THE TRENCH CODE.

Ah! with what awe, what infantile impatience,
We eyed the artifice when issued out,
And racked our brains about the Regulations,
And tried to think we had them free from doubt!
As Rome's old Fathers, reverently leaning
In secret cellars o'er the Sibyl's strain,
Beyond the fact that several pars
Had something vague to do with Mars,
Failed, as a rule, to find the smallest meaning,
But told the plebs the oracle was plain.

So did we study it, ourselves deceiving,
In hope to say, "We have no rations here,"
Or, "Please, Brigade, this regiment wants relieving,"
And "Thank you for the bombs--but why no beer?"
And wondered always, with a hint of presage,
Since never word emerged as it was planned,
If it was Hermes, Lord of Craft,
Compiled the code, or someone daft,
So that no mortal could compose a message
Which anybody else could understand.

Too soon the Staff, to spoil our tiny slumbers,
Or, as they said, to certify our skill,
Sent us a screed, all signs and magic numbers,
And what it signified is mystery still.
We flung them back a message yet more mazy