HOW AN EXASPERATED ADJUTANT WOULD _LIKE_ TO ADDRESS THE NEW GUARD.

"Guard! for I still concede to you the title,
Though well I know that it is not your due,
Being devoid of everything most vital
To the high charge which is imposed on you;
Listen awhile--and, Number Two, be dumb;
Forbear to scratch the irritable tress;
No longer masticate the furtive gum;
And, Private Pitt, stop nibbling at your thumb,
And for a change attend to my address.

"Day after day I urge the old, old thesis--
To reverence well the man of martial note,
Nor treat as mere sartorial caprices
The mystic marks he carries on his coat,
And how to know what everybody is,
The swords, the crowns, the purple-stainéd cards,
The Brigadiers concealed in Burberries,
And render all those pomps and dignities
Which are, of course, the _raison d'être_ of guards.

"With what avail? for never a guard is mounted
That does not do some wild abhorrent thing,
Only in hushed low tones to be recounted,
Lest haply hints of it should reach the KING--
Dark ugly tales of sentinels who drank,
Or lost their prisoners while imbibing tea,
Or took great pains to make their minds a blank