Issue 9, Summer 1955
Martin sat young upon his bed A budding cenobite, Said ‘Though I hold the principles Of Christian life be right, I cannot grow from them alone I must go out to fight.’
He travelled hard, he travelled far, The light began to fail. ‘Is not this act of mine,’ he said, ‘A cowardly betrayal, Should I not peg my nature down With a religious nail?’
Wind scudded on the marshland And clanking at his side The sword soon clattered under hail: What could he do but ride?— There was not shelter for a dog, The garrison far ahead.