During all the months of training,
Months of waiting down in Dudshire,
Often sighed my Tiadatha
For his haunts about St. James’s,
Missed his little flat in Duke Street,
Missed his morning devilled kidneys.
But at times he snatched a week-end
From the joys of bombs and bayonets,
Put his name down in the leave book
And went crashing up to London.
In the East they tell a legend
Of the crocodiles that dwell there,
Basking in the tropic sunshine
On the mudflats of the rivers.
Every night (so natives tell you)
All the crocodiles will vanish
To the palace of their rajah
Underneath the winding rivers;
There each crocodile his skin doffs,
Hangs it in the palace courtyard
And becomes a human being.
Even so my Tiadatha
Doffed his tunic for those week-ends,
Hung his soldier’s mental skin up,
Put off thoughts of bomb and bayonet,
Turning to the haunts that knew him
In July of 1914.
Thus fared he through months of waiting
Till at last there came the tidings:
“We go out to France in three weeks,
Final leave begins on Friday.”
So it chanced that Tiadatha
Spent his final leave in London,
And one night looked in at Murray’s
With a brother from the Dudshires.
“I have got to meet my sister,”
Said his brother from the Dudshires,
“Meet my little sister Phyllis,
Come and dance a fox-trot with her.”
Rather bored felt Tiadatha,
Thinking how he’d asked to supper
Cloe Goldilocks of Daly’s,
Bored until he saw this Phyllis,
Heard his friend say, “Here’s my sister;
Phyllis, this is Tiadatha.”
Fair was she and slim and slender,
Like an April day her eyes were,
Green and grey as days in April.
And her mouth curved like a rose leaf,
And her smile was like the sunshine
Playing on the Thames at Chelsea
Early on a summer morning.
Slim and slender as his sword was.
Tiadatha looked and wondered,
Found her different from the others,
Asked her if she’d dance the next one,
Vowed he’d dodge the gilt-haired Cloe;
Then the band struck up a rag-time,
Noisy, thrilling, banging rag-time,
And he steered her through the mazes
Of that crowded floor at Murray’s.
In and out among the couples
Tightly in his arms he bore her
(Very careful not to bump her),
Dipping, whirling, swinging, swaying,
To the rhythm of the music,
To that syncopated music
Of the darkie band at Murray’s.
Then they supped and danced a fox-trot,
Careless, fascinating fox-trot,
Danced a waltz, another rag-time;
Till the darkie band departed,
Till the waiters all grew restive
Phyllis danced with Tiadatha.
Brother Bill had hied him homewards
Rather peevish, very sleepy,
Saying “See her home to Sloane Street,”
To the joy of Tiadatha.
So he put her in a taxi,
Saying to the driver gently,
“No, old top, not straight to Sloane Street,”
Hopped in too and looked at Phyllis,
Found his heart was working faster
Than a Lewis gun in action.
Very lovely was the morning
As they drove down Piccadilly,
Pink and grey like parrots’ feathers;
And the watered streets were gleaming
Still and silent in the sunlight,
None abroad and nothing stirring
Save a sparrow in the Green Park,
Save a reveller returning;
Save a loaded wagon bearing
Brussels sprouts to Covent Garden.
“Phyllis, dear,” said Tiadatha,
“No one ever danced like you do,
No one ever smiled like you do,
No one ever made my heart beat
In the way that you have made it.
Fate is cruel to let me find you
On this last of final leave days.”
Phyllis sighed and whispered softly,
“Better to have found each other
Even for a little hour.
All the same, I hate you going;
I shall miss you, Tiadatha.”
“Some day I will come back, Phyllis,
We will dance again together.
Will you be my partner always,
Will you wait, my lovely Phyllis?”
Not a word she answered, only
Moved her hand in his a little,
And straightway my Tiadatha
Took her in his arms and kissed her.
“’Ere we are, sir,” said the driver.
“Bin ’ere this last twenty minutes,”
Growled the driver of the taxi,
Rather anxious for his breakfast.
So they parted; Tiadatha
Watched the front door close behind her,
Gave the driver half-a-sovereign,
Strolled back slowly to St. James!
Thus was Tiadatha’s wooing,
Thus he parted from his Phyllis.
You will say ’twas not idyllic,
Wooing in a London taxi,
Parting on a London pavement.
Yet romance is where your heart is
Idylls what you like to make them.
Anyone can be romantic
In a punt beneath the willows;
Anyone can be romantic
In a woodland dell at sunset.
But if punt and dell are absent
And you want to tell your Phyllis,
Want to tell her how you love her,
Be a man like Tiadatha,
Take her in your arms and tell her
Even in a London taxi.