_A_. Beautiful weather for the time of year!
_B_. A perfect spell, indeed, of halcyon calm,
Most grateful here in Town, and, what is more,
A priceless gift to our brave lads in France,
Whose need is sorer, being sick of mud.
_A_. They have our first thoughts ever, and, if Heaven
Had not enough good weather to go round,
Gladly I'd sacrifice this present boon
And welcome howling blizzards, hail and flood,
So they, out there, might still be warm and dry.

II.

_C_. Have you observed the alien in our midst,
How strangely numerous he seems to-day,
Swarming like migrant swallows from the East?
_D_. I take it they would fain elude the net
Spread by Conscription's hands to haul them in.
All day they lurk in cover Houndsditch way,
Dodging the copper, and emerge at night
To snatch a breath of Occidental air
And drink the ozone of our Underground.

III.

_E_. How glorious is the Milky Way just now!
_F_. True. In addition to the regular stars
I saw a number flash and disappear.
_E_. I too. A heavenly portent, let us hope,
Presaging triumph to our British arms.