Opening off the s.p.a.cious hallway is my natty little suite, A commodious and accessible abode.

By judicious disposition, with exclusion of my feet, There is sleeping room for Oliver the toad.

Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs the ceiling falls-- Which with oral respiration disagrees-- Though there comes a certain quant.i.ty of seepage from the walls, There are some I knew in diggings worse than these.

On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's a spring above his head, And his mattress is a special kind of clay.

He's a most punctilious bloke about the fashion of his bed, And he makes it with a shovel every day.

Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has been puddled up a treat.

On domestic sanitation he's a toff, For he lights a fire on Sunday, bakes his sur- face in the heat, Then he takes a little maul, and cracks it off.

After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian hole We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and tidy skins.

In the dark and deadly calm last night they took us on patrol.

Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins.

It was ours like blinded snails to prowl the soggy, slimy night, With a feeler p.r.i.c.king out at every pore For the death that stalks in darkness, or the blinking stab of light, And the other trifling matters that are war.

That's the stuff to get your liver, that's the acid on a man, For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow throngh.

You have got the thought to comfort you that life is but a span, If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over you.

We got back again at daybreak. Cobber ducked to doss and said, From the soft, embracing mud: "No more I'll roam.

"Oh, thank Heaven, blokes," he murmured, "for the comforts of a bed!

Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a home!"

MICKIE MOLLYNOO.

A MILE-LONG panto dragon ploddin'

'opeless all the day, Stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles, steamin' in its sweat, A-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed through the clay, By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns, the wildest welter yet, Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early in the wet.

We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet we dunno who; But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n'

slips the kit, 'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is Mickie Mollynoo!

A copper of the Port he was, when 'istory was writ.

Sez I : "We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp me, this is It."

A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up with the push Is all his joy. One evenin' when his baton's flyin' free I takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin the cush, 'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the world to see, But not afore indelible he's put his mark on me.

I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me lug Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them 'appy, careless days.

He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchum and a mug, 'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some- thin' in his gaze That's pensive like. "Move on!" sez he.

"Keep movin' there!" he says.

If after this I dreams of sc.r.a.ps promiscuous and crool, The mills in Butcher's Alley when the watch is on the wine, Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to break the two-up school, I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that ain't divine He's toyin' with a scar of old I reckernise as mine.

'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how 'n' what.

We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' there ain't a vacant date; But sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard 'n' 'ot.

Me lurk is patient waitin', but I'm trim- min' while I wait A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin'

tatertate.

Oh, judge me wonder! There's a scrim that follers on a raid.

I'm roughin' it all-in with Hans. He sock me such a bat I slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave is made; But Molly b.u.t.ts my Hun, 'n' leaves no face beneath his hat, 'N', "'Scuse me, Mister Herr," sez he, "I have a lien on that!"

He helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me somethin' wet (I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin'

pretty sick).

"Lor love yeh, ole John Hop," sez I, "yiv buried me in debt."

"Don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyes me arf-a-tick.

'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trims another brick.

'Tis all this how a month or more; then Mollynoo sez he: "Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little h.e.l.l 'n'

all to view.

A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n'

me.

The d.a.m.nedest, dirtiest fighter on the Continent is you, Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is Sargin' Mollynoo!"

I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line me shirt.

We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger up a gun Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like a squirt.

We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots the extra one; Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n', be'old, the thing is done!

He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his gleamin' nut.

"Me dipper's leakin', Mick," sez I; "me leg is bit in two."

Sez he: "Bleed there in comfort, I'm for bringin' help, ye scut."

He's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied German crew.

"Three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "the rest will carry you."

I dunno how he got 'em, but he made them barrer me.

They lugged the gun before him, 'n' he yarded them like geese.

Then Mickie s'lutes the Major. "They're in custody," sez he, "Fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breach iv peace, A-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' the po-lice."

Then down he dumped. His wounds would make a 'arf a column list.

When hack to front I chucks me bricks 'n'

smiles the best I can.

He grins at me: "Yer right," sez he, "Hold out yer bla'-guard fist, I couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted in me pan.

This messin' round wid Germans makes a chicken iv a man."

JAM.

(A Hymn of Hate).

WHAT is meant by active service 'Ere where sin is leakin' loose, 'N' the oldest 'and's as nervis As a dog-bedevilled goose, Has bin writ be every poet What can rhyme it worth a dam, But the 'orror as we know it Is jist jam, jam, JAM!

Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it-- Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary jam!

There's the "fearful roar iv battle,"

What gets underneath yer 'at, Mooin' like a million cattle Each as big as Ararat; There's the red field green 'n' slippy (And I'm cleaner where I am), But the thing that's got me nippy It is jam, jam, JAM!

Druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy, Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin'

jam!

Of the mud that's in the trenches Writers make a solemn fuss; For the vermin 'n' the stenches Little ladies pity us; But the yearn that's honest d.i.n.k.u.m, 'N' the prayer what ain't a sham Is that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em Ships of jam, jam, JAM!

For we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em, Million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin'

clammy jam!