And here are other men again, taller and sturdier than infantry of the line, grim, solid men, as straight as poplars. There is a maple-leaf, I think, upon their shoulder straps, and a British brigade is glad enough to have those maples beside them. For these are the Canadians, the men of Paardeberg, and there behind them are their comrades in glory, the Shropshire Light Infantry, slinging along with a touch of the spirit of their grand sporting colonel, the man who at forty-five is still the racquet champion of the British army. You see the dirty private with the rifle under his arm and the skin hanging from his nose. There are two little stars upon his strained shoulders, if you could see them under the dirt. That is the dandy captain who used to grumble about the food on the P. and O. "Nothing fit to eat," he used to cry as he glanced at his menu. I wonder what he would say now? Well he stands for his country, and England also may be a little less coddled and a little more adaptive before these brave, brave sons of hers have hoisted her flag over the "raad zaal" of Pretoria.
THE MODERATE DRINKER'S LAMENT.
BY MARK THYME.
(From the Household Brigade Magazine.)
WITH APOLOGIES TO RUDYARD KIPLING.
When you've done your meat and jipper—when you've 'ad your go o' beer—
When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape—
P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tear
For a gentleman in khaki at the Cape.
'E's an absent-bodied beggar—as it's needless to relate—
An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him,
For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate
'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im.
Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud
(Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),
Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud?
Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to do
Simultaneous with the risin' of the sun;
We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few,
An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.
When we get within "fixed sights" it's ten to one the blighter's gone,
And an absent-bodied beggar we shall find 'im,
For 'e mounts 'is 'orse an' offs it when 'e finds us comin' on,
An' e' never leaves a drop o' drink be'ind 'im.
Pile arms! Lie down! Now let the Transport come!
(Am I 'ungry and thirsty? Wait till I let you see!)
Bully beef and rooty, and somebody's pinched my rum.
Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
There's a chap called Wilfrid Lawson as is always on the squeak,
An' 'e turns the liquor question inside out;
But a bloke can do a gallon—if the tiddley's fairly weak—
Without actually going on the shout.
But the absent-bodied tippler feels a temporary check
When 'e tastes a kind of something to remind him,
There's a Boer up the river with a stone around 'is neck
'As a filter what old Cronje's left be'ind 'im.
Fill mine! Mine too! (Smells like a bloomin' drain!)
Fill at the nearest water, spite of the M.F.P.
Bully beef and rooty, and something's give me a pain,
Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!