OUR "PROMISED" LAND.
(An "explanation" of another of the Premier's election "promises.")
My emotion I well can remember
O'er a "promise" that somewhere I'd seen
One night, away back in December
Anno Domini 1918.
Happy tears in my orbs began wellin'
As I read how the England-to-be
Would become a fit messuage to dwell in
For heroes like me.
Refreshed by an access of ardour
I returned to my business in town;
But, as life seemed each day to grow harder,
I despaired of its joy and its crown;
Till, fed up with a "tale" for poor Tommies,
My temper I finally lost,
And pronounced that oracular "promise"
A palpable frost.
But I've tumbled at last to my error;
For, although I am far from content,
I know that this era of terror
Is just what the Government meant;
When through England so bell-like and clear rose
That eager, that passionate vow;
Since none but a race of real heroes
Can live in it now.
Commercial Candour.
"Situations Wanted. Housemaid, unscrupulously clean."
Melbourne Argus.
"Mr. Arthur Henderson, M.P., has added 2½ stones to his stature since he left the nursing home in Leeds."
—Daily Mail.
And three cubits to his weight.
