RIMAN,
For it holds the just mean
That's betwixt and between
The extremes of Cassandra and Merryman.

For news that is fresh from the spot
Commend me to great ALAN BOTT;
The stuff that he wires
Stokes our patriot fires
Without being ever too hot.

The despatches of good Mr. PERRIS
Have the flavour of syrupy "sherris;"
They enrapture the mind
Of the sane and refined--
Especially ELLALINE TERRISS.

In Rotterdam city JAMES DUNN
Keeps his vigilant eye on the Hun,
And fires off despatches
In generous batches,
Like a humanized 15-inch gun.

It is futile to cavil or carp
At Sir ALFRED, whose surname is SHARPE;
For he soothes us or stings
As the nightingale sings,
Or as angels perform on the harp.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE MASTER WORD.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE ZEPPELIN MENACE.

A SMART LONDON CELLAR IN WAR-TIME. PICTURED BY A BERLIN ARTIST.

* * * * *

THE FOUR SEA LORDS.

(_For the information of an ever-thirsty public._)

FIRST SEA LORD.

This is the man whose work is War;
He plans it out in a room on shore--
He and his Staff (all brainy chaps)
With miniature flags and monster maps,
And a crew whose tackle is Hydro-graphic,
With charts for steering our ocean traffic.
But the task that most engrosses him
Is to keep his Fleet in fighting trim;
To see that his airmen learn the knack
Of plomping bombs on a Zeppelin's back;
To make his sailors good at gunnery,
And so to sink each floating hunnery.

SECOND SEA LORD.

Here is the man who mans the Fleet
With jolly young tars that can't be beat;
He has them trained and taught the rules;
He looks to their hospitals, barracks, schools;
He notes what rumorous Osborne's doing,
And if it has mumps or measles brewing.
He fills each officer's vacant billet
(Provided the First Lord doesn't fill it);
And he casts a fatherly eye, betweens,
On that fine old corps, the Royal Marines.
This is the job that once was JELLICOE'S,
But now he has one a bit more bellicose.

THIRD SEA LORD.

Ships are the care of the Third Sea Lord,
And all Material kept on board.
'Tis he must see that the big guns boom
And the wheels go round in the engine-room;
'Tis he must find, for cloudy forays,
Aeroplanes and Astra Torres;