We _might_ be good for stopping shot,
Only that we're not fit for marching!

We cannot carry our own kits!
I say, Bill, _ain't_ we awful duffers?
Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits,
Could more completely give us snuffers.
CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD,
All of a mind, for once, about us!
What wonder Bungs dub us no good,
And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us?

I see myself as others see;
A weedy, narrer-chested stripling,
Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
Wot can't go out without our nurses,
But ups and pats us on the back
In very pooty potry-verses.[1]

We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
(Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.
So Tommy's best respects to _'im_,
At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im.
Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim,
He _might_ not know us _when_ we meet 'im!