Down Newport Street, last Sunday night, Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast: She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight, And Bill strode on like one possest. O Love’s a curse to them that’s young ’Twas all because of love and drink; Why couldn’t the silly hold her tongue, Or stop, before she spoke, to think? She played with fire, did pretty Nell, So Bill must hang ere summer’s here: Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell Through love, and poverty and beer! _The Spanish Sailor_ (_Charlton Vale_) Through lines of lights the river glides, Bestrewn with many a green-eyed ship, And swiftly down the slinking tides All night the heavy steamers slip. Bright shone the moon when he slunk down, A-sailing to some foreign parts, Past Greenwich and past Gravesend Town, And caring nought for broken hearts. ’Twas in July. He kissed and fled: He stole my all and slipt to sea, And now I wish that I was dead —Or that his arms were crushing me. _Outside Charing Cross_ (_2.35 p.m._) Of course she’s there to see him off— Trust her for that. Tears in her eyes, enough to be becoming, The latest furs, then sympathy, for tea! And if he’s hit, my own, she’ll hear it first. She’ll be the one to fly to France, To bore the Doctor and the Nurse And drive him mad—if he still lives. But I, who love him so my heart grows faint, Who’d gladly bleed to death to save him pain, Must wait and read the news in some blurred list.... Then, ever the grinning mask, day in, day out, While she, hard as a stone, Wears stylish black and tells her lover’s son How “Father died a hero in the War!” 1915. _Saloon Bar, Railway Arms_ (_Waterloo Road_) THE SERGEANT-MAJOR SPEAKS Now you get out, you lousy tart! Outside’s my lawful wife and kids Turned up to watch the regiment depart, And all dressed neat, in black. Why such as you’s orl right, maybe, In time of peace. And I’ll allow We’ve ’ad some fun, been on the spree— But now, you slut, it’s War. Think o’ your Gord! That’s wot I say. The Missus there’s _respectable_— ’Er and the kids. If you don’t run away I’ll wring yer neck, yer cow! ’Ear me? You ought to be ashamed of yerself, Turning up like this and making trouble! Come on, chuck it! Don’t ’owl. Give us a slobber then.... Now ’op it—poor little swine. _Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus_ Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus has three sons killed in the war, (But to see her brave, sweet face, you would never guess it.) She has “given” some nephews as well, and cousins galore; “And if one feels sad,” she says, “one ought to suppress it.” She belongs to two Funds, some Committees, and several clubs, Where she states what she’s done for England, with modest pride; And she works like a black at recruiting outside the pubs; And is always ready to tell “how her dear ones died.”