Those infinitives perplex me; I can say you’re “tray jolee,” But beyond that simple statement All my tenses don’t agree. I can make the Boche “comprenney” When I meet ’em in a trench, But the softer things escape me When I try to yap in French. In your pretty little garden Darn the idioms that dance On your tongue so sweet and rapid, Ah, they hold me in a trance! Though I stutter an’ I stammer, In your garden, on the bench, Yet my heart is writin’ poems When I talk to you in French. MULES C. FOX SMITH IN LONDON PUNCH Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch” I never would ’ave done it if I’d known what it would be. I thought it meant promotion and some extra pay for me; I thought I’d miss a drill or two with packs an’ trenchin’ tools, So I said I’d ’andled horses--an’ they set me ’andlin’ mules. Now ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule, ’e is a mule (Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!) Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I didn’t learn at school On the prancin’, glancin’, rag-time dancin’ army transport mule. If I’d been Father Noah when the cargo walked aboard, I’d ’ave let the bears an’ tigers in, an’ never spoke a word; But I’d ’ave shoved a placard out to say the ’ouse was full, An’ shut the ark up suddent when I saw the army mule. They buck you off when ridden, they squish your leg when led; They’re mostly sittin’ on their tail or standing on their ’ead; They reach their yellow grinders out an’ gently chew your ear, An’ their necks is indiarubber for attackin’ in the rear. They’re as mincin’ when they’re ’appy as a ladies’ ridin’ school, But when the fancy takes ’em they’re like nothin’ but a mule-- With the off wheels in the gutter an’ the near wheels in the air, An’ a leg across the traces, an’ the driver Lord knows where. They’re ’orrid in the stables, they’re worse upon the road; They’ll bolt with any rider, they’ll jib with any load; But soon we’re bound beyond the seas, an’ when we cross the foam I don’t care where we go to if we leaves the mules at ’ome. For ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule ’e is a mule (Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!) Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I never learnt at school On the rampin’, rawboned, cast-steel-jawboned army transport mule. AN APRIL SONG GEORGE C. MICHAEL, LANCE CORPORAL, R. E. (Written on leave at Stratford-on-Avon.) Orchard land! Orchard land! Damson blossom, primrose bloom: Avon, like a silver band Winds from Stratford down to Broome: All the orchards simmer white For an April day’s delight: We have risen in our might, Left this land we love, to fight, Fighting still, that these may stand, Orchard land! Orchard land!