A deadly silence greeted the prize poem of Travers minor, and I believe the Doctor felt rather sick with us for not applauding it. And Tracey, who was very mad at what the Doctor had said about him, whispered rather loud that Travers minor’s effort was almost worthy of _Hymns Ancient and Modern_.
There were only three poems left now, and the excitement increased a good deal, because nobody had won Peacock’s guinea yet, so it was clear that either Mitchell, or Thwaites, or Sutherland minor was the lucky bargee. Both Mitchell and Thwaites seemed beyond the wildest hope, and we felt pretty sure that Sutherland must have done the trick. But he hadn’t. The Doctor picked up his poem and put on a doubtful expression.
"I confess that Sutherland gives me pause," he said. "For skill in rhyming, Sutherland deserves all praise--he is ingenious and correct--but such is the faultiness of his ear that he flouts the fundamentals of prosody in each of his four stanzas. In fact, Sutherland’s poetry, regarded as such, is excruciating. He has ideas, though not of a particularly exalted character; and even if he had given us something better worthy to be called a poem, his lamentable failure in metre would have debarred him from victory. His last verse contains an objectionable suspicion we might associate rather with a commercial traveller or small tradesman, than with one of us."
Well, Sutherland’s wasn’t bad really, though rather rocky from a poetical point of view, as the Doctor truly said.
Loud roars the dreadful cannon above the bloody field, While, like the lightning, through the smoke’s dim shroud The tongues of flame are flashing, where, concealed, The vainglorious enemy’s battery doth vaunt and laugh aloud, Thinking that men of British race are going to yield.
Poor German cannon-fodder! Little do they know That those who wear khaki have never yet Wherever, at the call of Bellona, they may go, Surrendered to a lesser foe than Death. They’ve met Far finer fighters than the Boche, and made their life’s-blood flow.
Whether upon the open battle-front, or in a trench, Or in a fort, or keeping communications, With such a leader as great General French The British khaki boys defeat all nations, And in the foeman’s gore their glittering bayonets they quench.