The Joining Of Tiadatha

Should you question, should you ask me Whence this song of Tiadatha? Who on earth was Tiadatha? I should answer, I should tell you, He was what we call a filbert, Youth of two and twenty summers. You could see him any morning In July of 1914, Strolling slowly down St. James’s From his comfy flat in Duke Street. Little recked he of in those days, Save of socks and ties and hair-wash, Girls and motor-cars and suppers; Little suppers at the Carlton, Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s, Little week-ends down at Skindle’s; Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him, And the Piccadilly grill-room, And he used to dance at Ciro’s With the fairies from the chorus. There were many Tired Arthurs In July of 1914.

Then came war, and Tiadatha Read his papers every morning, Read the posters on the hoardings, Read “Your King and Country want you.” “I must go,” said Tiadatha, Toying with his devilled kidneys, “Do my bit and join the Army.” So he hunted up a great-aunt, Who knew someone in the Service, Found himself in time gazetted To a temporary commission In the 14th Royal Dudshires.

Straightway Tiadatha hied him To the shop of Bope and Pradley, Having seen their thrilling adverts. In the Tube and in the Tatler. Pradley sold him all he needed, Bope a lot of things he didn’t, Pressed upon him socks and puttees, Haversacks and water-bottles. Made him tunics for the winter, Made him tunics for the summer, And some very baggy breeches. There he chose his cap of khaki, Very light and very floppy (Rather like a tam-o’-shanter), And a supple chestnut Sam Browne, Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes, Rather new but very supple.

Many pounds spent Tiadatha On valises, baths and camp beds, Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags. Macs and British warms and great-coats, And a gent’s complete revolver. Then he went to Piccadilly, Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly, Where he ordered ties and shirtings, Cream and coffee ties and shirtings, Ordered socks and underclothing, Putting down the lot to Father. Compass, torch and boots and glasses All of these sought Tiadatha; All day boys with loads were streaming To and from the flat in Duke Street, Like a chain of ants hard at it Storing rations for the winter.

“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha, “One thing more ere I am perfect. I must have a sword to carry In a jolly leather scabbard.” So he called the son of Wilkin, Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall, Bade him make a sword and scabbard. And the mighty son of Wilkin Made a sword for Tiadatha, From the truest steel he made it, Slim and slender as a maiden, Sharper than a safety razor, Sighed a little as he made it, Knowing well that Tiadatha Probably would never use it.

Then at last my Tiadatha Sallied forth to join the Dudshires, Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier, Floppy cap and baggy breeches, Round his waist the supple Sam Browne, At his side the sword and scabbard, Took salutes from private soldiers And saluted Sergeant-Majors (Who were very much embarrassed), And reported at Headquarters Of the 14th Royal Dudshires. Shady waters of a river, Feels when by some turn of fortune He gets plopped into a cistern At a comic dime museum, Finds himself among strange fishes, Finds his happy freedom vanished, Even so felt Tiadatha On the day he joined the Dudshires. But he pulled himself together, Found the Adjutant, saluted, Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.” Such was Tiadatha’s joining.