Poets from time of yore have sung
In every clime and every tongue,
Of beauty and the pow'r of love,
Of things on earth and things above.
Sonnets to ladyes' eyes indited,
And for such stuff been killed or knighted.
They've raved on this and raved on that,
The dog or the domestic cat.
On blessed peace and glorious war,
On deeds of daring dashed with gore,
And scores of other wondrous deeds,
Which History or Tradition heeds.
But I would humbly sing to praise
Something unhonoured in those lays--
The cure for broken legs and arms,
For suff'rers of rheumatic qualms.
For wounds by bullet or the knife,
Obtained in peace or deadly strife;
For broken heads or sprained toes,
And myriad other sorts of woes,
For that incurable disease
"Fed up" or "tired of C.I.V.'s."
For pom-pom fever, Mauseritis,
The toothache or the loafertitis.
For broken heart or broken nose,
For every sickness science knows.
All these and ev'ry other ill,
Are cured by that well-known Pill;
'Tis made on earth with pow'rs divine,
I sing in praise of _Number Nine_.
To expatiate further upon the famous "No. 9 Pill" would be absurd, as it
is as great an institution of the British Army out here as the 4.7 or
pom-pom.
[Illustration: Thoughtless Sister (persuasively): "Now I want you to do
something very nice in my Album."]
We are still suffering (worse than ever) from a paucity of news and a
superabundance of rumours; indeed the supply of the latter far exceeds
the demand, and budding fictionists eclipse themselves daily. Had the
Psalmist lived in these days, I feel sure he would hardly have
contented himself with the gentle statement that "all men are liars,"
but have indulged in language far more emphatic. Still as far as we are
concerned, the Boers can beat the most brilliant efforts of our own
fellows any day.
We have a lot of Regulars in this hospital, and it is amusing at times,
and at others rather irritating, to hear some of their criticisms of the
Yeomanry. I recently heard some of them (good fellows) chaffing merrily
over certain Yeomanry (a very small number), who were concerned in an
unfortunate affair some time ago, totally ignoring the fact that a
_large_ number of Regular Infantry and Mounted Infantry were also
equally involved. Again the Cavalry may make a mistake, and they have
made a few, but we don't hear much about their incapacity, but let the
Yeomanry commit a similar error, and we hear about it, I can tell you. I
venture these few remarks in common fairness to the Yeomanry, my
temperature being quite normal, as I fancy they have often been used as
a butt where others would have done as well.
The explanation, it appears, is this. A corps of new Yeomanry is being
formed, who are to receive five shillings a day; we also, of the
original Yeomanry, are to receive the same at the expiration of a year's
service, having up till then been paid the regular cavalry pay, for
which we enlisted. Naturally, Thomas A. feels exceedingly wroth at
"blooming ammychewers" receiving such remuneration, and to use his own
metaphor, "chews the fat" accordingly. His position and feelings remind
me very strongly of the poor soldier in "The Tin Gee-Gee!"
Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and sighed,
So I patted his little tin head,
"What vexes your little tin soul?" said I,
And this is what he said:
"I've been on this stall a very long time,
And I'm marked '1/3' as you see,
While just above my head he's marked '5 bob,'
Is a bloke in the Yeoman-ree.
Now he hasn't any service and he hasn't got no drill,
And I'm better far than he,
Then why mark us at fifteen pence,
And five bob the Yeoman-ree?"
etc. etc. etc.