You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit, From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-_dive_; Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit, And I almost wonder you are left alive. But we've got you out of a good deal of _that_, Sir EVELYN and the rest of us. You _foller_; And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller. Then 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid! When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid, You'll just make a TOMMY ATKINS of a quiet Coptic sort; And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport. Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say _you_? _We_ don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes; But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we _do_, We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes; With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush, With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear; But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush? That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year. So 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more, Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar, We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair, We won't leave you--yet--to Fuz-Wuz--him as broke a British Square. You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet, But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line." May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet'! All good fighters may shake fists, you know--'ere's mine! You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab! I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab, TOMMY ATKINS drinks your 'ealth with three times three! So 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan, And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man: An' 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square! * * * * * REFLECTION BY A READER OF "REMINISCENCES." Yes, life _is_ hard. Our fellows judge us coldly; We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters; But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly, Than front posterity through a _Life and Letters._ That Memory's the Mother of the Muses, We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies! Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,-- Nothing from her distorting glass secure is. Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles, So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles, Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate, From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great! * * * * * "HOW LONDON THEATRES ARE WARMED."--By having first-rate pieces. This prevents any chance of a "frost." * * * * *