Artless as is the wanton faun

And agile as the Hooluck gibbon.
The children " walked " thee on the lawn.
Tied with a bow of orange ribbon ;
And aye as irksomer grew the task

Of fending off the Hun garotters
In our mind's eye — if you must ask —

We ate thee up from tail to trotters.
57



But Fate, as oft, declined to pour

Our cup of grief till it was quite full ;
You scarce had turned your seventh score

When straightway Fritz became less frightful ;
And argosies came home to port

As safe as though some inland lake on,
Laden from keel to groaning thwart

With tender ham and toothsome bacon.
No need, old sport, to slay thee now.
Yet in our hearts the thought we'll cherish
That for our sakes. Narcissus, thou.
So young, so fair, wast like to perish ;
And, as the years of Peace go by

And war becomes a fireside story,
" Thank Heaven," we'll cry, " thou didst not die,

But lived to reap the fruits of glory ;

" Assimilating in repose

Thy fragrant fare of tops and peelings,
Or making all the garden close

Echo with pregustative squealings.
Or basking when the sun is high.
Within thy chamber's cool recesses
While some fair child with practised eye

Combs with a rake thy tangled tresses."

And ever, as new twilights burn

Low, and our offspring, loudly yelling.
Hurry the well-heaped votive urn

To thy obscure but ample dwelling,
" Ready at need thou wast to give

Thy life," they'll say, " that want might miss us.
For ever, therefore, shalt thou live

With us and be our love. Narcissus."

March 1919.
