In my own particular copy I found the following dialogue between two Irish soldiers:-- First Private--"The captain told me to keep away from the enemy's foire!" Second Private--"What did you tell the Captain?" First Private--"I told him the Boers were so busy shelling they hadn't made any foire!" That is scarcely a brilliant jest; but then it was begotten amid the agonies of the siege. One of the poems published in this same copy of _The Ladysmith Lyre_ has in it more of melancholy than of mirth. It tells of the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick; and gives us a more vivid idea than anything else yet printed of the secret distress of the men who saved Natal--a distress which we also shared. It is entitled-- "AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE." Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over all the quaint and curious yarns we've heard about the war, Suddenly there came a rumour--(we can always take a few more) Started by some chap who knows more than--the others knew before-- "We shall see the reinforcements in another--month or more!" Only this and nothing more! But we're waiting still for Clery, waiting, waiting, sick and weary Of the strange and silly rumours we have often heard before. And we now begin to fancy there's a touch of necromancy, Something almost too uncanny, in the unregenerate Boer-- Only this and nothing more! Though our hopes are undiminished that the war will soon be finished, We would be a little happier if we knew a little more. If we had a little fuller information about Buller; News about Sir Redvers Buller, and his famous Army Corps; Information of the General and his fighting Army Corps. Only this and nothing more! And the midnight shells uncertain, whistling through the night's black curtain, Thrill us, fill us with a touch of horror never felt before. So to still the beating of our hearts, we kept repeating "Some late visitor entreating entrance at the chamber door, This it is; and nothing more!" Oh how slow the shells come dropping, sometimes bursting, sometimes stopping, As though themselves were weary of this very languid war. How distinctly we'll remember all the weary dull November; And it seems as if December will have little else in store; And our Christmas dinner will be bully beef and plain stickfast. Only this and nothing more! Letham, Letham, tell us truly if there's any news come newly; Not the old fantastic rumours we have often heard before:-- Desolate yet all undaunted! Is the town by Boers still haunted? This is all the news that's wanted--tell us truly we implore-- Is there, _is there_ a relief force? Tell us, tell us, we implore! Only this and nothing more.