vocabulary and a chronic habit of self-deception, would call the place orderly.

The Adjutant speaks hoarsely; while he speaks he writes, about something quite different. In the middle of each sentence his pipe goes out; at the end of each sentence he lights a match. He may or may not light his pipe; anyhow he speaks:

"Where is that list of Weslyans I made?

And what are all those people on the stair?
Is that my pencil? Well, they can't be paid.
Tell the Marines we have no forms to spare.
I cannot get these Ration States to square.
The Brigadier is coming round, they say.

The Colonel wants a man to cut his hair.
I think I must be going mad to-day.

"These silly questions! I shall tell Brigade
This office is now closing for repair.
They want to know what Mr. Johnstone weighed,
And if the Armourer is dark or fair?

I do not know; I cannot say I care.
Tell that interpreter to go away.

Where is my signal pad? I left it there.
I think I must be going mad to-day.

"Perhaps I should appear upon parade.
Where is my pencil? Ring up Captain Aire.
Say I regret our tools have been mislaid.

These companies would make Sir Douglas swear.
'A' is the worst. Oh, damn, is this the Maire?

I'm sorry, Monsieur-je suis désolé

But no one's pinched your miserable chair.
I think I must be going mad to-day.

ENVOI

"Prince, I perceive what Cain's temptations were,
And how attractive it must be to slay.
O Lord, the General! This is hard to bear.
I think I must be going mad to-day."

A. P. Herbert

BALLADE OF DOTTINESS

A cow, delighted, blew her horn,
The pines stopped pining and were gay,
The weeping willows ceased to mourn,
A donkey, thrilled, began to bray,
The sun released a brilliant ray,
The birds pronounced a benediction,
As John and Helen kissed that day—
Oh, for an end of dotty fiction!

You laugh my parody to scorn?
That I exaggerate, you say?

Well, read "The Rose Without a Thorn"
And you'll accept my roundelay,

Especially when in dismay

Spurned Julius cries his sore affliction,

"Men are but things with which you play!"—

Oh, for an end of dotty fiction!

Dear Novelists, since I was born
I've watched the fictional decay,

And resolutely I have sworn
A fictionist or two to slay.

Ye second raters, run away

Before you feel a tight constriction

About your gizzards!

(Kneel and pray!)

Oh, for an end of dotty fiction!

L'ENVOI

How can the publishers defray

The punctuation bills? . . . "Conviction

Faced Doyle. . . He wept. . . . I saw him

sway.

Oh, for an end of dotty fiction!

Edward Anthony

THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER

Let all men living on earth take heed,

For their own souls' sake, to a rhyme well meant; Writ so that he who runs may read—

We are the folk that a-summering went. Who while the year was young were bentYea, bent on doing this self-same thing Which we have done unto some extent. This is the end of our summering.

We are the folk who would fain be freed
From wasteful burdens of rate and rent-
From the vampire agents' ravening breed—
We are the folk that a-summering went.
We hied us forth when the summer was blent
With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,
A-seeking the meadows dew-besprent

This is the end of our summering.

For O the waiters that must be fee'd,

And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling
"gent;"

And the youth next door with the ophicleide!

We are the folk that a-summering went!

Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,

While birds their way to the southward wing,

Come back, our money for no good spentThis is the end of our summering.

ENVOY

Citizens! list to our sore lament

While the landlord's hands to our raiment clingWe are the folk that a-summering went:

This is the end of our summering.

H. C. Bunner

ON NEWPORT BEACH

(Rondeau)

On Newport beach there ran right merrily,
In dainty navy blue clothed to the knee,

Thence to the foot in white au naturel,
A little maid. Fair was she, truth to tell,
As Oceanus' child Callirrhoë.

In the soft sand lay one small shell, its wee
Keen scallops tinct with faint hues, such as be
In girlish cheeks. In some old storm it fell
On Newport Beach.

There was a bather of the species he,

Who saw the little maid go toward the sea;
Rushing to help her through the billowy swell,
He set his sole upon the little shell,
And heaped profanely phrasèd obloquy
On Newport Beach.

H. C. Bunner

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS

(Inscribed to an Intense Poet)

I. RONDEAU

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses.

"Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges. Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, "I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime-I leave you all to guess
How prime!-to have a jude in love's distress
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
"O crikey, Bill!"

For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
I kissed her I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain't good business,
O crikey, Bill!

II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too

(She ses, my Missus mine,* ses she),
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em-nice and skew
Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw,
They're equal to a Sunday spree,

Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue,

And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.

Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.

Joe, I'm consummate; and I see

Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses te you

Esthetic-like, and limp, and free—

Now ain't they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits of Blue?

III. BALLADE

I often does a quiet read
At Booty Shelly's † poetry;

* An adaptation of "Madonna mia." Probably Botticelli.