Ten thousand strong in legs all bare, And only in their socks, Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare, Yet stood their ground like rocks. But when the Frenchmen saw the foe, Our noble Volunteers, They laughed “Ha, ha!” and yelled “Ho, ho!” And greeted them with sneers. “C’est drôle,” they cried; “c’est bien drôle, Cette armée sans culottes,” And Alphonse yelled to Anatole, “Ils n’ont donc pas de bottes.” The British blushed with bitter shame, Their feelings were acute, And, though they were extremely game, They felt too pained to shoot. Their wail was borne upon the breeze, “The foe our army mocks,” But still the cold benumbed their knees, The snow soaked through their socks. And so because they weren’t equipped As Volunteers should be, The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped, And it was all U P. O Britons, for your country’s sake, And all you hold most dear, A lesson from this story take, And clothe the Volunteer. For trousers, boots, and overcoats To Lord Mayor Whitehead hand A cheque or Bank of England notes, And save your native land. Those Boots. Our Prince a little change would seek, To town a short adieu he bids; In Paris spends his Whitsun week, And takes “the missus and the kids.” At Dover on the deck he stands (See ad.--“The shortest of sea routes”), And hies him o’er to Calais sands In tourist tweed and untanned boots. The cares of State no longer vex, From Fashion’s whirl he steps aside, And takes a trip, our future Rex, And with him goes his silver bride. They take their boys and girls to see The show no sceptred hand salutes, And start, from princely trammels free, In tourist tweeds and untanned boots. Prince! standing in the blazing light That beats upon a modern throne, ’Tis not in royal robes bedight, I ween, your happiest hours are known. The white stones on your road of life Mark where you pluck sweet leisure’s fruits, And with your boys and girls and wife Go trips in tweeds and untanned boots. A Sunday Song. I stood and I shivered last Sunday night Till I bade them set the fire alight, Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar, And I told them to bring me the whisky jar. I filled me a glass, and I held it high As I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky, And I sang to a sad funereal tune The doleful dirge of an English June. “O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,” I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak, “The blazing heat of our one hot day Has fried us up and has passed away; And the weary summer of blights and chills Has come to us big with its thousand ills, And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoon In Regent’s Park in our English June.”