
		Sick-keen to be drafted
		hence —
		That they met and played tennis
		and danced and sang,
		The lad with the laugh and the
		schoolboy slang,
		The girl with the eyes intense.

		YET it wasn't for him that she
		languished and sighed,
		But for all of our dear deemed
		youth;
		And it wasn't for her, but her
		sex, that he cried,
		If he could but have probed
		the truth !
		Did she? She would none of his
		hot young heart;
		As khaki escort he's tall and
		smart,
		As lover a shade uncouth.

		HE went with his draft. She
		returned to her craft.
		He wrote in his merry vein:
		She read him aloud, and the
		Studio laughed!
		Ermyntrude bore the strain.
		He was full of gay bloodshed and
		Old Man Fritz:
		His flippancy sent her friends
		into fits.
		Ermyntrude frowned with
		pain.

		HIS tales of the Sergeant who
		swore so hard
		Left Ermyntrude cold and
		prim;
		The tactless truth of the picture
		jarred,
		And some of his jokes were
		grim.
		Yet, let him but skate upon
		tender ice,
		And he had to write to her twice
		or thrice
		Before she would answer him.

		YET once she sent him a
		fairy's box,
		And her pocket felt the brunt
		Of tinned contraptions and
		books and socks —
		Which he hailed as "a sporting
		stunt!"
		She slaved at his muffler none
		the less,
		And still took pleasure in mur-
		muring, "Yes!
		For a friend of mine at the
		Front.")

		ONE fine morning his name
		appears —
		Looking so pretty in print!
		"Wounded!" she warbles in
		tragedy tears —
		And pictures the reddening
		lint,
		The drawn damp face and the
		draggled hair.
		But she found him blooming in
		Grosvenor Square,
		With a punctured shin in a
		splint.

		IT wasn't a haunt of Ermyn-
		trude's,
		That grandiose urban pile;
		Like starlight in arctic altitudes
		Was the stately Sister's smile.
		It was just the reverse with
		Ensign Joy —
		In his golden greeting no least
		alloy —
		In his shining eyes no guile!

		HE showed her the bullet that
		did the trick —
		He showed her the trick,
		x-ray'd;
		He showed her a table timed to
		a tick,
		And a map that an airman
		made.
		He spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss —
		But he never mentioned a certain
		cross
		For his part in the escapade!

		SHE saw it herself in a list next
		day,
		And it brought her back to his
		bed,
		With a number of beautiful
		things to say,
		Which were mostly over his
		head.
		Turned pink as his own pyjamas'
		stripe,
		To her mind he ceased to em-
		body a type —
		Sank into her heart instead.

		I WONDER that all of you
		didn't retire!"
		"My blighters were not that
		kind."
		"But it says you 'advanced un-
		der murderous fire,
		Machine-gun and shell com-
		bined – '"
		"Oh, that's the regular War
		Office wheeze!"
		"'Advanced' – with that leg! —
		'on his hands and knees'!"
		"I couldn't leave it behind."

		HE was soon trick-driving an
		invalid chair,
		and dancing about on a crutch;
		The haute noblesse of Grosvenor
		Square
		Felt bound to oblige as such;
		They sent him for many a motor-
		whirl —




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