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Robert W Service - The Fool
Work rating: Medium

"But it isn`t playing the game," he said,
    And he slammed his books away;
"The Latin and Greek I`ve got in my head
    Will do for a duller day."
"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle`s call
    Isn`t for lads from school."
D`ye think he`d listen? Oh, not at all:
    So I called him a fool, a fool.

Now there`s his dog by his empty bed,
    And the flute he used to play,
And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he`s dead,
    Somewhere in France, they say:
Dick with his rapture of song and sun,
    Dick of the yellow hair,
Dicky whose life had but begun,
    Carrion-cold out there.

Look at his prizes all in a row:
    Surely a hint of fame.
Now he`s finished with, — nothing to show:
    Doesn`t it seem a shame?
Look from the window! All you see
    Was to be his one day:
Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,
    And he goes and chucks it away.

Chucks it away to die in the dark:
    Somebody saw him fall,
Part of him mud, part of him blood,
    The rest of him — not at all.
And yet I`ll bet he was never afraid,
    And he went as the best of `em go,
For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,
    And his face was turned to the foe.

And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!
    And the cup of my grief`s abrim.
Will Glory o` England ever die
    So long as we`ve lads like him?
So long as we`ve fond and fearless fools,
    Who, spurning fortune and fame,
Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,
    Just bent on playing the game.

A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.
    His was the proudest part.
He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
    And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there`s never a grave to tell,
    Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he "batted well"
    In the last great Game of all.
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