The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a
night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back,
slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into
the air and nods--forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a
crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green
eyes stare into the air, and he nods--nods.
Tommy's soldiers march to battle,
Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.
Bayonets flash, and sabres glance--
How the horses snort and prance!
Cannon drawn up in a line
Glitter in the dizzy shine
Of the morning sunlight. Flags
Ripple colours in great jags.
Red blows out, then blue, then green,
Then all three--a weaving sheen
Of prismed patriotism. March
Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,
Boldly stepping to the rattle
Of the drums, they go to battle.
Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts
his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their
instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers,
and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from
the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The
song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet.
Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a
squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods--nods. The fire
makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold
song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.
Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.
Tommy's army's off to war--
Not a soldier knows what for.
But he knows about his rifle,
How to shoot it, and a trifle
Of the proper thing to do
When it's he who is shot through.
Like a cleverly trained flea,
He can follow instantly
Orders, and some quick commands
Really make severe demands
On a mind that's none too rapid,
Leaden brains tend to the vapid.
But how beautifully dressed
Is this army! How impressed
Tommy is when at his heel
All his baggage wagons wheel
About the patterned carpet, and
Moving up his heavy guns
He sees them glow with diamond suns
Flashing all along each barrel.
And the gold and blue apparel
Of his gunners is a joy.
Tommy is a lucky boy.
Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!
The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand
shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and
shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.
Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must
pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the
wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading
the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has
flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie
overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks
glistening to the fire's shine.
The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its
sparkles.
The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and
steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the
hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song
jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still
upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers
all bright and new?
Tommy's leaden soldiers we,
Glittering with efficiency.
Not a button's out of place,
Tons and tons of golden lace
Wind about our officers.
Every manly bosom stirs
At the thought of killing--killing!
Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.
We are gaudy, savage, strong,
And our loins so ripe we long
First to kill, then procreate,
Doubling so the laws of Fate.
On their women we have sworn
To graft our sons. And overborne
They'll rear us younger soldiers, so
Shall our race endure and grow,
Waxing greater in the wombs
Borrowed of them, while damp tombs
Rot their men. O Glorious War!
Goad us with your points, Great Star!
The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and
back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured
snakes.
The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old
man nods.
Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new,
gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud
and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the
door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees
to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his
soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky
boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.
Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the
pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The
pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its
lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is
not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a
spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine,
new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood,
lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the
painted uniforms.
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose
is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers
under his purple umbrella, and nods--forward and back, staring into
the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a
rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to
the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and
grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from
the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly
forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream
of blood.
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the
chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a
night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back,
slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into
the air and nods--forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a
crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green
eyes stare into the air, and he nods--nods.
Tommy's soldiers march to battle,
Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.
Bayonets flash, and sabres glance--
How the horses snort and prance!
Cannon drawn up in a line
Glitter in the dizzy shine
Of the morning sunlight. Flags
Ripple colours in great jags.
Red blows out, then blue, then green,
Then all three--a weaving sheen
Of prismed patriotism. March
Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,
Boldly stepping to the rattle
Of the drums, they go to battle.
Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts
his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their
instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers,
and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from
the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The
song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet.
Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a
squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods--nods. The fire
makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold
song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.
Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.
Tommy's army's off to war--
Not a soldier knows what for.
But he knows about his rifle,
How to shoot it, and a trifle
Of the proper thing to do
When it's he who is shot through.
Like a cleverly trained flea,
He can follow instantly
Orders, and some quick commands
Really make severe demands
On a mind that's none too rapid,
Leaden brains tend to the vapid.
But how beautifully dressed
Is this army! How impressed
Tommy is when at his heel
All his baggage wagons wheel
About the patterned carpet, and
Moving up his heavy guns
He sees them glow with diamond suns
Flashing all along each barrel.
And the gold and blue apparel
Of his gunners is a joy.
Tommy is a lucky boy.
Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!
The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand
shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and
shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.
Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must
pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the
wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading
the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has
flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie
overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks
glistening to the fire's shine.
The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its
sparkles.
The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and
steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the
hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song
jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still
upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers
all bright and new?
Tommy's leaden soldiers we,
Glittering with efficiency.
Not a button's out of place,
Tons and tons of golden lace
Wind about our officers.
Every manly bosom stirs
At the thought of killing--killing!
Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.
We are gaudy, savage, strong,
And our loins so ripe we long
First to kill, then procreate,
Doubling so the laws of Fate.
On their women we have sworn
To graft our sons. And overborne
They'll rear us younger soldiers, so
Shall our race endure and grow,
Waxing greater in the wombs
Borrowed of them, while damp tombs
Rot their men. O Glorious War!
Goad us with your points, Great Star!
The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and
back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured
snakes.
The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old
man nods.
Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new,
gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud
and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the
door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees
to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his
soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky
boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.
Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the
pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The
pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its
lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is
not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a
spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine,
new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood,
lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the
painted uniforms.
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose
is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers
under his purple umbrella, and nods--forward and back, staring into
the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a
rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to
the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and
grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from
the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly
forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream
of blood.
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the
chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
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