Dr-rud—­dr-rud—­dr-rud—­dr-rud—­
    Norfolk jackets, city suits,
    Some in shoes and some in boots;
    Clerk and sportsman, tough and nut,
    Reach-me-downs, and Bond-street cut;
    Typical kit of every kind,
    To show the life they’ve left behind.

  Dr-rud—­dr-rud—­dr-rud—­dr-rud—­
    Marching by at an easy pace,
    The great adventure in every face,
    Raw if you like, but full of grit,
    Snatching the chance to do their bit. 
    Oh, I want to cheer and I want to cry
    When Kitchener’s Boys go marching by.

A SCOTSWOMAN IN FRANCE
[Sidenote:  From the “Times,” Sept. 24, 1914]

A valued contributor writes:  “Would you like this new Scotch reel, inspired by the pipes of the bonny Highlanders, who for a week made a little Scotland of Melun?  On Wednesday, the 2nd, I was in the town and saw the good women rush from the streets into their houses, crying in dreadful voices, ‘Les Allemands!’ And there, by the old church, round the corner, came the Highlanders!  I stood still on the pavement and sang ‘Scots wha hae’ at the top of my old cracked voice, and they, appreciating the welcome, and excusing the minstrelsy, waved their hands to me.  The Staff was here, the Flying Corps, three regiments, English and Scottish—­such brave, bright, orderly, kind young men.  On September 6 the cannon sounded very near.  I went into the street and said to a demure, douce young Highlander, ‘Do ye think the Germans are coming?’ And he replied, ’I’fe been hearing, Matam, that the Chermans will hafe been hafing a pit of a set-pack.’  It was in this modest manner that I heard of the victory of the Marne.”

A NEW SCOTCH REEL
[Sidenote:  From the “Times” Sept. 24, 1914]

  Dance, since ye’re dancing, William,
    Dance up and doon,
  Set to your partners, William,
    We’ll play the tune! 
      See, make a bow to Paris,
        Here’s Antwerp-toon;
      Off to the Gulf of Riga,
        Back to Verdun—­
      Ay, but I’m thinking, laddie,
        Ye’ll use your shoon!

  Dance, since ye’re dancing, William,
    Dance up and doon,
  Set to your partners, William,
    We’ll play the tune! 
      What!  Wad ye stop the pipers? 
        Nay, ’tis ower-soon! 
      Dance, since ye’re dancing, William,
        Dance, ye puir loon! 
      Dance till ye’re dizzy, William,
        Dance till ye swoon! 
      Dance till ye’re dead, my laddie! 
        We play the tune!

DESPATCHES
[Sidenote:  "Touchstone” in the “Daily Mail"]

  Swift as a bullet out of a gun
    He passed me by with an inch to spare,
  Raising a dust-cloud thick and dun
    While the stench of lubricant filled the air. 
  I must admit that I did not like
  The undergrad on his motor-bike.

  I have seen him, too, at the wayside inn,
    A strapping lad scarce out of his teens,
  Grimy, but wearing a cheerful grin;
    A young enthusiast, full of beans,
  While his conversation was little better
  Than pure magneto and carburetter.