The Bed-Book of Happiness Part 38

The Germans have had a bright, new idea, and are calling us a nation of shop-keepers. Certainly we have been fairly successful so far in repelling their counter-attacks.

THE K.A. BOYS [Sidenote: _Jessie Pope in the "Daily Mail"_]

_Dr-rud--dr-rud--dr-rud--dr-rud--_ Kitchener's Army on the march Through Marylebone and Marble Arch, Men in motley, so to speak, Been in training about a week, Swinging easy, toe and heel, Game and gay, and keen as steel.

_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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Now he has got the chance of his life, The chance of earning glorious scars, And I picture him scouring a land of strife, Crouching over his handle-bars, His open exhaust, with its roar and stench, Like a Maxim gun in a British trench.

Lad, when we met in that country lane Neither foresaw the days to come, But I know that if ever we meet again My heart will throb to your engine's hum, And to-day, as I read, I catch my breath At the thought of your ride through the hail of death!

But to you it is just a glorious lark; Scorn of danger is still your creed.

As you open her out and advance your spark And humour the throttle to get more speed, Life has only one end for you, To carry your priceless message through!

BURGOMASTER MAX [Sidenote: _H.B._]

Our children will sing with delight for all time Of the Briton, the French, and the Russian, But most of the man who with humour sublime Pulled the goose-stepping leg of the Prussian.

NEWS FROM THE FRONT [Sidenote: _C.E.B. in the "Evening News"_]

This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations of a disgustful kind.

Our sojers they was weepin'

The night we went away For some one whispered we was off The Germans for to slay.

To shoot them cultured Bosches Would make a Briton shrink And so our 'earts was sad to go (I _don't_ think).

An' when we met them blighters Of course we turned and ran, An' Tubby French 'e shouted out "All save theirselves as can"; An' when the big Jack Johnsons banged We didn't cheer and larf An' pump the Bosches full o' lead (No, not 'arf).

An' w'en our foes retreated We knowed we couldn't win For they was out, that artful like, To lure us to Berlin.

But touch that 'ome of culture?

We'd rather far be shot; We simply worship Kaiser Bill (P'raps, p'raps not).

FALL IN!

[Sidenote: _H.B._]

What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack When the girls line up the street, Shouting their love to the lads come back From the foe they rushed to beat?

Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky And grin till your cheeks are red?

But what will you lack when your mates go by With a girl who cuts you dead?

Where will you look, sonny, where will you look When your children yet to be Clamour to learn of the part you took In the War that kept men free?

Will you say it was naught to you if France Stood up to her foe or bunked?

But where will you look when they give the glance That tells you they know you funked?

How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare In the far-off winter night, When you sit by the fire in an old man's chair And your neighbours talk of the fight?

Will you slink away, as it were from a blow, Your old head shamed and bent?

Or say--I was not with the first to go, But I went, thank G.o.d, I went!

Why do they call, sonny, why do they call For men who are brave and strong?

Is it naught to you if your country fall, And Right is smashed by Wrong?

Is it football still and the picture show, The pub and the betting odds, When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow And England's call is G.o.d's?

DIES IRAE [Sidenote: _Owen Seaman in "Punch"_]

To the German Kaiser

Amazing Monarch! who at various times, Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour, Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes By your behaviour;

We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much, Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour, Lent to a dullish world the needed touch Of saving humour.

What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear, Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians, Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere With rude concussions;