A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season:-- THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT." I. With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head-- Scratch, scratch, scratch-- At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch Thus sang he of "Prickly Heat." II. "Itch, itch, itch, Till my brain begins to swim, And scratch, scratch, scratch, Till I bleed in every limb. Thighs, and body, and arms, Back, and body, and thighs, Till weary with scratching I fall asleep, And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes. III. "Oh! white men banished here! Oh! men all greedy of wealth! It is not money your sweating out, But your precious, precious health! Itch, itch, itch, Through years of monotonous rack, Sowing at once with a double seed, Disease as well as a Lakh! IV. "They say it is not disease, This villanous pimply glow, If not disease's tangible shape, 'Tis deuced like it though-- 'Tis deuced like it though, If healthy skins are pale. Oh, God! that suns should be so strong And flesh and blood so frail. V. "Scratch, scratch, scratch, My labour never flags; And what are its wages?--a carcass raw-- Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags, This tortured head, and this body flayed, Dyspepsia and gloom alway, And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank Who drones me through the day. VI. "Itch, itch, itch, When good dinners glad the sight, And scratch, scratch, scratch, When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite, When under silver roofs Rich viands my servants bring, As if to show me their dainty shapes, And twit me for lingering. VII. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, Where the sky above one's head Is not of this melting heat; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew Calcutta's suns Flay men as men the eel. VIII. "Oh! but for one short hour A respite just to snatch! No blessed leisure for love or lark-- But only time to scratch. Though goulard water might ease my pain The antidote I dread, An idle day might affect my pay, And physic claims a bed." IX.