"Action front!"--And the guns are round, Teams go back with the chains a-clink. We're reaping the storm that the scouts have sown (The sun gets red and the clouds are pink). "Show for the lyddite, that's all"--you think (Frenchmen would shrug, with a _sacre nom_), When out in the dusk, in the half of a jink, Suddenly singeth the brisk Pom-pom. "Pom-pom-pom"--and the shells have flown; "Bang-bang-bang"--without rise or sink-- Accurate sameness to half a tone-- Whizzing one-pounders--don't stop to think-- Open the ranks like a "spieler's" wink. This is a speedy and frolicsome bomb, Do not despise it, but do not shrink, This is a nerve-test, this swift Pom-pom. ENVOI. Oom, when you sit in the dark and think, After the war, and your nights are long, Bitterness sweeten of cups you drink With a memory sad of your sweet Pom-pom. * * * * * HOW THE CALF WAS AVENGED. BY LEONARDITE, 82ND BTY., R.F.A. It happened about the time of the Paardeberg affair, or, to be exact, at 12.10 a.m. on the 22nd of February, 1900, our battery (the 82nd R.F.A.) had throughout the day catered diligently and well for the tastes of Cronje and his followers. They had breakfast betimes in the shape of shrapnel (unboiled), liberally and impartially distributed to all and sundry within the laager; luncheon, tea, and supper followed in due succession, each consisting principally of the same palatable diet, flavoured at intervals with the celebrated Lyddite sauce. This same is noted for its piquancy and marvellous power of imparting elasticity to the lower extremities (gouty and dropsical people please copy). We returned to camp that night pretty well tired out, and hungry enough to eat "beef" (troop horse, isn't it?), and wondering what our good Poulter, the battery _chef_, had prepared in the shape of grub--we had fought all day on a couple of "Spratt's gum-hardeners." As we neared the camp a most appetising odour smote our olfactory nerves. "Beef stew," says our No. 1, who has a wonderful nose for odours. "Garn," retorts Driver Jones, who loves a joke; "more likely an old goat that's 'scorfed' the inside of one of 'Redfern's trenches' (this is a battery joke); too strong for beef." Well, by this time we had arrived, and some one who knew said it was veal, and that Mason, our Mason, Mason the mighty hunter and what-not, had commandeered it.