With you, O enchanting Canadian, We laughed till you gave us a stitch In our sides at the wondrous Arcadian Exploits of the indolent rich; We loved your satirical sniping, And followed, far over "the pond," The lure of your whimsical piping Behind the Beyond. In place of the squalor that stretches Unchanged o'er the realist's page, The sunshine that glows in your Sketches Is potent our griefs to assuage; And when, on your mettlesome charger, Full tilt against reason you go, Your Lunacy's finer and Larger Than any I know. The faults of ephemeral fiction, Exotic, erotic or smart, The vice of delirious diction, The latest excesses of Art-- You flay in felicitous fashion, With dexterous choice of your tools, A scourge for unsavoury passion, A hammer for fools. And yet, though so freakish and dashing, You are not the slave of your fun, For there's nobody better at lashing The crimes and the cant of the Hun; Anyhow, I'd be proud as a peacock To have it inscribed on my tomb: "He followed the footsteps of LEACOCK In banishing gloom." * * * * * From an Indian clerk's letter to his employer:-- "I am glad that the War is progressing very favourably for the Allies. We long for the day when, according to Lord Curzon's saying, 'The Bengal Lancers will petrol the streets of Berlin.'" Quite the right spirit. * * * * * [Illustration: _Awe-struck Tommy (from the trenches)._ "LOOK, BILL--SOLDIERS!"] * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. (_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)