I've never sampled in the flesh The varied charms of Bootle, But mentally I find them fresh And redolent of footle; And, though my steps to that resort I never up till now bent, Imagination can transport My spirit into Chowbent. Always alert upon the track Of rich and strange emotion, To Pudsey and to Wibsey Slack I pay my fond devotion; My heart is in the Highlands oft, Though age its glow enfeebles, And soars triumphantly aloft At the mere sound of Peebles. The nightingale in leafy June, I own, divinely warbles, But equal magic fills the tune- ful name of Scotia's Gorbals; And if you ever should desire A subject to wax funny on, What theme more fitly can inspire The Muse than Ballybunnion? Some places on my astral rounds I'm strong upon tabooing, On anti-alcoholic grounds Grogport and Rum eschewing; But no such painful stigma robs Proud Potto of its lustre, Or rules out Crank and Smeeth and Stobs, A memorable cluster. The pictures rising in my brain Are strange; sometimes I muddle 'em, Confounding Pleck with Plodder Lane, Titley with Tillietudlem; In short, it's not a game of skill, Else I should scarce essay at; But it is harmless, costs me _nil_; And nobody need play it. The plan is simple; choose a spot, Then focus with decision Your thoughts upon it till you've got A clear-cut mental vision; And though from fact it widely errs, Remember in conclusion Only the man of prose prefers Eyewitness to illusion. * * * * * FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT. Extract from a soldier's letter:-- "DEAR MOTHER,--I am thoroughly run down, and have grown so thin that when I get a pain in my middle I cannot tell whether it is a backache or a stomachache." * * * * * "The choristers and I.C.U. enlivened each station along the route by rending sacred songs and solos as The Kano Express drew in."--_Lagos Weekly Record._ "That's torn it," said the conductor. * * * * * "Britons never shall be slaves if they will only remember the solemn warning of the author of the words--'To thine own self be true, and then thou canst be false to any man.'"--_Letter in Scotch Paper._ One recognises the note of liberty, but we fear the writer must have got hold of a German edition of "Unser Shakspeare." * * * * * THE HARDSHIPS OF BILLETS. As Jim and me lies in hospital gettin' better from our wounds we talks over what we've been through in this War.