That Hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stowed a flask in each, 'N' presently I'm thinkin' I could love him like a brother. He's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandish parts of speech. "You're prisoner of war," I sez; 'n' then we had another. Ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills it to the brim, 'N' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin' up for him. We drink each other's health, 'n' know no henmity nor fear. I see I've got to pinch him, but he's out to do his div. in, 'N' don't care if he don't go home till day- light doth appear. Sez he: "I pud you home to bed upside dot 'ouse you live in." He shakes his finger in me eye: "Mein friendt, you're preddy trunk!" Then arm in arm through No Man's land we does a social bunk. There's Fear afoot. Comes more than once the glug of sudden death. We're rockin' fine 'n' careless where the rifle fire is breakin', 'N' singin' most uproar'ous, in the bomb's disgustin' breath, Of girls, 'n' drink, 'n' cheerful sprees, 'n' 'Herman thinks he's takin' A cobber home to somewhere in an subbub damp 'n' dim, Whereas I know fer certain it is me is takin' him. Somehow, sometime, I lands him where he's safely put to bed. I wake nex' day, 'n' holy smoke! I'm pri- soner with the German. Me mouth is like an ashpan, there's hot fish- bolts in me head, 'N' through the barb-wire peerin' is me foreigh cobber 'Erman. "Ve capdure each lasd nighd," sez he "you home haf bring me, boss." For bravery in takin' me, he got the Iron Cross! WHEN TOMMY CAME MARCHING HOME. DEVINE came back the other day. We'd planned a great home-comin'. No long trombone we had to play, No fine, heroic drummin'. With two sticks and a milk-can Borne Put up a martial clatter, While Carter blew a bullock-horn Says Tom Devine, with healthy scorn; "Gorstruth! what is the matter?" We set three colored petticoats From Baker's chimneys blowin' ('Tis not the bravest flag that floats, Yet 'twas the finest goin'); We cheered our hero all we knew, No song of praise neglectin', To show our pride as he limped through He merely spat and snorted, "Who "The deuce are yous expectin'?" They lured him to my shop somehow, And sued for news of battle. Says Tom: "Who rides the mail track now? Who herdin' Stringer's cattle?" A dint the Turk put in his head. He covers with a ringlet. He'd won a medal, so we read. "I might 'ave 'ad it pinched," he said- "I've sewn it in my singlet!" Says Cole "But, 'struth, you must 'ave seen A fearful swag of scrappin'." And Tom agrees "Where men are keen That's pretty sure to 'appen. One night a little bloke from Hay Who plugged a Pentridge warder Got such a doin' that at day, Amazed, they ticked him for a stray Distinguished Service Order.