Volume 153 — MORE SORROWS OF THE SULTAN.

Beersheba gone, and Gaza too! And lo! the British lion, After a pause to comb his mane, Is grimly padding off again, Tail up, en route for Zion. Yes, things are looking rather blue, Just as in Mesopotamy; My life-blood trickles in the sand; My veins run dry; I cannot stand Much more of this phlebotomy. In vain for WILLIAM'S help I cry, Sick as a mule with glanders; Too busy—selfish swine—is he With winning ground in Italy And losing it in Flanders. His missives urge me not to fly But use the utmost fury To hold these Christian dogs at bay And for his sake to block the way To his belovéd Jewry. "My feet," he wired, "have trod those scenes; Within the walls of Salem My sacred presence deigned to dwell, And I should hate these hounds of hell To be allowed to scale 'em. "So do your best to give them beans (You have some ammunition?), And at a less congested date I will arrive and consecrate Another German mission." That's how he wires, alternate days, But sends no troops to trammel The foe that follows as I bump Across Judæa on the hump Of my indifferent camel. Well, I have tried all means and ways, But seldom fail to foozle 'em; And now if WILLIAM makes no sign (This is his funeral more than mine) The giaours can have Jerusalem. O.S.