Here is one who hails me; the last time I saw him we put on seventy runs together when they were rather badly needed, and here we are, partners in quite another game. Here is a man of fortune, young, handsome, the world at his feet, he comes out and throws himself into the thick of it. He is a great heavy-game shot, and has brought two other "dangerous men" out with him. Next him is an East London farmer, next him a fighting tea-planter of Ceylon, next him a sporting baronet, next him a journalist, next him a cricketer, whose name is a household word. Those are the men who press into the skirmish-line of England's battle. And here are other men again, taller and sturdier than infantry of the line, grim, solid men, as straight as poplars. There is a maple-leaf, I think, upon their shoulder straps, and a British brigade is glad enough to have those maples beside them. For these are the Canadians, the men of Paardeberg, and there behind them are their comrades in glory, the Shropshire Light Infantry, slinging along with a touch of the spirit of their grand sporting colonel, the man who at forty-five is still the racquet champion of the British army. You see the dirty private with the rifle under his arm and the skin hanging from his nose. There are two little stars upon his strained shoulders, if you could see them under the dirt. That is the dandy captain who used to grumble about the food on the P. and O. "Nothing fit to eat," he used to cry as he glanced at his menu. I wonder what he would say now? Well he stands for his country, and England also may be a little less coddled and a little more adaptive before these brave, brave sons of hers have hoisted her flag over the "raad zaal" of Pretoria. * * * * * THE MODERATE DRINKER'S LAMENT. BY MARK THYME. (_From the Household Brigade Magazine._) WITH APOLOGIES TO RUDYARD KIPLING. When you've done your meat and jipper--when you've 'ad your go o' beer-- When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape-- P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tear For a gentleman in khaki at the Cape. 'E's an absent-bodied beggar--as it's needless to relate-- An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him, For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate 'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im. _Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud (Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we), Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud? Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_ Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to do Simultaneous with the risin' of the sun; We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few, An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.