Jessie Pope’s The Call stands as one of the most emblematic—and now controversial—poems of the early phase of the First World War. Written at a time when British society was swept up in patriotic fervor and idealized conceptions of military service, the poem functions simultaneously as a recruitment appeal, a moral exhortation, and a cultural artifact that crystallizes the values, assumptions, and emotional tenor of its moment. Though brief in form, The Call encapsulates a worldview now largely discredited by war’s subsequent horrors, yet its historical significance, rhetorical force, and literary construction merit close scholarly scrutiny. To understand this poem fully is to grapple not only with its surface-level jingoism but also with the complex interplay of gender, duty, national identity, and emotional manipulation that characterized much of the propaganda of its era.

At the core of The Call lies a direct, almost theatrical address: a series of questions posed to an imagined young man—“my laddie”—designed to elicit a response that is as much emotional as it is volitional. The poem’s speaker, implicitly female, adopts a tone that is both coaxing and accusing, blending maternal affection with peer-like camaraderie. This dual voice is not incidental; it reflects the gendered dynamics of wartime mobilization, wherein women were often cast as both guardians of domestic virtue and enforcers of masculine honor. The repeated invocation of “my laddie” personalizes the call to arms, transforming what might otherwise be an abstract civic duty into an intimate challenge. It is not the state or the military that summons the young man—it is a familiar, affectionate voice that implies betrayal if he refuses.

Historically, The Call emerged in 1914–15, during the early, euphoric phase of the Great War, when enlistment was still voluntary in Britain and public discourse was saturated with rhetoric of adventure, glory, and moral righteousness. The poem first appeared in newspapers and later in Pope’s collection The Call: and Other Poems (1915), which became immensely popular among the British reading public. At the time, Pope was a well-established journalist and poet known for her light verse and children’s poetry, and her wartime poems, including The Call, were widely reprinted and recited. Her work resonated because it distilled complex national anxieties and aspirations into accessible, emotionally charged language that spoke directly to the middle-class sensibilities of the era.

Culturally, the poem draws on deep-seated Victorian and Edwardian notions of heroism, masculinity, and imperial duty. The references to “the Empire’s thanks” and “the victor’s ranks” situate the conflict not merely as a defensive war but as a noble crusade to uphold British global supremacy. This imperial framing was critical to the war’s early appeal, particularly among the educated classes who saw service as both a patriotic obligation and a means of affirming Britain’s civilizational mission. The poem’s invocation of “banners and rolling drums” evokes a triumphant return—a procession that celebrates not just victory but moral superiority. In this vision, war is not chaos but ceremony; not slaughter but spectacle. The defeated or hesitant man, by contrast, is reduced to the grotesque image of one who “stand[s] and bite[s] his thumbs”—a gesture of impotent shame, borrowed perhaps from Shakespearean idiom but here recast as the ultimate social disgrace.

Pope’s deployment of rhetorical questions is perhaps the poem’s most potent literary device. Rather than stating outright what the young man should do, she forces him—and by extension, the reader—into a position of self-interrogation. Each stanza presents a binary: action versus inaction, courage versus cowardice, participation versus exclusion. The questions are not neutral; they are loaded with moral implication. To “fret to begin” is virtuous; to “want to save his skin” is suspect. To “long to charge and shoot” is healthy ambition; to “rather wait a bit” is weakness. The cumulative effect is a kind of emotional blackmail, where refusal to enlist is framed not as a reasoned choice but as a failure of character. This technique exploits the psychological vulnerability of youth, especially young men raised in a culture that equated masculinity with physical bravery and public service.

It is worth noting that the poem’s emotional impact hinges on its use of colloquial diction and rhythmic urgency. Phrases like “keen on getting fit” and “show his grit” reflect the everyday language of schoolboy ethos and sporting culture, thereby aligning military service with familiar, socially approved activities. The informal register—“my laddie,” “Do you?”—creates a sense of camaraderie, as though the speaker is merely reminding the young man of values he already holds. This rhetorical strategy blurs the line between persuasion and peer pressure, between civic appeal and social coercion. The poem does not invite debate; it forecloses it by presenting enlistment as the only morally and socially acceptable response.

In contrast to the later war poets—most notably Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and Isaac Rosenberg—Pope offers no glimpse of mud, blood, or psychological trauma. There is no trench warfare in The Call, only the romantic abstraction of “the trench” as a site of honor. The absence of realism is not a failure of imagination but a reflection of cultural timing and intent. Pope wrote before the full horror of industrialized warfare became widely known, and her audience had not yet been disillusioned by reports of stalemate, mass casualties, and bureaucratic incompetence. To judge her poem solely by the standards of post-1916 poetry would be to misunderstand its function and context. The Call belongs to a specific historical moment—one of collective optimism and moral certainty—that would soon be shattered by the Somme and Passchendaele.

Indeed, the poem’s later infamy stems largely from its juxtaposition with the anti-war verse that followed. Owen’s famous poem Dulce et Decorum Est, written partly as a rebuke to “my friend” (widely interpreted as a reference to Jessie Pope), explicitly counters the romantic illusions that poems like The Call helped propagate. Where Pope speaks of “banners and rolling drums,” Owen describes “blood-shod” soldiers “coughing like hags.” Where Pope frames war as a test of character, Owen reveals it as a dehumanizing machine that grinds men to dust. The contrast is stark and deliberate, and it has shaped much of the modern reception of Pope’s work. Yet this binary reading—jingoist versus truth-teller—risks oversimplification. Pope was not a cynical manipulator but a product of her time, writing what her culture demanded and believed. Her poem must be understood not as a lie but as a symptom—a cultural expression of a society not yet ready to confront the reality of modern war.

Biographically, Pope’s life and career complicate the caricature of her as a mere propagandist. Though she is now best remembered for The Call and similar poems, she was a prolific writer whose work spanned journalism, children’s literature, and light verse. She supported the war effort wholeheartedly, as did many women of her class and generation, but she also later advocated for veterans and wrote sympathetically about the war’s impact on families. Her later work shows a more nuanced understanding of loss and sacrifice, even if it never approached the searing honesty of Owen or Sassoon. To dismiss her entirely is to ignore the broader cultural matrix in which wartime poetry operated—a matrix that included both celebratory and critical voices, often coexisting in tension.

Philosophically, The Call raises enduring questions about the ethics of persuasion in times of national crisis. Is it ever justifiable to appeal to shame, peer pressure, and social conformity to recruit soldiers? Does patriotic poetry have a responsibility to truth, or is its function purely motivational? These questions remain relevant in contemporary discourse about media, propaganda, and the moral economy of war. Pope’s poem, for all its simplicity, engages with these issues implicitly by framing enlistment as a moral imperative rather than a political choice. The “laddie” is not asked to weigh strategic considerations or ethical dilemmas; he is asked whether he is the kind of man who acts—or watches. In this framework, neutrality is not an option; it is a failure of identity.

Moreover, the poem’s emotional resonance—however problematic by modern standards—cannot be denied. It speaks to a deep human desire to belong, to be recognized, to prove oneself worthy of admiration. These impulses are not unique to wartime; they are fundamental to the construction of selfhood in any society. Pope taps into them with remarkable efficiency, using poetic form not to explore ambiguity but to resolve it in favor of action. The poem’s power lies not in its complexity but in its clarity: it offers a single, unambiguous path to honor, and any deviation from that path is marked as shameful. In a world increasingly aware of moral gray areas, such certainty can be both seductive and dangerous.

It is also instructive to place The Call within the broader tradition of martial poetry. From the epics of Homer and Virgil to the ballads of the Napoleonic Wars, poets have long glorified combat as a crucible of virtue. Pope’s poem fits squarely within this lineage, albeit in a modern, mass-media context. What distinguishes her work is its domestic intimacy—the sense that war is not a distant affair of kings and generals but a personal test for every young man. This democratization of heroism was characteristic of early twentieth-century nationalism, which sought to mobilize entire populations rather than just professional armies. In this light, The Call can be seen as part of a larger cultural project to redefine citizenship in martial terms.

Yet even within its own historical moment, the poem was not universally embraced. Critics at the time noted its simplistic morality, and some soldiers reportedly resented the implication that they had gone to war for glory rather than duty or necessity. The poem’s tone—breezy, almost playful—struck many as incongruous with the gravity of war. This dissonance reveals a key tension in early wartime culture: the gap between the rhetoric of sacrifice and the reality of suffering. Pope’s poem attempts to bridge that gap by making sacrifice seem exhilarating and socially rewarding, but the attempt relies on a suspension of disbelief that the war itself would soon shatter.

In conclusion, The Call by Jessie Pope is far more than a relic of misguided patriotism. It is a finely tuned instrument of emotional persuasion, a cultural snapshot of a society on the brink of disillusionment, and a testament to the power—and peril—of poetic rhetoric in times of crisis. Its themes of honor, duty, shame, and belonging continue to resonate, even as its assumptions have been overturned by history. To read it today is to engage with a vanished world of moral certainty, one that believed in the redemptive power of war and the clarity of masculine virtue. The poem’s enduring value lies not in its truth but in its honesty about the illusions that animate nations in the early throes of conflict. In studying The Call, we do not merely confront a piece of propaganda; we confront the mechanisms by which societies summon their young to die—and the voices that, for better or worse, make such summons seem noble. Poetry, at its most potent, does not just reflect culture; it shapes it. And in 1915, few poems shaped British wartime culture more decisively than this deceptively simple call to arms.

In the rich tapestry of English literature, few poems capture the intoxicating blend of self-awareness, irony, and unapologetic revelry quite like Alexander Brome's "The Mad Lover." This delightful lyric stands as a testament to the power of poetry to transform life's entanglements into sources of laughter and insight. With its candid confession of a soul ensnared by love, debt, and drink, the work invites readers into a world where human weaknesses are not merely acknowledged but celebrated with a wink and a raised glass. Brome's verse resonates across centuries because it speaks to universal experiences: the cycles of desire, the sting of consequence, and the hopeful fantasy that some external force—here, money—might untangle our knots. As we delve into this poem, we discover not only a window into the cultural upheavals of seventeenth-century England but also a mirror reflecting our own enduring fascination with the mad, merry dance of existence. Poetry like this reminds us why we cherish the art form: it distills complex emotions into memorable language, fostering empathy and delight in equal measure.

Alexander Brome (1620–1666) emerged as a distinctive voice during one of England's most turbulent periods. Born in Dorset and trained as an attorney, he navigated the professional world of law while embracing the literary life of a Royalist sympathizer. His career spanned the English Civil Wars, the Interregnum under Oliver Cromwell, and the Restoration of the monarchy under Charles II. As a writer of drinking songs, satirical ballads, and occasional verse, Brome earned the affectionate title of the "English Anacreon" for his jovial, wine-inspired lyrics that echoed the ancient Greek poet's celebrations of love and revelry. Unlike more courtly figures such as Thomas Carew or Richard Lovelace, Brome operated somewhat on the periphery of elite circles, practicing law in London while producing works that appealed to a broader audience of wits, merchants, and displaced Cavaliers. His 1661 collection Songs and Other Poems, prefaced by no less a figure than Izaak Walton, showcases his versatility across love lyrics, epistles, and political pieces.

This biographical context illuminates "The Mad Lover" profoundly. Written in an era when Royalists faced defeat, exile, or suppression, the poem reflects a spirit of resilient hedonism. The Civil Wars (1642–1651) had shattered traditional social orders, closing theaters, restricting public festivities, and promoting Puritan austerity. For many like Brome, who supported the king, poetry became both refuge and resistance—a way to affirm the values of wit, camaraderie, and sensory pleasure against the grim moralism of the times. "The Mad Lover" embodies this ethos. Its speaker, trapped in a vicious triangle of vices, does not wallow in guilt but narrates his plight with wry detachment, ultimately pinning his hopes on fortune's reversal. This mirrors the broader Cavalier sensibility: a carpe diem philosophy that urged seizing joy amid uncertainty, drawing on classical models like Horace while infusing them with contemporary English humor.

To appreciate the poem's cultural resonance, one must consider the Restoration milieu into which it fully blossomed. The return of Charles II in 1660 heralded a reaction against Puritan restraint, ushering in an age of theatricality, libertinism, and revived merriment. Coffeehouses buzzed with political discourse, taverns echoed with songs, and the court itself modeled a flamboyant embrace of pleasure. Brome's work, though composed earlier, found new life in this atmosphere. Drinking songs were not mere frivolity; they served social functions—bonding male companions, mocking authority, and preserving a cultural memory of pre-war freedoms. "The Mad Lover" participates in this tradition by intertwining personal confession with social commentary. Love and drink were staples of Cavalier verse, but Brome adds debt as a third plague, grounding the fantasy in economic reality. In a post-war economy marked by confiscations, fines, and instability, money as a "cure" carried sharp satirical bite. It pokes fun at the materialism that persisted beneath aristocratic ideals, suggesting that even the most romantic souls are beholden to purse strings.

Philosophically, the poem engages with Epicurean ideas filtered through a Christian and English lens. Epicurus advocated moderate pleasures as the path to happiness, but Brome's speaker embodies a more reckless variant—acknowledging excess while craving its continuation. This resonates with Thomas Hobbes's contemporary views on human nature as driven by appetites and self-interest. The "mad lover" is no tragic hero but a comic everyman, whose struggles highlight the absurdity of existence. Here, Brome anticipates later Enlightenment thinkers who would explore human folly with affectionate irony, much like Voltaire or Sterne. Yet the poem retains a distinctly pre-modern warmth, rooted in communal song rather than solitary introspection. Its emotional impact stems from this balance: it validates our flaws without excusing them, offering catharsis through laughter. Readers feel the speaker's weariness in the repeated "strugled and strugled and strove," yet share his buoyant hope. This emotional authenticity makes the work enduringly relatable, evoking both empathy for our shared vulnerabilities and joy in their artistic expression.

Literary devices in "The Mad Lover" amplify its themes with masterful subtlety. The poem employs a cyclical structure that mirrors its central idea of inescapable entanglement. The opening declaration of long-term immersion in love, debt, and drink sets a confessional tone, while the causal chain—"’Twas drink made me fall into Love, / And Love made me run into debt"—creates a logical yet absurd progression. This interlocking causality functions as a witty conceit, akin to metaphysical poetry but delivered with lighter, more accessible charm. Repetition, such as the doubled "strugled," conveys exhaustion through sound and rhythm, drawing the reader into the speaker's futile efforts without overt complaint. Alliteration and assonance, evident in phrases like "poor mortal to bear" and "loving and drinking amain," lend a musical quality suitable for performance, enhancing the poem's tavern-song origins.

Imagery remains concrete and sensory, avoiding abstraction. "Plagues" evokes biblical or medical affliction, heightening the hyperbolic suffering while inviting ironic detachment. The "Mistris that cannot endure me" humanizes the romantic failure, grounding lofty passion in domestic irritation. Money emerges as a deus ex machina, promising to "pay all my debts" and "remove all my lets," with "lets" carrying connotations of hindrances both financial and amorous. This pragmatic resolution undercuts idealistic notions of love, infusing the verse with satirical edge. Brome's diction blends elevated and colloquial elements—archaic "’Twil" alongside everyday speech—creating a voice that feels intimate and performative. The final resolve to "fall to loving and drinking amain" bursts with energy, transforming resignation into renewed appetite. These devices work in concert to produce an emotional arc from weary admission to optimistic climax, leaving readers invigorated rather than depleted.

Thematically, interconnected vices form the poem's core. Love, debt, and drink are portrayed not as isolated failings but as mutually reinforcing forces, a "mad" trinity that defines the human condition. This triad critiques yet affectionately embraces the excesses of Cavalier culture. Love here is no pure Petrarchan ideal but a disruptive passion leading to financial ruin; drink catalyzes desire but clouds judgment. The poem thus explores addiction in its broadest sense—not merely to substances but to patterns of behavior. Modern readers might recognize echoes of behavioral psychology or even existential cycles of desire and dissatisfaction, yet Brome treats them with pre-Freudian levity. Money's redemptive role introduces a materialist undercurrent, satirizing the era's shifting economics where wealth increasingly dictated social and romantic success. In a society recovering from war, this theme carries poignant relevance: survival and pleasure often hinged on fortune's wheel.

Comparatively, "The Mad Lover" dialogues richly with other Cavalier works. Contrast it with Robert Herrick's carpe diem lyrics, which urge gathering rosebuds before time decays beauty. Brome shares the urgency but locates it in masculine excess rather than fleeting youth. Lovelace's "To Althea, from Prison" finds liberty in love and drink despite confinement; Brome's speaker seeks external liberation through cash. John Suckling's cynical love poems, with their witty detachment, parallel Brome's irony, yet "The Mad Lover" feels warmer, more self-inclusive. Against metaphysical poets like John Donne, whose intricate conceits probe spiritual depths, Brome opts for surface clarity and social engagement. This accessibility broadens its appeal, aligning it with ballad traditions and folk song. In European context, it recalls François Villon's medieval confessions of vice or Rabelaisian celebrations of the body, underscoring a pan-Western tradition of comic realism.

Emotionally, the poem achieves remarkable resonance through its tonal complexity. There is melancholy in the acknowledgment of entrapment—"I cannot get out of them yet"—that tugs at universal feelings of regret. Yet this yields to humor and hope, creating a bittersweet harmony. The speaker's self-deprecation disarms criticism, inviting readers to laugh at themselves. This cathartic effect explains poetry's enduring power: it processes pain through beauty and wit, transforming personal chaos into shared delight. In performance or song, as Brome's works often were, the emotional impact multiplies, fostering communal bonds. One imagines tavern patrons joining the chorus, their own struggles lightened by collective recognition. Such moments affirm poetry's role as emotional balm and social glue.

Brome's philosophical undertones merit deeper consideration. The poem subtly questions free will through its deterministic chain of causation, yet affirms agency in the final vow to indulge "amain." This tension reflects Restoration debates on fate, providence, and human responsibility. It aligns with a skeptical humanism that accepts imperfection as inherent, advocating joyful navigation rather than futile reform. In this, Brome prefigures Romantic emphases on individual experience while remaining firmly anchored in classical moderation's ironic opposite. His enthusiasm for life's pleasures, despite costs, embodies a profound affirmation of humanity's messy vitality. Readers today, navigating digital distractions, economic pressures, and relational complexities, find solace in this ancient-modern wisdom: our "plagues" connect us, and laughter offers partial cure.

Expanding on cultural context, "The Mad Lover" also illuminates gender dynamics of the period. The "Mistris" appears as both object of desire and source of rejection, her potential affection contingent on wealth. This reflects patriarchal assumptions wherein male worth was tied to provision, yet the speaker's vulnerability humanizes him. Women in Cavalier poetry often serve as inspirations or foils; here, the mistress embodies conditional love, adding layers to the satire. Brome avoids misogyny, focusing instead on mutual folly. This nuance enriches the emotional palette, blending longing with pragmatism. 

Furthermore, the poem's emphasis on repetition and return evokes ritualistic aspects of drinking culture—cycles of indulgence that mimic seasonal or liturgical patterns. Philosophically, it touches on Nietzschean eternal recurrence avant la lettre: would we relive these mad loops? The answer seems a resounding yes. Such insights demonstrate how a seemingly light lyric can bear significant intellectual weight. Brome's genius lies in concealing profundity beneath playfulness, a hallmark of great occasional verse. 

In conclusion, "The Mad Lover" exemplifies why poetry matters. It captures the historical moment of Royalist resilience and Restoration exuberance while transcending it through timeless themes of folly, desire, and hope. Alexander Brome, the attorney-poet with Anacreontic flair, crafted a work that delights the ear, engages the mind, and warms the heart. Its literary craftsmanship—cyclical form, vivid imagery, ironic voice—serves an emotional honesty that continues to resonate. In an age of uncertainty, much like our own, this poem encourages us to acknowledge our entanglements, dream of deliverance, and ultimately embrace the dance anew. Poetry of this caliber does not merely document life; it enhances it, reminding us with enthusiasm and grace that even the mad lover's plight holds beauty, humor, and redemptive joy. As we reread these lines, we participate in a centuries-old conversation about what it means to be human—flawed, hopeful, and forever thirsty for more.