I should be better far without;
Not that my health may be more rude,
More svelte my rounded style of beauty,
I sacrifice this staple food--
But from a sense of duty!

I "can no other" when I think
Of how the Hun, docile and meek,
Suffers his ravenous maw to shrink,
And only strikes, say, once a week;
If he for all these months has stood
The sorry fare they feed the brute on,
I hope that I can be as good
A patriot as your Teuton.

Henceforth I spurn the dear delight
That went so well with jam or cheese;
No turn of mine shall wear the white
Flour of a shameless life of ease;
Others may pass one loaf in three,
Some rather more than that, and some less,
But I--the only course for me--
Go absolutely crumbless.

So, when I quit this mortal strife,
Men on my grave these lines shall score:--
"Much as he loved the Staff of Life
He loved his country even more;
He needed no compelling ban;
England, in fact, had but to ask it,