Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3809/A Patriot Under Fire
(Observed during the recent heat wave.)
Philip, I note with unaffected awe
How, with the glass at 90 in the cool,
You still obey inflexibly the law
That governs manners of the British school;
How, in a climate where the sweltering air
Seems to be wafted from a kitchen copper,
You still refuse to lay aside your wear
Of sable (proper).
The Civil Service which you so adorn
Would lose its prestige, visibly grown slack,
And all its lofty pledges be forsworn
Were you to deviate from your boots of black;
Were you to shed that coat of sombre dye,
That ebon brain-box (imitation beaver)
Whose torrid aspect strikes the passer-by
With tertian fever.
As something far beyond me I respect
The virtue, equal to the stiffest crux,
Which thus forbids your costume to deflect
Into the primrose path of straw and ducks;
I praise that fine regard for red-hot tape
Which calmly and without an eyelid's flutter
Suffers the maddening noon to melt your nape
As it were butter.
"His clothes are not the man," I freely own,
Yet often they express the stuff they hide,
As yours, I like to fancy, take their tone
From stern, ascetic qualities inside;
Just as the soldier's heavy marching-gear
Conceals a heart of high determination,
Too big, in any temperature, to fear
Nervous prostration.
I cite the warrior's case who goes through fire;
For you, no less a patriot, face your risk
When in your country's service you perspire
In blacks that snort at Phoebus' flaming disc;
So, till a medal (justly made of jet)
Records your grit and pluck for all to know 'em,
I on your chest with safety-pins will set
This inky poem.