EASTER REGULATIONS FOR VOLUNTEERS.
1. Volunteers shall be expected to be up by the dawn in the morning, be the weather rain or shine, fog, or otherwise. They will be marched for scores of miles all day long, and, on their arrival at their destination, shall consider themselves lucky if they find the most primitive accommodation.
2. Although they may be accompanied by their officers, the Volunteer rank and file will clearly understand that they are manœuvring purely for the pleasure, if not improvement, of a few warriors connected with the Household troops.
3. They shall undertake the necessary duties at their own expense, and every detail supplied by the War Office shall form the matter of an angry altercation.
4. The convenience of Volunteers shall be ignored, so that the comforts of the Regular officers attached to the Citizen Force, may be secured at their expense.
5. Volunteer officers will be prepared to accept snubs and condescension with their customary humility, and will not presume to raise their voices in the presence of their superior (in quality if not in rank) commanders.
6. Volunteers of all ranks will work like niggers for nothing, save the barren honour of being told (subsequently in the public prints) that they have merely done their duty.
7. And, to conclude, Volunteers will be expected to say that they have thoroughly enjoyed their holiday, however difficult it may be to feel it.
AN ELIGIBLE PARTI.
I know a man who manhood's name profanes,—
Most Mayfair mothers own him rather wild;
But, since he has more sovereigns than brains,
Each tries to catch and tame him for her child.
He knows enough Arithmetic to keep
A Betting-book, and lose his little bets,
And though his sense of honour is not deep,
He always pays his "honourable" debts.
Some scores of trowsers own him as their Lord,
And endless ties and one unchanging sneer;
He owes his tailor what would lodge and board
And wash a brace of curates for a year.
His wit is not so pointed as his boots,
Bright with the polish which his manners lack,
Nor yet so chaste as those astounding suits
Which deck his shrunken limbs and padded back.
His stays are always, he is often, "tight,"
His collar, like his birth, is sans reproche;
He seldom does a thing because it's right,
But, on the other hand, is never gauche.
The Music Hall hath charms to soothe his breast,
But tries in vain to tinge his pallid cheek;
And yet the print he knows and loves the best,
Is that which duly blushes once a week.
He never dances since the law shut up
His native haunt, where he could really go it,
And romp the pas-de-quatre, and shout and sup—
(Of course the Mayfair mothers did not know it).
He never dances—but he goes about,
And you will always meet him "everywhere,"
And sometimes after supper he'll sit out
A dance or two, provided she is fair.
Some day he'll stoop to raise her to his throne,
Look tame and tired of wild oats—for a time;
And, when They reap the whirlwind he has sown,
We'll talk of his misfortune and her crime.