And parapets and sandbags, Our trenches fallen, too-- There's room for ammunition, But not for me or you. Once more, from the mouth of my dug-out, I smoke the leaves of the lime-- Sort the destinies of my shells, "Percussion" and also "time." There's a light in the telephone dug-out-- I think I'll have a peep, For I'm half expecting a message-- Maybe the Bombardier's asleep. Asleep! in the arms of Hunger; But I'll report him not, Though I "rounded" him well for his slackness, And returned to my watery lot. Past sheets of wintry moonlight I see the drooping palm, And the ribboned edge of the Tigris, Dreaming of Eden's calm. Hard by, in ghastly stillness, His four feet toward the moon, I see the corpse of a stricken horse, Death-knelled by the shrapnel-tune. A broken wagon there yonder-- A topee adrift in the flood-- Its owner was strafed in the trenches, There's the case of the shell in the mud. I hear the belated mule-carts A-rumbling on to the Fort Under the cover of night-- For so their provisions were brought. I hear the jackals' chorus, Athirst for expected prey, Where the Arab tribes lie sleeping, Patiently awaiting "the day." Enough! these things are over, The moon is on the wane, And the palm-fronds' festooned shadows I ne'er shall see again. For Kut at last is fallen, And more men have to die-- Our flag is down, and the Crescent Waves o'er the old Serai. God grant to us, now captives-- Who at Death's gate boldly dare Boast we haven't succumbed to battle-- Grant us this fervent prayer-- That in our future cheerless, We yet shall know o'er Kut Our avengers see the Union Jack-- Tramp the Crescent underfoot. To that, then, drink from this date-juice, And fill up your pipe with the lime. We have fought till the Great Gong sounded-- Till the Referee called out--"Time!" SPARKLING MOSELLE. * * * * * (11) THE SILK GAUNTLET OR, HOW WE ESCAPED FROM KASTAMUNI By "A Kuttite." I. THE SHIP.