A LOST LEADER.

The men are marching like the best;

The waggons wind across the lea;

At ten to two we have a rest,

We have a rest at ten to three;

I ride ahead upon my gee

And try to look serene and gay;

The whole battalion follows me,

And I believe I've lost the way.

Full many a high-class thoroughfare

My erring map does not disclose,

While roads that are not really there

The same elaborately shows;

And whether this is one of those

It needs a clever man to say;

I am not clever, I suppose,

And I believe I've lost the way.

The soldiers sing about their beer;

The wretched road goes on and on;

There ought to be a turning here,

But if there was the thing has gone;

Like some depressed automaton

I ask at each estaminet;

They say, "Tout droit," and I say "Bon,"

But I believe I've lost the way.

I dare not tell the trustful men;

They think me wonderful and wise;

But where will be the legend when

They get a shock of such a size?

And what about our brave Allies?

They wanted us to fight to-day;

We were to be a big surprise—

And I believe I've lost the way.