THE SONG OF TIADATHACHAPTER ITHE JOINING OF TIADATHA
Should you question, should you ask meWhence this song of Tiadatha?Who on earth was Tiadatha?I should answer, I should tell you,He was what we call a filbert,Youth of two and twenty summers.You could see him any morningIn July of 1914,Strolling slowly down St. James’sFrom his comfy flat in Duke Street.Little recked he of in those days,Save of socks and ties and hair-wash,Girls and motor-cars and suppers;Little suppers at the Carlton,Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s,Little week-ends down at Skindle’s;Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him,And the Piccadilly grill-room,And he used to dance at Ciro’sWith the fairies from the chorus.There were many Tired ArthursIn July of 1914.Then came war, and TiadathaRead his papers every morning,Read the posters on the hoardings,Read “Your King and Country want you.”“I must go,” said Tiadatha,Toying with his devilled kidneys,“Do my bit and join the Army.”So he hunted up a great-aunt,Who knew someone in the Service,Found himself in time gazettedTo a temporary commissionIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.Straightway Tiadatha hied himTo the shop of Bope and Pradley,Having seen their thrilling adverts.In the Tube and in theTatler.Pradley sold him all he needed,Bope a lot of things he didn’t,Pressed upon him socks and puttees,Haversacks and water-bottles.Made him tunics for the winter,Made him tunics for the summer,And some very baggy breeches.There he chose his cap of khaki,Very light and very floppy(Rather like a tam-o’-shanter),And a supple chestnut Sam Browne,Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes,Rather new but very supple.Many pounds spent TiadathaOn valises, baths and camp beds,Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags.Macs and British warms and great-coats,And a gent’s complete revolver.Then he went to Piccadilly,Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly,Where he ordered ties and shirtings,Cream and coffee ties and shirtings,Ordered socks and underclothing,Putting down the lot to Father.Compass, torch and boots and glassesAll of these sought Tiadatha;All day boys with loads were streamingTo and from the flat in Duke Street,Like a chain of ants hard at itStoring rations for the winter.“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,“One thing more ere I am perfect.I must have a sword to carryIn a jolly leather scabbard.”So he called the son of Wilkin,Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall,Bade him make a sword and scabbard.And the mighty son of WilkinMade a sword for Tiadatha,From the truest steel he made it,Slim and slender as a maiden,Sharper than a safety razor,Sighed a little as he made it,Knowing well that TiadathaProbably would never use it.Then at last my TiadathaSallied forth to join the Dudshires,Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier,Floppy cap and baggy breeches,Round his waist the supple Sam Browne,At his side the sword and scabbard,Took salutes from private soldiersAnd saluted Sergeant-Majors(Who were very much embarrassed),And reported at HeadquartersOf the 14th Royal Dudshires.Shady waters of a river,Feels when by some turn of fortuneHe gets plopped into a cisternAt a comic dime museum,Finds himself among strange fishes,Finds his happy freedom vanished,Even so felt TiadathaOn the day he joined the Dudshires.But he pulled himself together,Found the Adjutant, saluted,Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.”Such was Tiadatha’s joining.
Should you question, should you ask meWhence this song of Tiadatha?Who on earth was Tiadatha?I should answer, I should tell you,He was what we call a filbert,Youth of two and twenty summers.You could see him any morningIn July of 1914,Strolling slowly down St. James’sFrom his comfy flat in Duke Street.Little recked he of in those days,Save of socks and ties and hair-wash,Girls and motor-cars and suppers;Little suppers at the Carlton,Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s,Little week-ends down at Skindle’s;Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him,And the Piccadilly grill-room,And he used to dance at Ciro’sWith the fairies from the chorus.There were many Tired ArthursIn July of 1914.Then came war, and TiadathaRead his papers every morning,Read the posters on the hoardings,Read “Your King and Country want you.”“I must go,” said Tiadatha,Toying with his devilled kidneys,“Do my bit and join the Army.”So he hunted up a great-aunt,Who knew someone in the Service,Found himself in time gazettedTo a temporary commissionIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.Straightway Tiadatha hied himTo the shop of Bope and Pradley,Having seen their thrilling adverts.In the Tube and in theTatler.Pradley sold him all he needed,Bope a lot of things he didn’t,Pressed upon him socks and puttees,Haversacks and water-bottles.Made him tunics for the winter,Made him tunics for the summer,And some very baggy breeches.There he chose his cap of khaki,Very light and very floppy(Rather like a tam-o’-shanter),And a supple chestnut Sam Browne,Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes,Rather new but very supple.Many pounds spent TiadathaOn valises, baths and camp beds,Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags.Macs and British warms and great-coats,And a gent’s complete revolver.Then he went to Piccadilly,Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly,Where he ordered ties and shirtings,Cream and coffee ties and shirtings,Ordered socks and underclothing,Putting down the lot to Father.Compass, torch and boots and glassesAll of these sought Tiadatha;All day boys with loads were streamingTo and from the flat in Duke Street,Like a chain of ants hard at itStoring rations for the winter.“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,“One thing more ere I am perfect.I must have a sword to carryIn a jolly leather scabbard.”So he called the son of Wilkin,Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall,Bade him make a sword and scabbard.And the mighty son of WilkinMade a sword for Tiadatha,From the truest steel he made it,Slim and slender as a maiden,Sharper than a safety razor,Sighed a little as he made it,Knowing well that TiadathaProbably would never use it.Then at last my TiadathaSallied forth to join the Dudshires,Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier,Floppy cap and baggy breeches,Round his waist the supple Sam Browne,At his side the sword and scabbard,Took salutes from private soldiersAnd saluted Sergeant-Majors(Who were very much embarrassed),And reported at HeadquartersOf the 14th Royal Dudshires.Shady waters of a river,Feels when by some turn of fortuneHe gets plopped into a cisternAt a comic dime museum,Finds himself among strange fishes,Finds his happy freedom vanished,Even so felt TiadathaOn the day he joined the Dudshires.But he pulled himself together,Found the Adjutant, saluted,Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.”Such was Tiadatha’s joining.
Should you question, should you ask meWhence this song of Tiadatha?Who on earth was Tiadatha?I should answer, I should tell you,He was what we call a filbert,Youth of two and twenty summers.You could see him any morningIn July of 1914,Strolling slowly down St. James’sFrom his comfy flat in Duke Street.Little recked he of in those days,Save of socks and ties and hair-wash,Girls and motor-cars and suppers;Little suppers at the Carlton,Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s,Little week-ends down at Skindle’s;Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him,And the Piccadilly grill-room,And he used to dance at Ciro’sWith the fairies from the chorus.There were many Tired ArthursIn July of 1914.
Should you question, should you ask me
Whence this song of Tiadatha?
Who on earth was Tiadatha?
I should answer, I should tell you,
He was what we call a filbert,
Youth of two and twenty summers.
You could see him any morning
In July of 1914,
Strolling slowly down St. James’s
From his comfy flat in Duke Street.
Little recked he of in those days,
Save of socks and ties and hair-wash,
Girls and motor-cars and suppers;
Little suppers at the Carlton,
Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s,
Little week-ends down at Skindle’s;
Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him,
And the Piccadilly grill-room,
And he used to dance at Ciro’s
With the fairies from the chorus.
There were many Tired Arthurs
In July of 1914.
Then came war, and TiadathaRead his papers every morning,Read the posters on the hoardings,Read “Your King and Country want you.”“I must go,” said Tiadatha,Toying with his devilled kidneys,“Do my bit and join the Army.”So he hunted up a great-aunt,Who knew someone in the Service,Found himself in time gazettedTo a temporary commissionIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.
Then came war, and Tiadatha
Read his papers every morning,
Read the posters on the hoardings,
Read “Your King and Country want you.”
“I must go,” said Tiadatha,
Toying with his devilled kidneys,
“Do my bit and join the Army.”
So he hunted up a great-aunt,
Who knew someone in the Service,
Found himself in time gazetted
To a temporary commission
In the 14th Royal Dudshires.
Straightway Tiadatha hied himTo the shop of Bope and Pradley,Having seen their thrilling adverts.In the Tube and in theTatler.Pradley sold him all he needed,Bope a lot of things he didn’t,Pressed upon him socks and puttees,Haversacks and water-bottles.Made him tunics for the winter,Made him tunics for the summer,And some very baggy breeches.There he chose his cap of khaki,Very light and very floppy(Rather like a tam-o’-shanter),And a supple chestnut Sam Browne,Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes,Rather new but very supple.
Straightway Tiadatha hied him
To the shop of Bope and Pradley,
Having seen their thrilling adverts.
In the Tube and in theTatler.
Pradley sold him all he needed,
Bope a lot of things he didn’t,
Pressed upon him socks and puttees,
Haversacks and water-bottles.
Made him tunics for the winter,
Made him tunics for the summer,
And some very baggy breeches.
There he chose his cap of khaki,
Very light and very floppy
(Rather like a tam-o’-shanter),
And a supple chestnut Sam Browne,
Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes,
Rather new but very supple.
Many pounds spent TiadathaOn valises, baths and camp beds,Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags.Macs and British warms and great-coats,And a gent’s complete revolver.Then he went to Piccadilly,Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly,Where he ordered ties and shirtings,Cream and coffee ties and shirtings,Ordered socks and underclothing,Putting down the lot to Father.Compass, torch and boots and glassesAll of these sought Tiadatha;All day boys with loads were streamingTo and from the flat in Duke Street,Like a chain of ants hard at itStoring rations for the winter.
Many pounds spent Tiadatha
On valises, baths and camp beds,
Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags.
Macs and British warms and great-coats,
And a gent’s complete revolver.
Then he went to Piccadilly,
Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly,
Where he ordered ties and shirtings,
Cream and coffee ties and shirtings,
Ordered socks and underclothing,
Putting down the lot to Father.
Compass, torch and boots and glasses
All of these sought Tiadatha;
All day boys with loads were streaming
To and from the flat in Duke Street,
Like a chain of ants hard at it
Storing rations for the winter.
“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,“One thing more ere I am perfect.I must have a sword to carryIn a jolly leather scabbard.”So he called the son of Wilkin,Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall,Bade him make a sword and scabbard.And the mighty son of WilkinMade a sword for Tiadatha,From the truest steel he made it,Slim and slender as a maiden,Sharper than a safety razor,Sighed a little as he made it,Knowing well that TiadathaProbably would never use it.
“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,
“One thing more ere I am perfect.
I must have a sword to carry
In a jolly leather scabbard.”
So he called the son of Wilkin,
Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall,
Bade him make a sword and scabbard.
And the mighty son of Wilkin
Made a sword for Tiadatha,
From the truest steel he made it,
Slim and slender as a maiden,
Sharper than a safety razor,
Sighed a little as he made it,
Knowing well that Tiadatha
Probably would never use it.
Then at last my TiadathaSallied forth to join the Dudshires,Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier,Floppy cap and baggy breeches,Round his waist the supple Sam Browne,At his side the sword and scabbard,Took salutes from private soldiersAnd saluted Sergeant-Majors(Who were very much embarrassed),And reported at HeadquartersOf the 14th Royal Dudshires.Shady waters of a river,Feels when by some turn of fortuneHe gets plopped into a cisternAt a comic dime museum,Finds himself among strange fishes,Finds his happy freedom vanished,Even so felt TiadathaOn the day he joined the Dudshires.But he pulled himself together,Found the Adjutant, saluted,Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.”Such was Tiadatha’s joining.
Then at last my Tiadatha
Sallied forth to join the Dudshires,
Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier,
Floppy cap and baggy breeches,
Round his waist the supple Sam Browne,
At his side the sword and scabbard,
Took salutes from private soldiers
And saluted Sergeant-Majors
(Who were very much embarrassed),
And reported at Headquarters
Of the 14th Royal Dudshires.
Shady waters of a river,
Feels when by some turn of fortune
He gets plopped into a cistern
At a comic dime museum,
Finds himself among strange fishes,
Finds his happy freedom vanished,
Even so felt Tiadatha
On the day he joined the Dudshires.
But he pulled himself together,
Found the Adjutant, saluted,
Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.”
Such was Tiadatha’s joining.