Wot does the Gen’ral know? sez I; Wot does the Gen’ral know? ’O, ’e’s a Prince o’ the Royal Blood, an’ ’e ’s on’y got up for show!’ But I ’chanced’ kit inspection, an’ thought it a ’cert.’; But ’e put me down, smart, for a tunic an’ shirt! An’, insult to injury—checked me for dirt! Did Arthur! ’Ow is ’e liked by you? sez I; ’Ow is ’e liked by you? ’O, ’e’s a Prince o’ the Royal Blood, but I reckon some’ow ’e’ll do!’ I’m willin’ to risk, as I’ve done before, A Fox ’Ills fight, or a native war, Or front rank man in an Army Corps, With Arthur! Wot is ’e, after all? sez I; Wot is ’e, after all? ’O, ’e’s a swaddle, the same as you, an’ ’e goes to the "orficers’ call"!’ ’E’s a gentleman, Tommy, when all’s said an’ done! ’Is ma is the lady ’oo ’s second to none, An’ we love ’er the better because of ’er son— That’s Arthur! *LEGACIES* The dog is yours; and so’s the photo frames, Them pictures wot I cut, an’ my new box. The pack of cards, the dominoes, an’ games, The knittin’ needles, an’ the knitted socks, An’ all, except the letters and the ring— You’ll find them all together tied with string. My public clothin’—that goes back to stores— My kit’ll sell by auction on the square; An’ other fellers will be ’formin’ fours’ An’ ’markin’ time’ in boots I used to wear. They’re welcome; but you won’t forget to send The ring an’ all the letters to my——friend? The pain ain’t near so bad as wot it were The day they dragged me from the limber wheels; Ain’t I a wreck! for God’s sake don’t tell ’er; Say it was fever—peaceful—in the ’ills; An’ write about the wreaths, the ’Jack,’ and band, An’—send a bit of hair: you understand? The ring—— Oh no, the doctor lets me talk, I ain’t a-tirin’—’cept a funny light, An’ just a feelin’ that I’d like to walk To where it seems to flicker in the night. Better for me to go with aching ’ead, Than go in trouble with my say unsaid. The ring—it ain’t long since she sent it back; I never meant no ’arm, God only knows, But things—I can’t tell now—looked very black, And she believed the others—I suppose, I’m sorry for ’er now—that cursed wheel!— You see she is a woman, an’ she’ll _feel_. * * * * * The dog is yours, I told you that before. The spurs you’ll find ’em in my private kit. The letters, an’ the ring, an’ nothin’ more,— _An’_ hair—it’s foolish—but a little bit. * * * * * ’Our Father’—Lord, how strange! It’s all—ri’—sir. _The—lett—an—th’—ring—an’—hair—for—’er!_ *T. A. IN LOVE*