geant's grip, Though your fingers ache to the bone! Better to take the Sergeant's tip Than to make up your mind alone. They can do things together, can Wren and Joy-- The bristly bear and the beard- less boy-- That neither could do on his own. BUT there's never a word about Old Man Wren In the screeds he scribbles to-day-- Though he praises his N.C.O.'s and men In rather a pointed way. And he rubs it in (with a knitted brow) That the war's as good as a pic- nic now, And better than any play! HIS booby-hutch is "as safe as the Throne," And he fares "like the C.-in- Chief," But has purchased "a top-hole gramophone By way of comic relief." (And he sighs as he hears the men applaud, While the Woodbine spices are wafted abroad With the odour of bully-beef.) HE may touch on the latest type of bomb, But Ermyntrude needn't blench, For he never says where you hurl it from, And it might be from your trench. He never might lead a stealthy band, Or toe the horrors of No Man's Land, Or swim at the sickly stench. . . . HER letters came up by ration-cart As the men stood-to before dawn: He followed the chart of her soaring heart With face transfigured yet drawn: It filled him with pride, touched with chivalrous shame. But--it spoilt the war, as a first- class game, For this particular pawn. THE Sergeant sees it, and damns the cause In a truly terrible flow; But turns and trounces, without a pause, A junior N. C. O. For the crime of agreeing that Ensign Joy Isn't altogether the officer boy