The War Budget

Jessie Pope

1868 –

1941

Hodge waded through the weekly news,
    “The Income Tax,” he said,
“That’s nowt to me, I shallunt lose,
    ’Twill hit the boss instead. 
Lloyd Garge he be the man for I,
    Us poor have nowt to bear.”
He paused—then gave a dismal cry:
    “They’re goin’ to tax my beer!”

“A good thing too!” replied his wife.
    “’Twill keep you from the pub,
Swilling each evening of your life,
    While I work at the tub!”
Across the inglenook she reached,
    The welcome news to see,
Then, in resentful clamour, screeched:
    “3d. a pound on tea!”

                                    MORAL

To foot the bill it’s only fair 
    That everyone should do their share,
And since we all are served the same,
    Pay and look pleasant—that’s the game.

This poem is in the public domain.

"Bobs"

The call came in the stormy night,
    Beneath a stranger’s sky.
The soldier of a life-long fight,
    Still fighting, went to die.

His country’s honour was his goal;
    Patient, unswerving, brave,
His mind, his heart, his work, his soul—
    His very all, he gave.  

He toiled to rouse us from our sleep,
    And now he takes his rest,
And we—it is not ours to weep,
    But follow his behest.

’Tis ours to make this matter plain—
    That though our “Bobs” has gone,
Though dust returns to dust again—
    His soul goes marching on.

Jessie Pope

2018

The Silent Camp

In heaven, a pale uncertain star,
    Through sullen vapour peeps,
On earth, extended wide and far,
In all the symmetry of war,
    A weary army sleeps.

The heavy-hearted pall of night
    Obliterates the lines,
Save where a dying camp-fire’s light
Leaps up and flares, a moment bright,
    Then once again declines.

Black, solemn peace is brooding low,
    Peace, still unbroken, when
There comes a sound, an ebb and flow—
The steady breathing, deep and slow,
    Of half-a-million men.

The pregnant dawn is drawing nigh,
    The dawn of power or pain;
But now, beneath the mournful sky,
In

Jessie Pope

2018

The Longest Odds

Leonidas of Sparta, years gone by,
    With but a bare three hundred of his braves,
In the ravine of famed Thermopylæ
    Held up the Persian army’s endless waves.
Smiling, among the forest of his spears,
    “Lay down your arms,” the haughty Xerxes cried.
The Spartan’s answer echoes down the years,
    “Come here and take them!” So they fought, and died.

Horatius—the odds grow longer now—
    With two bold friends, Lars Porsena defied.
That dauntless trio registered a vow
    To hold the bridge that stemmed the Tiber’s tide.
Their deed of valous makes our bosoms glow,
    A deed which

Jessie Pope

2018

Poems

The War Budget

More by this poet

"Bobs"

The Silent Camp

The Longest Odds

Poems

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The War Budget

More by this poet

"Bobs"

The Silent Camp

The Longest Odds

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