OVERTURE.  “Glasgow Fair.” Talisker McUsquebaugh.

CAMBRIAN “SNEEZE” for Full Orchestra. Taliesin Jones.

ORCHESTRA MUSINGS ON IRISH RAILWAY STATIONS. Dermod MacCathmhaoil. (a) Stillorgan. (b) Dundrum. (c) Bray.

BUBBLINGS FROM BUTE. Diarmid Dinwiddie.

DITHYRAMBIC ODE.  “The Belles of Barmouth.” Ivor Jenkins.

VALSE FANTASTIQUE.  “Synthetic Rubber.” Marcellus Thom.

* * * * *

CHEMIN DES DAMES.

  In silks and satins the ladies went
  Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent,
  Taking the air of a Sunday morn
  Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn—­
  Flowery ladies in gold brocades,
  With negro pages and serving-maids,
  In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
  With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
  Patch and powder and trailing scent,
  Under the trees the ladies went—­
  Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
  As they took the air on the Ladies’ Road.

  Boom of thunder and lightning flash—­
  The torn earth rocks to the barrage crash;
  The bullets whine and the bullets sing
  From the mad machine-guns chattering;
  Black smoke rolling across the mud,
  Trenches plastered with flesh and blood—­
  The blue ranks lock with the ranks of gray,
  Stab and stagger and sob and sway;
  The living cringe from the shrapnel bursts,
  The dying moan of their burning thirsts,
  Moan and die in the gulping slough—­
  Where are the butterfly ladies now?

  PATLANDER.

* * * * *

    “No persons were injured and no houses were bit by the
    bombs.”—­Sunday Pictorial.

But they barked horrid.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  CORNERED.

KAISER (having read Mr. GERARD’S German reminiscences).  “I NEVER SAW
A MORE ABOMINABLE TISSUE OF DELIBERATE TRUTHS.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A LIFE OF PLEASURE.

“MOTHER, NURSE PUT ME RIGHT INTO THE VERY COLDEST PART OF THE SEA.”]

* * * * *

THE BROWN CART-HORSE.

“Brain-fag!  That’s wot we ’orses are suffering from.  Ah! there’s bin a deal o’ queer things ’appen since they women started on the farm!  I shan’t never forget the first time one of them females come into my stall.  The roan pony, wot’s got sentimental thro’ being everlasting driven in the governess-cart, sez she was a pretty young woman.  I never noticed nothing ’bout ’er ’cept the pink rose in ’er button-’ole.  I never ’eard tell of a farm ’and with a pink rose in ’is shirt before.  Maybe such carryings on is all right for they grooms an’ kerridge-’orses, but it ain’t ’ardly decent for a respectable farm ’orse.  So when this ’ere woman