And I also here discuss that irreconcilable maiden, Lord Stanley, and our own behaviour.
We published in the next issue, No. II, of March 26th, a letter by "Miss Uitlander" (pronounced in that country "Aitlander"). It was as genuine a production of the young womanhood of the town as that of "Miss Bloemfontein" had been, and it would have been wholly to our liking had it been as exceptional and bold a bit of work as the other, for it was, naturally, very pro-English. Suffice it to say that it answered and contradicted the Boer sentiments with vigour.
[Illustration: Miss Bloemfontein.
(A Portrayal of a Type, by Lester Ralph.)]
This reminded us that we were to enjoy no more communications from the sprightly and talented Miss Bloemfontein. Most gallantly we had resolved to allow her the last word and there end the correspondence; but she had remained silent, leaving us with that "last word" which we, like simpletons, had never doubted that she would claim as hers by right of her womanhood. She was laughing at the predicament in which she had abandoned us, for she was wide awake at all points.
She had done me the honour to ask me to call upon her and--in this the laugh was on my side--then had repented of it. She repented because, in my reply to her communication, I had addressed her as "sweetheart" and had called her "dear." It had happened that when she wrote to the paper she let a few close friends into the secret, and these, when they read my lover's terms addressed to her, made haste to twit her upon the publicity of these verbal caresses, so that from rose-and-pearl she became peony red and hot of cheeks, and not nearly as desirous of seeing me as before my second letter saw the light.
However, I went to her home and found it very prettily appointed and comfortable, with an admiring family gathered around their girlish idol who had been to London, and who sang sweetly, played the piano deftly, and seemed to have read at least a little upon many subjects. She was, I should say, seventeen or eighteen, a pure blonde, still very girlish both in face and figure. I spent a pleasant hour in her company, and an English officer who called there at the same time endeavoured to persuade her to make up a party for afternoon tea at his regimental camp near the town. But her mother had announced that she could not bear to walk in the streets and see the British soldiers disfiguring the once hallowed scenery of the place, so it was perhaps, no wonder that Miss Bloemfontein declined to take afternoon tea with those enemies.
"I will not do anything to encourage or recognise their presence," she said.
"When your mother is not looking, I am going to whisper something to you," I remarked. "Now is my time. It is this: You are a little fraud; you are no Boer at all."
I intended to continue by explaining that a girl so clever and well read, and who lived amid such refined surroundings, could not possibly sympathise with the rude and ignorant people of the veldt. But she suspected that I meant something different.
"You mean because I am a Jewess," she said.
And then came the most comical closing of this very peculiar episode. She, who elected herself to be the champion of the Boers, was a Jewess, and I, who wooed her supposed sisterhood as an English adorer, am an American.
Ah, well, little Miss Bloemfontein, I was at least genuine in standing up for liberty, justice, and the highest principles of good government. They are the prizes that are guarded by my flag as well as by the one which floats over your town. And if you were as earnest in your sympathy for the Boers it was either because you had been deceived by them as to the causes of the war and the issues at stake, or else it was because your loyalty to the friends of a lifetime outweighed all else. May we not, then, part here with mutual esteem and respect?
In this number we published two contributions by Mr. Kipling, a second one of the "Fables for the Staff" and some "Kopje-book Maxims." All of us tried to assist at the framing of these maxims, but, though we suggested two or three (Mr. Landon being the most fertile at the time) Mr. Kipling shaped them all in his own way and with a readiness and ease which excelled any work of composition that I have ever seen done by any writer in all my experience. It was said of him three or four years ago that he was then writing too much, but it will always seem to us that his difficulty must be in restraining himself, and in publishing only the best that wells from his mind.
Another peculiarity that we noticed was that he would, by preference, carry forward two or three manuscripts at once and would write, now at one, and presently at another. The "Kopje-book maxims" reveal this breadth and variety of his mental processes to whoever is able to understand the fine shadings of the meanings of them all, and to those who can comprehend the fact that they were literally "dashed off" hot, like sparks under a smith's hammer. If these mere playthings of his pen, done as part of our merry and careless morning's work, were forced to stand as specimen products of the methods of this master writer, an injustice to him would follow. The point is that his methods are the same, and his mind works with similar freedom and celerity, at all times, and at whatever he does; at least so far as we were able to judge. But what he wrote for THE FRIEND was finished and published on the instant without the after-polishing and refinement of the flawless work which has made him world-famous.
In this same number we printed an interesting forecast of the future of the Free State by Mr. Fred J. Engelbach. An officer sent us a jocular account of the amazingly plucky work being done by the Ordnance Survey--and particularly of one feat by Major Jackson, R.E. We also published, from my pen, a short warning to the soldiers not to drink the water out of certain wells which had for years been known to contain the germs of enteric. I learned the fact during my visit to my "sweetheart," Miss Bloemfontein, and as I look back, now, upon that paragraph I almost shudder to think how little we dreamed that in a few weeks 7,000 men of our force would be down with that dread disease.
I have referred to the fact that Lord Stanley came every day at noon to overlook what we had done. I would ask for nothing more amusing than to have heard his gossip at the Residency upon the manner in which he found THE FRIEND to be conducted and produced. The truth was that we had finished everything for the day, except the interminable proof-reading, by the time he reached what the country editor grandiloquently refers to as "our sanctum sanctorum." In consequence he always caught us just as we were looking up from our desks and taking a deep breath of relief.
We who have been bred in this profession may not realise just what applause is to an actor, or what there may be to a mariner in the movement and breath of the ocean; but we fully realise that journalism is perhaps the only calling that men find as full of fun as it is of hard work. The company of bright minds, certain to be sanguine and optimistic, the excitement produced by unexpected news, the rush to prepare it most attractively and against time, the thousand unpublishable conceits and views and arguments that leap to the mind and are discussed in council, the freaks and blunders of the reporters and contributors--all these elements are in the cup of joy that a journalist drinks off every day.
Therefore when Lord Stanley came he was certain to find us merry and voluble and prankish. He may have imagined that we must perforce be grave--we to whom was given the high and almost religious right to speak for an empire and an army, and to conduct a British organ in so delicate a situation as was ours among the Boers--neither offending them nor giving them a chance to find a flaw in the practice of our principles. Grave enough was that part of our work which we meant to be so.
Serious in its strain upon us and important in its effort to rest and inform and recreate the soldiers, was most of what we did. But it is a habit of the journalist's mind and a result of his work that he shall be or become a philosopher, viewing the world as it is, no matter how differently he may present it to a duller and more conservative public.
Therefore Lord Stanley found us declaiming soldier poetry, writing nonsense verses, drawing caricatures of one another, telling stories, behaving like men without a care on their minds. We realised that he must be shocked at us--and we voted that he behaved very well under the circumstances. He usually came in with a quick step and an air of business. We delayed him with chaff which he seemed always at a loss to understand at first. He got at our bundles of proof-sheets and he applied himself to them most gravely. By and by he began to catch the contagion of our spirits, his eye wandered from the sheets, he wavered--he began to join in our talk. "Is there anything else--or anything you are in doubt about?" he would ask. He believed us when we answered him, for he knew that we understood what not to publish. In that mutual trust and confidence there grew up a relation between us and himself which was dearly prized by us, and which we hope he esteemed as highly.
Once he told us that there had been complaint of a mock-speech by the German Emperor which some one had written among a lot of pretended cablegrams avowedly fanciful. Once he declined to publish a mild attack of mine upon Mr. Winston S. Churchill for finding fault with our army chaplains. At another time, upon the ground of prudence, he threw out an article upon our treasonous colonists which we copied from an Afrikander exchange. Apart from these slight exercises of his power he passed all our work, though it was as big in bulk as the "Newcomes" and "Vanity Fair" rolled together--300,000 words--ten columns a day for nearly thirty days!
I have called the censor's office a "hole in a wall," but our sanctum was not half as neat or presentable. Whoever has carried the collecting mania into the study of country newspaper offices has noticed how one never differs from another. The greasy smell of printer's ink, the distempered walls stuck over here and there with placards and the imprint of inky fingers, the gaping fireplace, the bare, littered floor, the table all cut on top and chipped at the edges, the bottomless chairs with varying degrees of further dismemberment, the "clank--clank" of the press in the next room--these are the proofs positive of genuine country newspaper offices the world around--from Simla to Bismarck, Dakota, and back again. And the office of THE FRIEND was like all the rest.
(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
BLOEMFONTEIN, MONDAY, MARCH 26, 1900.
FABLES FOR THE STAFF.
[Footnote 5: Copyrighted in England and America. Used here with the author's permission.]
THE ELEPHANT AND THE LARK'S NEST.
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
A discriminating Boer, having laid a Nestfull of valuable and informing Eggs, fled across the Horizon under pressure of necessity, leaving his Nest in a secluded Spot, where it was discovered by a Disinterested Observer who reported the same to an Intelligence Officer. The Latter arriving at his Leisure with a great Pomposity said: "See me hatch!" and sitting down without reserve converted the entire Output into an unnecessary Omelette.
After the Mess was removed, the Disinterested Observer observed: "Had you approached this matter in another spirit you might have obtained Valuable Information."
"That," replied the Intelligence Officer, "shows your narrow-minded Prejudice. Besides I am morally certain that those Eggs come out of a Mare's Nest."
"It is now too late to inquire," said the Disinterested Observer, "and that is a pity."
"But am I not an Intelligence Officer?" said the Intelligence Officer.
"Of that there can be no two opinions," said the Disinterested Observer. Whereupon he was sent down.
MORAL. Do not teach the Intelligence to suck Eggs.
[Footnote 6: Copyrighted in England and America, and used here by permission.]
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
(With suggestive help from Perceval Landon.)
Two Horses will shift a Camp if they be dead enough.
Forage is Victory; Lyddite is Gas.
Look before you Lope.
When in doubt Flank; when in force Outflank.
Take care of the towns and the Tents will take care of themselves.
Spare the Solitary Horseman on the sky-line; he is bound to be a Britisher.
Abandoned Women and Abandoned Kopjes are best left alone.
Raise your hat to the Boer--and you'll get shot.
The Dead Gunner laughed at the Pom-pom.
"I Bet I killed 'Eighty,'" roared the 4·7.
"I have buried my three," snapped the Lee-Metford.
"It is well to keep your hair on; it is Better to take out your Tompion."
A shell on the Rand is worth ten on the veldt.
There are ninety and nine roads to Stellenbosch, but only two to Pretoria. Take the other.
(Kopjeright in all armies and standing camps.)
MISS UITLANDER REPLIES TO MISS BLOEMFONTEIN.
DEAR MADEMOISELLE,--I pray that you will excuse me for venturing to set you right upon one or two matters which I noticed in your reply to Mr. Ralph. Miss Uitlander did, indeed, with joy and pride, trip out to meet Mr. Englishman, though, as a matter of fact, she is as much Miss Bloemfontein as yourself. In reality, your correct name is Miss Free-Stater. But that is a trifle which may pass. The "loving hand" you boast of having extended to us has long since been covered by an iron glove, the weight of which we have daily been made to feel, and to that you must associate the joyful flaunting of our colours in your face. His coming meant freedom--the sweetest thing in the world--to us. You called our brothers and sisters cowards as they fled your oppression and bitter and openly expressed hatred. You threw white feathers into the carriages as they passed you by. You loudly bemoaned your fate as a woman and longed to don masculine garments to aid your beaux in exterminating the hated English. Could we remember a "loving hand" then?
You were quick to tell us that there would be no room for us to live beside you so soon as Mr. Englishman was driven back to the sea. "The hated English had never been wanted and would not be allowed to stay." And since you continue to make no secret of your hatred, the same remedy is now in your own hands. But it will be difficult to find a spot where Mr. Englishman is not en evidence.
To use Mr. Chamberlain's famous phrase, "There is a point where silence is weakness." That point has been reached. You seem to forget that you simply and generously, of course, gave away your town and State without the faintest shadow of a cause, to the nation who never had the remotest idea of coming near you or troubling you. You were eager to cross arms with the most powerful nation in the world, knowing as you must have done, deep in your sensible mind, that you would lose in the fray.
You hint at our ingratitude. How about your own? Had it not been for England your land would never have had a place in the existence of South African territory from the days of long ago.
Who has helped to uphold the dignity of your land? Mr. Englishman.
Who has helped to fill your coffers, public and private, with wealth? Mr. Englishman.
Who has been the chief spirit of commerce within your gates? Mr. Englishman.
And whom has it been your greatest pride to imitate in manner, in dress, and in speech but Mr. Englishman?
Nay, had he withdrawn his patronage as he might have done, your land would have collapsed like a bubble.
Mr. Englishman is too valuable a factor in the world's history to be easily discarded.
Yours is thus the debt of gratitude.
You speak hastily when you gibe at the "awful and untuneful melodies" with which Mr. Englishman deigned to soothe your heaving breast; and would lead one to suppose that you had ever been used to the most exquisite of public music, when in truth your town has scarcely ever been privileged to listen to such. Its own band in the days that are past can hardly compare favourably with even the recent melodies which compel you to close your ears with cotton wool, and even your musical ear must have been satisfied had you listened to the band and music at Government House a few nights ago. But doubtless the cotton wool had not been taken out.
I beg leave to contradict your statement that Miss Uitlander would "push" Mr. Englishman out of your land while welcoming your brothers back to their country. Miss Uitlander has discovered too certainly the real truth of your "loving hand" ever to trust in it again. And if you could so joyfully turn Mr. Englishman out of your borders, rest assured Miss Uitlander would most certainly accompany him. She does not, as so many have done, paint one colour one day and another the next. And if Mr. Englishman only waits a little longer he will win not only the country but yourself as well.
(With this final word from the fair Miss Uitlander, who has been discussed, yet has not before spoken for herself, the Editors decide to end this interesting series of letters.)
Market slightly weaker this morning. Sales: Bantjes Deeps, 11s. 6d.; Benons, 43s.; Mains, 43s.; Randfonteins, 60s.; Vogel Deeps, 27s. 3d.; Wit Deeps, 45s.
IS THE ART OF WAR REVOLUTIONISED?
BY H. A. GWYNNE.
"When a battery comes under rifle fire it becomes worse than useless," once said a well-known foreign military expert. And if this statement is to be accepted, as we accept Euclid's axioms, then indeed I should be inclined to say that the art of war has become revolutionised completely. But having seen G Battery at Magersfontein practically silence at a range well within 1,500 yards (I believe at one time it was only 1,200 yards) a strong force of the enemy's riflemen firing from good cover on an undulating plain, it becomes apparent that the military expert's dictum is incorrect. I cite the instance of G Battery because, perhaps it is the best known in the operations in the Western Frontier, but I could, if necessary, give twenty cases where both Horse and Field Batteries have worked magnificently and effectively under a galling fire.
At the same time I do not wish, for a moment, to lay it down as one of the rules of modern warfare that guns can be worked with impunity within 1,500 or even 2,000 yards of the enemy's rifle fire, for the danger of being put out is so apparent that it needs no demonstration. But artillery must have a good "position." Batteries cannot be hidden behind boulders as infantry soldiers can. Gunners must have an open field and more or less a commanding point from which to lay their guns. This necessity--a necessity to which no other arms are so completely subjected--has entailed, during the course of the present war, the risk of whole batteries being under rifle fire. Before the introduction of the long-range rifle, there were but few instances where guns, in order to take up proper positions, were forced to come under effective rifle fire. Now, however, we have to face this risky possibility. And in this respect, and this respect only, can the use of the modern rifle be said to have made any change in the rules of war laid down for the use of artillery.
The present campaign, if viewed from the point of view of the artilleryman, is an abnormal one. Field and horse batteries have had to face what has been practically siege artillery. In Natal we have been outranged by the use, by the Boers, of guns of great calibre and no mobility. We have faced the difficulty--and successfully too--by bringing on to the field naval guns of equal calibre to the enemy's. And, although we have been surprised at the rapid way in which the Boers have shifted their heavy guns, I still dare to think that we can move our 4.7 guns with greater rapidity. My intention, however, is not to discuss the use of the naval large calibre guns in field operations. Such a discussion would be outside the scope of this article. I prefer to look upon their use in this campaign as an abnormal episode--which, perhaps, may never again occur in civilised warfare, except in case of sieges.
Artillery in operation in the field is represented by Horse and Field (Howitzers and ordinary) guns. Now what lessons have our artillery learnt from the engagements of the present war? That is the most important question, and I propose to answer it to the best of my ability, feeling and hoping that my answer will induce abler answers from other pens.
It is impossible, in discussing the uses and abuses of any particular arm, to dissociate that arm from the whole to which it belongs. A complete modern force should consist of a proper proportion of horse, foot, and artillery. The three form the whole, the perfect machine. The parts must fit into each other as the cogs of one wheel fit into those of another. In the war of the future infantry will be used for two purposes--to contain the opposing infantry, and to hold positions seized by the mobile portion of the force, be it cavalry or mounted infantry. There will be very little preparation by the artillery for infantry attack, for the simple reason that I am convinced that frontal attacks are things of the past. Not the modernest of modern artillery, lyddite, melinite, or whatever high explosive is used, can by frontal concentration move or weaken infantry sufficiently to destroy their defensive power against an infantry attack.
There will, therefore, be in the next war between European or civilised military Powers grand artillery duels between the opposing artillery, while the mounted force of one is trying to outflank the other. The obvious necessity, therefore, is the highest development of the most mobile portion of the artillery--the R.H.A. Flank movements must necessarily be the tactics of the future. Battles will be, as they always have been, won by strategy, but for modern strategy and modern tactics the great necessity will be the greatest mobility of the greatest force. But the British Army, as it certainly possesses the finest material for infantry in the world, also possesses, I feel sure, as fine an artillery as any. I am not talking now of guns, but of the men who work them. In attempting to outflank an enemy with the mobile portion of his force, the general of the next war will find his flanking movement met by the mobile portion of his opponent's army. The result is to be either a return to the old cavalry charges against cavalry or an artillery duel. The latter, I believe, will be the case. The cavalry of the future will be a mixture of the mounted infantry men and the cavalry men, and as such will be able to stop with rifle fire any attempts at the old-fashioned charge, and the verdict will be pronounced by the gunners. Then, indeed, will the better-trained, better-equipped, better-handled horse artillery be able either to drive back the attack and so save the whole situation, or to force in the defence and win the whole battle. Wherefore it would appear to me that we should improve and improve our horse artillery until we have the best guns, the best gunners, and the best organisation in the world. I know we have the best material.
Exactly the same thing applies to the Field Artillery, which I, for one, would like to see done away with. That is to say, that the distinctions between Horse and Field Artillery should be removed. I would give a heavier gun and a better gun to the Horse Battery, and make the Field Battery men mobile. This would give us an uniform artillery, in which the mobility of the Field guns would be increased and the range of Horse guns improved. After all, the difference in weight of a Field and a Horse gun is not so great. We must be prepared to provide some means of moving it more rapidly. The advantages of this change appear to be self-evident. The quick and rapid movement of artillery is bound to be the great factor in future battles. We are making our infantry men mobile, every day; why not do the same with the artillery? If we can bring up a gun of equal calibre to that of the enemy, the issue will be to the better-manned, better-handled gun. To be able to rapidly throw a great force on any given point of the enemy's line is to ensure victory in infantry tactics. The same thing applies, surely, to the artillery. Why have a slow and a rapid moving artillery? Why not make the whole of it capable of rapidity?
This campaign has been the first between two civilised nations where high explosives have been used in the bursting charges. I have made careful inquiries from Boer prisoners as to its effect, and the only conclusion that I have come to is that veracity is not a virtue of the burgher. Some have spoken of the bursting of a lyddite shell as the most terrible experience they have ever had, and have compared its action to that of an earthquake. But I must confess that on pursuing my inquiries further I have generally found that these vivid portrayers of its awful effects have been attached to some hospital in the rear. The prisoners taken at Paardeberg were singularly divided as to its destructive power. Albrecht is said to have declared that it was a pure waste to drop a lyddite shell into soft ground, and to have admitted that on rocky ground it had a most demoralising effect. On the whole, however, I am inclined to say that the effect of lyddite is certainly not as great as we expected, and I cannot help thinking that time-shrapnel well burst and well aimed is more dreaded by the Boers than lyddite shells.
And now I am going to tread on delicate ground. We have all our little idiosyncrasies, and gunners are not without theirs. They will have nothing to say to the Vickers-Maxim. "It is a toy and not a gun," I have heard many a gunner declare. But I contend that we have never used it properly. Lord Dundonald's galloping Maxim was intended to accompany cavalry. Why not have a galloping "pom-pom"? It can be brought into action with great speed, it has a great range, and everybody will agree that it is a most accurate gun. It would have been most useful against the Boers when they fled from Poplar Grove, and its effect upon a battery coming into action is not to be despised, as the gallant T Battery will testify from their experiences at Driefontein. Again, its use on kopjes held by cavalry pending the arrival of infantry would surely be beneficial. It has a demoralising effect; even more so than a percussion shrapnel, and our enemy in the present campaign is particularly susceptible to demoralisation when operating in open ground.
One of the difficulties with which the artillery in the present campaign has had to contend has been to find out the extent of our infantry advance for which they are preparing with a bombardment. As the Mauser and Lee-Metford render early cover necessary for infantry, it has come about that our infantry, while seeking to render itself invisible to the enemy, has succeeded in making itself almost entirely invisible to our supporting artillery. On many occasions our artillery has ceased fire long before it was necessary, because it became impossible to tell how far our advance extended, for no artillery officer--and rightly so--will run the risk of inflicting damage on his own infantry. The remedy for this state of things has yet to be discovered.
In making public opinions such as these--the opinions of a mere layman--I should feel inclined to make some kind of apology, knowing as I do that they are liable to be read by men whose whole life is devoted to the practice as well as the theory of the use of artillery in the field, were it not for the fact that I am optimistic enough to believe that my remarks will provoke criticism. I am aware that the British officer is not much given to rushing into print, but I am also convinced that he will not sit tamely by when heresies are propagated. If, therefore, the views I have enounced are unsound and unpractical, it is his bounden duty to contradict them. And in doing so he will probably contribute his own views, which will undoubtedly receive far greater attention, from the fact that they are set forth by men actually serving in the field, than if they are kept back till the end of the war, when a successful issue will probably bring with it apathy on the part of those in whose hands rest the destinies of the British Army.
THE NEW MACHINE GUN.
Rarely, if ever, in the annals of the Ordnance Survey has the British Government sent out a fully equipped Survey Section, for the purpose of reconnaissance duty, previous to the present war. During the march from Modder River to Bloemfontein, they have had plenty of scope for displaying the special training received, necessary for successful sketching, surveying and reconnoitring an enemy's position.
At Paardeberg a very successful and complete sketch to scale was made of the Boers' laager by Major Jackson, R.E., who, whilst exposed to a hot fire every day and within 800 yards of the enemy's trenches, and where men were falling every minute, nevertheless completed the whole sketch within four days.
This part of the warfare, where you walk well within the enemy's firing line with only a revolver, the Boers continually sniping and potting, no cover, and no chance of a "kick or hit back," makes you feel as though you would like to charge into their midst, get hand to hand, and at least have one shot or hit, in return for the compliments and salutes they pay you. But no, you must stand still in the open, coolly go on with the sketching, and not mind the bullets, even if they take a leg off the plane table or knock the pencil out of your hand. The only thing that is to be feared seriously is the rain, and that may make the ink run, spoil the sketch, and cause a lot of trouble and annoyance.
The Boers may "knock spots off you," but the sketch is the principal thing; another R.E. Surveyor may be obtained, but not another plan, until probably too late for practical use.
Presumably the burghers mistake the tripod and plane table (used for the purpose) for a new kind of machine gun, or some other deadly weapon, from the way in which they bang away when it is erected, and it does, no doubt, surprise them when they find it does not spit fire and lead, and probably they put it down as a "Rooinek" risking a snapshot at close quarter; but they are very restless "sitters" and resent the intrusion of Mausers, although never asked to pay for a proof in advance--proof positive of a neglected education.
ADVICE TO AN OFFICER ON GOING TO THE WARS.
'Twas well remarked by Mack-Praed,
In wise and witty lay,
"We're known to be extremely brave;
So take the sword away."
Aye, let the sword and feather go,
Bright belt and glitt'ring braid;
Assume a sad and grub-like hue,
For battle or for raid.
No more in steel the warrior gleams,
In scarlet cuts a dash;
The hero now may scarce permit
His eagle eye to flash.
For glint and gleam and flash and flare
Will all afford a mark;
The better plan, in modern days,
Is just "to keep it dark."
We ask no more that you shall shine;
Be dull if you would win.
I mean, of course, in outward show--
For "slim's" the word now most in vogue
(That's "sly," if read aright);
From head to heel be dull and dim,
Your brain alone be bright.
It is no joy that you should smash
Your head against a wall;
"We're known to be extremely brave,"
So pray be wise withal.
Be lion-mettled--as you were;
But not too proud to scout;
And if the foe is right in front,
Why, go a mile about.
Go forth in strength of intellect,
Shining with all your wit;
So shall you baulk the wily foe--
Unhit, shall make a hit.