"OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN—"
When, moved a few brief seasons back,
To brave the battle's brunt,
On Britain's shores I turned my pack
And "somewhere" found a Front;
Said I; as in my tympanum
I heard the cannon's roar,
"'Twill be a wonder if I come
Impervious through the War."
Yet bomb, shell, bullet and grenade
Made no great hit with me;
And now I'm—well, I've just been paid
My war gratuity.
But at the sight of civil life,
If "life" it can be called,
With all its agonising strife,
I simply stand appalled.
And "Oh!" in utter fear I cry,
"How horrors never cease;
'Twill be a miracle if I
Ever survive the Peace."
