Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;
No company of men that I might drill,
And either tick 'em off or else extol 'em
And give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"
And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till
They butted into something. Never a blooming
Ultimate kit-inspection as I passed,
Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,
Nor weary stance while _aides-de-camp_ were fuming,
Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.
And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awaken
To meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,
By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,
And none to tell what action should be taken,
If any, through what channels, and by whom.
But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:
There shall be visions when the firelight burns--
Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,
Fresh clothing-issues from the Quartermaster
And audit boards and absentee returns.
I shall forget awhile civilian fashions
And watch the P.T. merchants on the square,
And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,
And mount the guard and go and see the rations
And bid departed days be "as you were.
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