In June we’re now parading, Last month was merry May, But for Volunteer brigading We’ve not had one dry day! The aforesaid Alexander, As a hero of _Greece_ appears Of our kin to be, for _dripping_ are we Poor London Volunteers! Umbrellas and alpacas We scorn, and oil-skin capes; And the rain-drops from our shakos May trickle down our napes. We may continue drilling, And manœvuring about for years, But “_Wetter’uns_” some needn’t hope to become In the London Volunteers. But yet there’s no complaining; Rheumatics we defy, And though cats and dogs it’s raining, We keep our powder dry. Little think the small boys shouting “Who shot the dog?” in our ears, What an inward fire flares up to inspire Us London Volunteers. Then a fig for showers and sneerers, Let’s show Sir Robert yet; We can laugh at fire and fleerers, As we’ve laughed at heavy wet. And we hope to teach the foeman, Who on our shore appears, If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn, As London Volunteers. Three cheers for all who’re willing To be wetted through and through! For those who stick to drilling Till all is damp and blue. May none of us blow our heads off, Whether privates or brigadiers, And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day, For reviewing the Volunteers. _Punch._ June 16, 1860. The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an exceptionally wet season. ―――― THE SOIREE OF THE CIVIL ENGINEERS. Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose, Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those, But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer! Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam, Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream; But ours are far more knowing:――their triumphs skill uprears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers! Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car―― These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres, Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers! Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made, Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade; And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers!