[Illustration]

_Secretarial Pangloss sings:_--

Late, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired but cheery,
Over many an optimistic record of War Office lore;
Whilst I worked, assorting, mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone rudely rapping, rapping at my Office-door.
"Some late messenger," I muttered, "tapping at my Office-door--
Only this, but it's a bore."

I remember--being sober--it was in the chill October,
Light from the electric globe or horseshoe lighted wall and floor;
Also that it was the morrow of the Holborn Banquet; sorrow
From the Blue Books croakers borrow--sorrow for the days of yore,
For the days when "_Rule Britannia_" sounded far o'er sea and shore.
Ah! it _must_ have been a bore!

But on that let's draw the curtain. I am simply cock-sure--certain
That "our splendid little Army" never was so fine before.
It will take a lot of beating! Such remarks I keep repeating;
They come handy--after eating, and are always sure to score--
Dash that rapping chap entreating entrance at my Office-door!
It is an infernal bore!

Presently I grew more placid (Optimists should not be acid.)
"Come in!" I exclaimed--"con_found_ you! Pray stand drumming there
no more."
But the donkey still kept tapping. "Dolt!" I muttered, sharply
snapping,