But daylong watch the aeroplanes at play,
Or contemplate with secret satisfaction
Your fellow-men proceeding towards the fray;
Your sole solicitude when men report
There is a shovel short,
Or, numbering jealously your rusty store,
Some mouldering rocket, some wet bomb you miss
That was reserved for some ensuing war,
But on no grounds to be employed in this.

For Colonels flatter you, most firm of warders,
For sandbags suppliant, and do no good,
And high Staff officers and priests in orders
In vain beleaguer you for bits of wood,
While I, who have nor signature nor chit,
But badly want a bit,
I only talk to you of these high themes,
Nor stoop to join the sycophantic choir,
Seeing (I trust) my wicked batman, Jeames,
Has meanwhile pinched enough to light my fire.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Lady_ (_looking out of train on to darkened
platform_). "PORTER, IS THIS EDGWARE ROAD? I CAN'T SEE A THING."

_Porter_ (_with Irish blood in her_). "NOT YET, M'M. EDGWARE ROAD'S
THE STATION BEFORE YOU GETS TO BAKER STHEET."]