Classic Poem

How happy is the Conscript's life!
He waits upon the General's wife,
Runs errands, cooks if he is able,
And, if he isn't, waits at table.
He stands respectful in the hall
Whenever people come to call,
And ushers everybody in
With military discipline.
He puts the baby in its crib,
Gives it its meals, adjusts its bib,
And if it should begin to cry
He soothes it with a lullaby.

If he should be an artizan
He is indeed a lucky man!
Whenever anything is broken
You find his services bespoken.
He mends the windows and the locks
And even regulates the clocks.
He makes the most ingenious toys
To gratify the Colonel's boys.
His plumbing is beyond reproof,
He puts new slates upon the roof,
And when the vernal months begin
He paints the house outside and in.

Nor must you think no use is made
Of those who have no special trade;
There's always something you can find
For men to do if you've a mind.
Thus, horticultural pursuits
Have great attractions for recruits.
And many of them rise at dawn
To go and mow the General's lawn.
Two men at least, I understand,
Wait on the regimental band,
Where their obliging dispositions
Are greatly prized by the musicians.

Unhappily, this life of peace,
I grieve to say, must shortly cease,
For General Andre, odious man,
Is going to stop it — if he can!
He holds that officers do ill
Who keep the Conscript from his drill
And make him concentrate his mind
On work of a domestic kind.
Such menial tasks, he thinks, should yield
To practice in the tented field,
To handling guns of various size
And other warlike enterprise.

The system, therefore, will be changed
(Or so the General has arranged)
And none will be allowed to shirk
His share of military work.
Farewell, the old delightful days
When, innocent of martial ways,
The soldier laid aside his sabre
And gave his time to household labour.
When Conscripts, if they knew a trade,
Were not expected on parade,
And when the swords of skilful cooks
Were beaten into pruning hooks!