The gipsy camping in a dingle I reckon as a lucky dog; He doesn’t hear the voice of PRINGLE, He doesn’t hear the snorts of HOGGE. The moujik crouching in his ingle Somewhere near Tomsk or Taganrog I envy; he is far from PRINGLE And equally remote from HOGGE. I find them deadly when they’re single, But deadlier in the duologue, When the insufferable PRINGLE Backs the intolerable HOGGE. I’d rather walk for miles on shingle Or flounder knee-deep in a bog Than listen to a speech from PRINGLE Or hearken to the howls of HOGGE. Their tyrannous exactions mingle The vices of Kings Stork and Log; One day I give the palm to PRINGLE, The next I offer it to HOGGE. The style of _Mr. Alfred Jingle_ Was jumpy, but he did not clog His sense with woolly words, like PRINGLE, With priggish petulance, like HOGGE. I’d love to see the _Bing Boys_ bingle, To go to music-halls _incog._, Instead of being posed by PRINGLE And heckled by the hateful HOGGE. My appetite is gone; I “pingle” (As Norfolk puts it) with my prog; My meals are marred by thoughts of PRINGLE, My sleep is massacred by HOGGE. O patriots, with your nerves a-tingle, With all your righteous souls agog, Will none of you demolish PRINGLE And utterly extinguish HOGGE? THE FLAPPER [Dr. ARTHUR SHADWELL, in the _Nineteenth Century_ for January, 1917, in his article on “Ordeal by Fire,” after denouncing idlers and loafers and shirkers, falls foul “above all” of the young girls called flappers, “with high heels, skirts up to their knees and blouses open to the diaphragm, painted, powdered, self-conscious, ogling: ‘Allus adallacked and dizened oot and a ’unting arter the men.’”] Good Dr. ARTHUR SHADWELL, who lends lustre to a name Which DRYDEN in his satires oft endeavoured to defame, Has lately been discussing in a high-class magazine The trials that confront us in the year Nineteen Seventeen. He is not a smooth-tongued prophet; no, he takes a serious view; We must make tremendous efforts if we’re going to win through; And though he’s not unhopeful of the issue of the fray He finds abundant causes for misgiving and dismay. Our optimistic journals his exasperation fire, And the idlers and the loafers stimulate his righteous ire; But it is the flapper chiefly that in his gizzard sticks, And he’s down upon her failings like a waggon-load of bricks. She’s ubiquitous in theatres, in rail and ’bus and tram, She wears her “blouses open down to the diaphragm,” And, instead of realizing what our men are fighting for, She’s an orgiastic nuisance who in fact _enjoys_ the War. It’s a strenuous indictment of our petticoated youth And contains a large substratum of unpalatable truth; Our women have been splendid, but the Sun himself has specks, And the flapper can’t be reckoned as a credit to her sex.