A. P. Herbert Poems

You were a vintage year, proud '44—
The grapes of Teheran—Paris and Rome—
The conquered ocean and the captured shore—
Robbers in rout, and half the harvest home.
...

They used to laugh
At the General Staff:
What **** will bray
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We sweat and strive, we scrape and save,
To gather bullets for the brave.
We earn a pound; but in the end
Ten shillings is the sum we spend.
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Plod on, poor frozen Fritzes,
Plod on, poor frozen frau:
You who invented blitzes
Are in the business now.
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So David to Goliath's lair
Goes peaceably at last!
The hound is welcomed by the hare,
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Send us more women, voter, to watch below Big Ben.
More Rathbones, Tates, and Summerskills, more Megans should be heard.
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O Lord, Who saw us deep in shame
From too much love of peace,
Bless now our arms and honoured name,
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Argentia—Quebec—and Teheran:
Valiant the voyage, and supreme the plan.
Dumbarton Oaks, no doubt, and Bretton Woods,
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'I beg your pardon for the slight delay:
In half-a-minute Mr. Smith will play.
Meanwhile, here is a record I commend—
Though it may have to stop before the end.'
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O perfect citizen (if you exist),
Who never make the errors that you might,
Neither complacent nor a pessimist,
Not apathetic either—but just right;
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