The Ballad of Ensign Joy

E.W. Hornung

The Ballad of Ensign Joy

THE BALLAD of ENSIGN JOY

IT is the story ofEnsign JoyAnd the obsoleterank withalThat I love for each gentle EnglishboyWho jumped to his country'scall.By their fire and fun, and thedeeds they've done,I would gazette them Second tononeWho faces a gun in Gaul!)IT is also the story of ErmyntrudeA less appropriate nameFor the dearest prig and theprettiest prude!But under it, all the same,The usual consanguineous squadHad made her an honest childof God —And left her to play the game.IT was just when the grind ofthe Special Reserves,Employed upon Coast Defence,Was getting on every Ensign'snerves —Sick-keen to be draftedhence —That they met and played tennisand danced and sang,The lad with the laugh and theschoolboy slang,The girl with the eyes intense.YET it wasn't for him that shelanguished and sighed,But for all of our dear deemedyouth;And it wasn't for her, but hersex, that he cried,If he could but have probedthe truth !Did she? She would none of hishot young heart;As khaki escort he's tall andsmart,As lover a shade uncouth.HE went with his draft. Shereturned to her craft.He wrote in his merry vein:She read him aloud, and theStudio laughed!Ermyntrude bore the strain.He was full of gay bloodshed andOld Man Fritz:His flippancy sent her friendsinto fits.Ermyntrude frowned withpain.HIS tales of the Sergeant whoswore so hardLeft Ermyntrude cold andprim;The tactless truth of the picturejarred,And some of his jokes weregrim.Yet, let him but skate upontender ice,And he had to write to her twiceor thriceBefore she would answer him.YET once she sent him afairy's box,And her pocket felt the bruntOf tinned contraptions andbooks and socks —Which he hailed as "a sportingstunt!"She slaved at his muffler nonethe less,And still took pleasure in mur-muring, "Yes!For a friend of mine at theFront.")ONE fine morning his nameappears —Looking so pretty in print!"Wounded!" she warbles intragedy tears —And pictures the reddeninglint,The drawn damp face and thedraggled hair.But she found him blooming inGrosvenor Square,With a punctured shin in asplint.IT wasn't a haunt of Ermyn-trude's,That grandiose urban pile;Like starlight in arctic altitudesWas the stately Sister's smile.It was just the reverse withEnsign Joy —In his golden greeting no leastalloy —In his shining eyes no guile!HE showed her the bullet thatdid the trick —He showed her the trick,x-ray'd;He showed her a table timed toa tick,And a map that an airmanmade.He spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss —But he never mentioned a certaincrossFor his part in the escapade!SHE saw it herself in a list nextday,And it brought her back to hisbed,With a number of beautifulthings to say,Which were mostly over hishead.Turned pink as his own pyjamas'stripe,To her mind he ceased to em-body a type —Sank into her heart instead.I WONDER that all of youdidn't retire!""My blighters were not thatkind.""But it says you 'advanced un-der murderous fire,Machine-gun and shell com-bined – '""Oh, that's the regular WarOffice wheeze!""'Advanced' – with that leg! —'on his hands and knees'!""I couldn't leave it behind."HE was soon trick-driving aninvalid chair,and dancing about on a crutch;The haute noblesse of GrosvenorSquareFelt bound to oblige as such;They sent him for many a motor-whirl —

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