Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3817/Fortune's Favourite
Dear maiden of the sunny head
And cheeks of coral hue,
The lips of rarest ruby red,
The eyes of Oxford blue,
And other charms I've left unsaid...
Ah, how I envy you!
Heedless of half a world at war
You neither strive nor cry:
Though danger knocks at England's door
There's laughter in your sky:
You ask not what she's fighting for,
Nor reck the reason why.
You little guess, you never will,
The force that nerves this fist
To toil away for you until
My mind is like a mist;
The lack of money for the mill,
The growing dearth of grist.
Ah, since amid a world grown wild,
And horrors still half told,
Peace has her palace round you piled,
By all the gods I hold
You are a very lucky child,
My little Nine-months-old.