On March 11th, 1916, the Beds & Herts Saturday Telegraph published a reader's poem headlined "A Tale of a Conscience. How it was lost - and found."

 

My pre-war days were marked by calm,

Leavened, perhaps, with nonsense;

Enjoyed full well Old England's charm,

And troubled nought by "conscience".

 

Those were the days of lambent ease,

Fond Ma and Pa indulgent;

While boys and girls combined to please,

My star shone with effulgence.

 

My "views" were of uncertain cult,

Like Bray's immortal Vicar;

At time my heart within would melt,

At times protest with vigour.

 

In things celestial and mundane

I'm dubbed by some a roamer;

I sampled this, and tested that,

And well nigh came a "bloomer".

 

I cultivated "twists" and "cranks,"

Who claimed their view unerring;

They left me stranded on the bank,

Nor fish, nor fowl, now herring.

 

For in due time this war broke out,

Precursor of my troubles!

Then views and ideals tossed about

As when I play soap-bubbles.

 

Eh, what? A khaki uniform to don

I'll swear to consent to never!

My tender heart would shield a worm;

But loyalty's bond I'd sever.

 

I dare not strike a barbarous Hun

Were he to immolate me;

Both sword and pistol would I shun,

And bear my sufferings meekly.

 

Rapine and rampage, fire and sword,

May fill our land with terror;

No sign from me their course should stay.

Oh! T'would be grievous error.

 

What is my own dear home were laid

In fell and foul disaster?

I'd fold my arms and kiss the rod.

England? Why, let the Germans blast her.

 

In terms like these I straight did tell

My faith and views most precious,

To that exacting Tribunal,

Who in our weak parts probe us.

 

My "conscience" (selfish thing, 'tis true),

They held in reprobation;

Urged me in honour's cause to go

And stand for King and nation.

 

They turned me well nigh inside out;

Oh, their ridicule and banter!

Poor fool - ashamed! Why did I start

On this inglorious venture?

 

My brother, sister, "towny," friend,

All to the call have risen;

Oh, how can I, so mean, pretend

A mandate straight from heaven?

 

Oh, Conscience! Conscience! Does it mean

That we are cowards all

Who in their country's dire, sore need,

Reject the righteous call.

 

If this be so, avaunt, pretence!

Be banished, subterfuge!

When next the clamant call doth some,

Here's a man will not refuse.

J.S. - Luton