'You!
What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.'You dare come on parade like this?''Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had
And almost merged for ever into clay.'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'
