Yes, yes, my boy, by all means train for war.
Do knots and splices, morse and semaphore;
And learn to drill, and how to use a gun,
To sail the ocean, and destroy the Hun-
Study the stars, the secrets of the sky,
And fix your dreams upon the day you fly.
And then, when you're proficient, keen and fit,
We'll raffle you and put you down a pit.
Science prevails. The more that we advance,
The fewer things we like to leave to chance.
See how the racehorse, from the age of two,
Is fashioned for the job he has to do:
We do not train the falcon or the hound
And then decide to send them underground.
But when we want our boys to give their best
We use a hat-and Fortune does the rest.