Volume 152 — STOMACH FOR THE FIGHT.

O not because my taste for bread Tended to make me much too stout, And all the leading doctors said I should be better far without; Not that my health may be more rude, More svelte my rounded style of beauty, I sacrifice this staple food— But from a sense of duty! I "can no other" when I think Of how the Hun, docile and meek, Suffers his ravenous maw to shrink, And only strikes, say, once a week; If he for all these months has stood The sorry fare they feed the brute on, I hope that I can be as good A patriot as your Teuton. Henceforth I spurn the dear delight That went so well with jam or cheese; No turn of mine shall wear the white Flour of a shameless life of ease; Others may pass one loaf in three, Some rather more than that, and some less, But I—the only course for me— Go absolutely crumbless. So, when I quit this mortal strife, Men on my grave these lines shall score:— "Much as he loved the Staff of Life He loved his country even more; He needed no compelling ban; England, in fact, had but to ask it, And he surrendered, like a man, The claims of his bread-basket." O.S.