MY SERGEANT-MAJOR-DOMO.
When WILSON has abolished War
And grim Bellona claims no more
The greatest of her sons,
What job has Peace to offer thee
That shall fulfil thy destiny,
O Sergeant-Major Buns?
Shall thy great voice, at whose behests
Trembled a hundred martial breasts,
Be heard without a smile
Urging astonished Cingalese
To tap the tapering rubber trees
Upon their distant isle?
Shall thy dread presence clothed in tweed
Be seen, O Buns, without the meed
Of some regretful sigh,
Fresh from the triumphs of the trench
Upon the Opposition Bench
Begging the SPEAKER'S eye?
Nay, rather let thy mighty mind
At length its true vocation find
In the domestic sphere;
The trivial round, the common task
Shall furnish all thou needst to ask—
There shalt thou earn thy beer.
Yes, thou shalt play a worthy rôle,
Thou great unconquerable soul,
Within my humble flat;
For when thy voice shall thunder, "Where
Is master's cream?" what maid shall dare
Invoke the mystic cat?
And what or volatile Miss Gripps?
The weekly notice on her lips
Shall wither at thy look.
And still one triumph waits for thee—
And, oh! may I be there to see—
When thou shalt face my cook!
"DATE FIXED FOR HANGING RETAILERS."—Provincial Paper.
And some of them richly deserve it.
"The League will reconsider traety obligations from time to time.
"The League will reconsider traeyt obligations from time to time."—Evening Paper.
And then the printer gave it up.
"A Handley Page, with two Rolls-Royce engines, was the first and only machine to fly to India, and was the first and only machine to fly to India, and is the second to fly to India."—Daily Paper.
Not the third and only, as for the moment we were tempted to believe.
"Young Educated Girl Pupil Wanted, help animals; live clergyman's family; pocket-money."—Newcastle Journal.
We are glad to hear of a really live clergyman. So many parsons nowadays are accused of being dead-alive.
