Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright, And beard the glittering beetle in his lair, And fill the arches of the ancient night With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare Sleepily forth from the snug corner where They fain would rest. But I will sympathize With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care. I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies. The tiny gnats they swarm in many a cloud, To tangle their small limbs within my hair And sting. The blood-flies dart: and buzzing loud Blue-bottles draw mad patterns on the air. The house-flies creep, and, what is hard to bear, Feed on the poison papers advertise, And rub their hands with relish of such fare! I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies. _Envoi._ Prince--Clown of Europe--others shall make haste To call damnation on your limbs and eyes. Spending good oaths upon you were a waste: I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies. TO THE KAISER (_Confidentially_) I met a man--a refugee, And he was blind in both his eyes, sir. And in his pate A silver plate (’Twas rather comical to see!) Shone where the bone skull used to be Before your shrapnel struck him, Kaiser. Shattering in the self-same blast (Blind as a tyrant in his dotage), The foolish wife Who risked her life, As peasants will do till the last, Clinging to one small Belgian cottage. That was their home. The whining child Beside him in the railway carriage Was born there, and The little land Around it (now untilled and wild), Was brought him by his wife on marriage. The child was whining for its mother, And interrupting half he said, sir. I’ll never see the pair again.... Nor they the mother that lies dead, sir. That’s all--a foolish tale, not worth The ear of noble lord or Kaiser. A man un-named, By shrapnel maimed, Wife slain, home levelled to the earth-- That’s all. You see no point? Nor I, sir. Yet on the day you come to die, sir, When all your war dreams cease to be, Perchance will rise Before your eyes (Piercing your hollow heart, Sir Kaiser!) The picture that I chanced to see, Riding (we’ll say) from A to B. ROBERT HERRICK SOLILOQUIZES ON THE C.O. A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in him small kindliness. My slack puttees him oft have thrown Into a fine distraction. An erring lace he cannot bear, Nor the neglected, flowing hair. Did he command that splendid force The W.V.T.C., of course, He’d see they dressed with careful art, Very precise in every part. And would, I’m certain, never dote On the tempestuous petticoat. THE THREE PADRES (_Acrostics_) _R. C. Chaplain._ Pale-faced, brown-eyed, slight, Upon a lanky bay Rides this modern knight Down rain-beat road to-day; In a little broken shrine Emptying out the blessed wine. _Wesleyan Chaplain._