s under
his command are no good for service, cannot even carry their
kits, and are not fit to march. Lord WOLSELEY, it is stated,
compares the British Army to a "squeezed lemon."]

"Squeezed lemon!" _That's_ encouraging!
Wish Wolseley knew 'ow much it's pleased us.
I'd like to arsk _one_ little thing:
I wonder who it is who's squeezed us?
The whole Report's a thing to cheer;
Makes us feel proud and pleased, oh! very!
And won't the bloomin' furrineer
Over our horacles make merry?

Costs seventeen millions and a arf,
And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink!
That tots it up! They wouldn't charf,
Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do _you_ think?
Therefore, we're just a useless lot.
After pipe-claying and stiff-starching,
We _might_ be good for stopping shot,
Only that we're not fit for marching!

We cannot carry our own kits!
I say, Bill, _ain't_ we awful duffers?
Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits,
Could more completely give us snuffers.
CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD,
All of a mind, for once, about us!
What wonder Bungs dub us no good,
And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us?

I see myself as others see;
A weedy, narrer-chested stripling,
Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
Wot can't go out without our nurses,
But ups and pats us on the back
In very pooty potry-verses.[1]

We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
(Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.
So Tommy's best respects to _'im_,
At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im.
Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim,
He _might_ not know us _when_ we meet 'im!

But, Bill, if all this barney's _true_
Consarnin' "Our Poor Little Army,"
It must be nuts to Pollyvoo!
_He_ needn't feel a mite alarmy.
_Whose_ fault is it we cost a lot,
And, if war comes, _must_ fail, or fly it?
Well facts is facts, and bounce is rot;
But, blarm it, BILL,--_I'd like to try it!_

[Footnote 1: Mr. Kipling dedicates his "Barrack-Room Ballads"
to "TOMMY ATKINS" in these lines:--

I have made for you a song,
An' it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it's true;
I've tried for to explain.
Both your pleasure and your pain