The Germ rides with the plunging sh.e.l.l, Or on the belts that fret you, Or in a speck of dust may well One thousand years to get you; Well ambushed in a tunic fold He waits his special mission, And never lad so big and bold But turns to water in his hold And dribbles to perdition.

Where is war's pomp and circ.u.mstance, The gauds in which we prank it?

Germ ends for us our fine romance, Wrapped in a dingy blanket.

We set out braggartly in mirth, World's bravest men and tallest, To do the mightiest thing on earth, And here we're lying, nothing worth, Succ.u.mbent to the smallest!

JOEY'S JOB.

IN days before the trouble Jo was rated as a slob.

He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job.

He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom friends had he, A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality.

He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the gra.s.s, Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin'

moments pa.s.s.

Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often got a clout, And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the devil out.

The one consistent member of the Never Trouble Club, He put a satin finish on the frontage of the pub.

His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from polishin' the pine; But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was divine.

Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed at as a fool, He found the conversation too exhaustin' as a rule; Or, canted on the smithy c.o.ke, he'd hoist his feet and yawn, His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants displayin' brawn: And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty- ful to see Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest memory.

Then came the universal nark. The Kaiser let her rip.

They cleared the ring. The sc.r.a.p was for the whole world's championship.

Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be- neath his hat, And every day he crept to see the drillin' on the flat.

He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes in butcher's blue, For the burst of inspiration that would tell him what to do.

He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelled out in the night.

Jo understood--he'd all these years been spoilin' for a fight!

Right into things he flung himself. He took his kit and gun, Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily in the sun.

"Gorstruth," he said, with shining eyes, "it means a frightful war, 'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven meant me for."

Jo went away a corporal and fought again the Turk, And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the work.

If anythin' was doin' it would presently come out That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there or thereabout.

He got a batch of medals, and a glorious renown Attached all of a sudden to the name of Sergeant Brown.

Then people talked of Joey as the dearest friend they had; They were chummy with his uncles, or ac- quainted with his dad.

Joe goes to France, and presently he figure as the best Two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the West, And men of every age at home and high and low degree, We gather now, once went to school with Sergeant Brown, V.C.

Then Hayes and Jo, in Flanders met, and very proud was Hayes To shake a townsman by the hand, and sing the hero's praise, "Oh, yes," says Jo, "I'm doin' well, 'n' yet I might do more.

If I was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war I'd lay out every Fritz on earth, but, strike me, what a yob A man would be to work himself out of a flamnin' job!"

Now Jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin'

up the pace.

Ha "Record" says Lieutenant Brown's an honor to the place.

The town gets special mention every time he scores. We bet If peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be Field-Marshal yet.

Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all our people know That Providence began this war to find a grip for Jo!

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

I SAID: "I leave my bit of land- In khaki they've entwined me, I go abroad to lend a hand."

Said she: "My love, I understand.

I will be true, and though we part A thousand years you hold my heart"- The girl I left behind me.

I went away to fight the Huns- No coward thought could bind me, I sizzled n the tropic suns, I faced the bayonets and the guns.

And when in daring deeds I shone One little woman spurred me on- The girl I left behind me.

Out there, in grim Gallipoli.

Hard going they a.s.signed me, I p.r.i.c.ked the Turk up from the sea; I riddled him, he punctured me; And, bleeding in my rags, I said: "She'll meet me somewhere if I'm dead- The girl I left behind me.

In France we broke the German's face- They tried with gas to blind me.

In mud we bogged from front to base, And dirt was ours, but not disgrace.

They carved me till I couldn't stand.

Said I "Now for the Lodden, and The girl I left behind me.

I came ash.o.r.e, and struck the track; For dust you scarce could find me.

The dear girl gave no welcome back- Shed changed her names and state, alack!

"You've been a time, I must say, Ned, In finishing your old war." Said The girl I left behind me.

I flung a song up to the skies.

For battles G.o.ds designed me.

I think of Fifi's laughing eyes, And Nami, dusk, but sweet and wise, And chortle in my heart to find How very far I've left behind- The girl I left behind me

HOW HERMAN WON THE CROSS

ONCE in a blue eternity they gave us dabs of rum To close the seams 'n' keep the flume in liquor-tight condition; But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold evenin's come, I'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the height of his ambition, With rights of suction over all the breweries there are, Where barrels squat, like Brahma G.o.ds, in Mother Hardy's bar.

I had me fit of longin' on the night the Ger- mans came, All breathin' lioke a gas attack. The air was halcholic.

We smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our rage went up in flame.

It was envy, squealin' envy, put the ginger in the frolic.

We shot 'em full of spelter, then went over it to spite The swines what drunk the liquor that was ours by common right.

"If this ain't stopped, 'n' quick," sez we, "there won't be left a drop To celebrate the vict'ry when we capture their position."

I'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes a fond, familiar plop- Swung round a post, a German in a pitiful condition Looms over me. He's sprung a cork, and shales a flask on high, 'N' sings of beer that touchin' it would make a butcher cry.

Sez he: "Berloffed kamarid, you haf some drinks mit you."

I meant to spike him where he waved, but altered me intention.

'N' "If you put it thus," sez I, "I don't care if I do."

We had a drink together. There's a tem- por'y suspension Of hostilities to sample contraband 'n' other stuff In the enemy's possession. Which I think he's had enough.

That Hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stowed a flask in each, 'N' presently I'm thinkin' I could love him like a brother.

He's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandish parts of speech.

"You're prisoner of war," I sez; 'n' then we had another.

Ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills it to the brim, 'N' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin'

up for him.