The Poetry Corner

Ode To The Time-Gun Of Gurrumbad

By John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

[Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity. Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one herded in the Gun-park with his kind.] Strong scion of the sturdy past When simpler methods ruled the fray, At whose demoralising blast The stoutest foe recoiled aghast, How fall'n art thou to-day! Thy power the little children mock; Thy voice, that shook the serried line, But supplements the morning cock At - roughly speaking - one o'clock, And - broadly - half-past nine. (Saving when THOMAS' deep employ Th' attendant closing hour postpones, And he, the undefeated boy, To gain a temporary joy, Hath stuffed thee up with stones.) Thy kindred of a mushroom 'Mark,' Young guns, intolerably spruce, Have cast thee from the social 'park'; Which, to their humbled patriarch, Must be the very deuce. Their little toils with leisure crowned, They, in their turn, will seek the Vale Of Rest that thou hast never found; What wonder if thy daily Round Is very like a Wail? Yet many love thee. Though his clutch Be heavy, Time doth still afford That fine consolatory touch - It hardly seems to go for much, But cannot be ignored. For him that braves the midday fare Thou hast the immemorial task Of booming forth at one - or there- abouts - which saves the wear and tear Of yelling out to ask. So, when athwart the glooming flats Thy hoarse, nocturnal whispers stray - Much to the horror of the bats - We're one day nearer home, and that's A comfort, anyway! Then courage! Guns may come and go, But him alone we hold divine Whose task it is to let us know The hours of one o'clock - or so - And - roundly - half-past nine.