HATE THE MAIDS TO GO SHORT, BUT I _DO_ THINK WE OUGHT TO _SHARE_
THINGS."]

* * * * *

THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE.

I had a favourite shirt for many moons,
Soft, silken, soothing and of tenderest tone,
Gossamer-light withal. The Subs., my peers,
Envied the garment, ransacking the land
To find a shirt its equal--all in vain.
For, when we tired of shooting at the Hun
And other Batteries clamoured for their share
And we resigned positions at the front
To dally for a space behind the line,
To shed my war-worn vesture I was wont--
The G.S. boots, the puttees and the pants
That mock at cut and mar the neatest leg,
The battle-jacket with its elbows patched
And bands of leather, round its hard-used cuffs,
And, worst of all, the fuggy flannel shirt,
Rough and uncouth, that suffocates the soul;
And in their stead I donned habiliments
Cadets might dream of--serges with a waist,
And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man,
Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots,
And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties
Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD--
And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt.