Volume 150 — TO MY COLD.

Lord of the rheumy eyes and blowing nose, On whom no fostering sun has ever shone, What mak'st thou here? Didst thou in sooth believe Thy presence would be welcome? Hast thou come Thinking to please me—me who, not at all Wanting to catch, have caught thee full and fair, And, loth to get, have got thee none the less? Why couldst thou not in thine own realms have stayed? Thou mightst have found—I can't go on like this; These second persons singular of verbs Are far too tricky; once involved in these, For instance, "lovedst" and "spreadst" and "stillst" and "gapest," And thousands more—once, as I say, involved In these too clinging tendrils one is done; And so I find I cannot write an ode, Not even a ten-syllabic blank-verse ode, In second persons singular of verbs, In "snifflest" and in "wheezest" and the rest, For I am sure to trip and spoil the thing, And bring grammatic censure on my head. Be, therefore, plural—"you" instead of "thou"— Which makes things simpler. Now we can get on. O fain-avoided and most loathsome Cold, You with the sneezing, teasing, wheezing airs, What make you here at such a time as this, Melting my snowy store of handkerchiefs, Rasping my throat and bringing aches to range At large within the measure of my head? Platoon-Commanders of the Volunteers, Who now are recognised (three cheers!) at last, And of whose number I who write am one, Should be immune from colds; they sound absurd When bidding men to "boove to th' right id Fours," Or "order arbs" (or slope) or "stad at ease," Or "od the left" (or right) to "forb platood." Even the most submissive men begin To lose respect when such commands ring out. Wherefore, my cold—atchoo, atchoo—be off, Lest I report you and your deeds aright To Mr. Tennant at the War Office.