Volume 147 — THE PRICE OF WAR.
Reading edition
Now woe is me! My treasure, my delight, My guerdon after many toilsome days, Shall gladden me no more. It was a sight To bid men gape in wonderment, and praise My patient courage that endured despite The gibes of friends and Delia's pitying ways. Ah, cruel fate that forced my hand to snip Such costly growth as graced my upper lip!
Moustache most cherished! Not as other men That let their lush growth riot as it will, With just a formal waxing now and then, Did I maintain it. Nay, with loving skill And all the precious oils within the ken Of cunning alchemists I strove until Its soaring points aspired to pierce the skies, And I was martial in my Delia's eyes.
Great store of gold I lavished. Yea, I went To one that works in metals and I bought A kind of dreadful iron instrument With leathern straps, most wonderfully wrought, And wore that horror nightly, well content To bear such anguish for the prize I sought. And all this patient toil was thrown away— They stoned me for the Kaiser yesterday!
At a time when every penny that can be spared is needed for the help of our soldiers in the field and of our wounded, or to relieve the distress of the Belgian refugees or our own sufferers from the War, a public appeal is being made to the citizens of Newcastle-on-Tyne for subscriptions to a fund for presenting a testimonial to their Lord Mayor, on the ground that he has done his duty. We beg to offer our respectful sympathy to the Lord Mayor of Newcastle-on-Tyne.
Colonel of Swashbucklers. "Nah then, Swank! The wimmin can look arter theirselves. You 'op it and jine yer regiment."