The A.S.C.’s a nobleman; ’e rides a motor-car,
  ’E is not forced to ’ump a pack, as we footsloggers are;
  ’E drives ’is lorry through the towns and ’alts for fags and beer;
  We infantry, we does without, there ain’t no shops up ’ere;
  And then for splashin’ us with mud ’e draws six bob a day,
  For the further away from the line you go the ’igher your rate of pay.

  My shirt is rather chatty and my socks ’ud make you larf;
  It’s just a week o’ Sundays since they sent us for a barf;
  But them that ’as the cushy jobs they lives in style and state,
  With a basin in their bedrooms and their dinners on a plate;
  For ‘tis a law o’ nachur with the bloomin’ infantry—­
  The nearer up to the line you go the dirtier will you be.

  Blokes at the base, they gets their leave when they’ve bin out three
      munse;
  I ’aven’t seen my wife and kids for more ’n a year, not once;
  The missus writes, “About that pass, you’d better ask again;
  I think you must ’ave been forgot.”  Old girl, the reason’s plain: 
  We are the bloomin’ infantry, and you must just believe
  That the nearer up to the line you go the less is your chance of leave.

* * * * *

    “We cussed at Grosvenor House and some steps in this direction may be
    expected if the demands of retailers become more rapacious.”—­Daily
    Mail.

It is no good abusing the FOOD CONTROLLER, however, or prices would long ago have been down to zero.

* * * * *

MAB DREAMS OF MAY.

  The day-dim torches of chestnut trees stand dreamily, dreamily;
    In myriad jewels of glad young green, smooth black are the broad beech
        boles;
  The fragrant foam of the cherry trees hangs creamily, creamily,
    And the purpling lilacs and the blackthorn brakes are singing with all
        their souls!

  The pinky petals of lady’s-smocks peer maidenly, maidenly;
    Meadow-sweet, donning her fragrant lace, is daintiest friend of the
        breeze;
  Hyacinths wild, blue-misting the woods, hang ladenly, ladenly,
    And tiniest bird’s-eye burns deep blue in thickets of tall grass trees!

Daylong I lie, daylong I dream, swung swooningly, swooningly,
In an old-time tulip of flaming gold, red-flaunted and streaked with
green,
While song of the birds, of water and bees comes crooningly, crooningly,
And Summer brings me her swift mad months with scent and colour and
sheen. 
Winter is gone, I ween,
As it had never been!

Dance! dance!  Delicately dance!
Revel with the delicatest stamp and go!
Dance! dance!  Circle and advance,
Curtsey, twirl about,
Shatter the dew and whirl about,
Stamp upon the moonbeams—­heel and toe!

* * * * *