John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Clothes and the Man I sing. Reformers, note These of the Subaltern who owned a Coat. He was what veterans miscall, for short,

11.30 P.M., DEC. 31 Friend, when the year is on the wing, 'Tis held a fair and comely thing

In the dim and distant ages, in the half-forgotten days, Ere the East became the fashion and an Indian tour the craze, Lived a certain Major-General, renowned throughout the State

Long, long ago, in that heroic time When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime

After W. W. An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, and may take the most unexpected forms. When in my white-washed walls confined

Christmas comes but once a year. Though by nature snappy, Let us, as we may, appear

Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead. Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave The busy marge, he lies unvisited,

From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, I am borne on the pinions of leave, From the things that are bad to repeat

'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet It looks to the careless observer! So simple; so easy to treat

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic To that full calm which may be justly called

In Several Keys We hear the opening refrain, Marie!

'Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.' The time-gun rolls his nerve-destroying bray;

After T. G. Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades, In decent foliage drest,

[Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity. Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one herded in the Gun-park with his kind.] Strong scion of the sturdy past When simpler methods ruled the fray,

BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE Wake! for Reveill'e scatters into flight The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night,

After A. C. S. In Spring there are lashings of new books, In Autumn fresh novels are sold,

Allons! Allons! Tra-la-la! Hear my Bellata! Why do you not return to Mandalay O soldier? Do you not remember the boats, and the paddles as they chunked outside the boats?

Come, let us quaff the brimming cup Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain; For clearly, things are warming up

Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping? Why do you cling to the dear old graves, When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping

Away, away! The plains of Ind Have set their victim free; I give my sorrows to the wind,

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, And tired of the night with its lack of repose,

'The Government of India has been pleased to sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.' To him that reads with careless eyes My present theme affords

After A. T. So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, - Damsel v. Dame - by ruder cynics called

There's a little lake that lies In a valley, where the skies Kiss the mountains, as they rise,

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks, Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks, Sang of the Sons of that Empire - told them they came of the Blood -

After R. B. Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo, Ha, ha, the wooin' o't;

Solace of mine hours of anguish, Peace-imparting View, when I, Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wish

After R. H. A strong discomfort in the dress Dwindling the clothes to nothingness

(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING) I A song of Mandalay!

'... O she, To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart

Now the busy screw is churning, Now the horrid sirens blow; Now are India's guests returning

It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic Schools There are rules By observing which when mundane matter irks,