Ballad Of French Service Poem by Malcolm Cowley

No more to stroll for half a day
Along the careless Avenue,
No more to doze the night away,
Reading of deeds that others do.
Cards, wine, avaunt! Get out! I'm through;
I'm going to drive an ambulance,
A Ford, mind, for a year or two,
Along a shell-swept road in France.

They will not miss me at the play;
The charming Mrs. Pettigrew
Will hold her teas each Saturday
Without much caring what I do.
The class-room and the green-room too
Will get along, so will the dance,
No matter what trials I go through
Along a shell-swept road in France.

J. L., my friend, just now you say - -
And you are quite in earnest, too,
'War is stupidity,' you say,
And, 'It is jolly to imbue
A land with hate ' All very true.
But though you call it petulance
Of mine - - I feel I'll meet with you
Along a shell-swept road in France.

The publican, the priest, the Jew,
The actor shorn of radiance,
Will go amarching - - so will you - -
Along a shell-swept road in France.