Volume 153 — THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE.

I had a favourite shirt for many moons, Soft, silken, soothing and of tenderest tone, Gossamer-light withal. The Subs., my peers, Envied the garment, ransacking the land To find a shirt its equal—all in vain. For, when we tired of shooting at the Hun And other Batteries clamoured for their share And we resigned positions at the front To dally for a space behind the line, To shed my war-worn vesture I was wont— The G.S. boots, the puttees and the pants That mock at cut and mar the neatest leg, The battle-jacket with its elbows patched And bands of leather, round its hard-used cuffs, And, worst of all, the fuggy flannel shirt, Rough and uncouth, that suffocates the soul; And in their stead I donned habiliments Cadets might dream of—serges with a waist, And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man, Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots, And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD— And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt. It was a woven breeze, a melody Constrained by seams from melting in the air, A summer perfume tethered to a stud, The cool of evening cut to lit my form— And I shall wear it now no more, no more! There came a day we took it to be washed, I and my batman, after due debate. A little cottage stood hard by the road Whose one small window said, in manuscript, "Wasching for soldiers and for officers," And there we left my shirt with anxious fears And fond injunctions to the Belgian dame. So it was washed. I marked it as I passed Waving svelte arms beneath the kindly sun As if it semaphored to its own shade That answered from the grass. I saw it fill And plunge against its bonds—methought it yearned To join its tameless kin, the airy clouds. And as I saw it so, I sang aloud, "To-morrow I shall wear thee! Haste, O Time!" Fond, futile dream! That very afternoon, Her washing taken in and folded up (My shirt, my shirt I mourn for, with the rest), The frugal creature locked and left her cot To cut a cabbage from a neighbour's field. Then, without warning, from the empurpled sky, Swift with grim dreadful purpose, swooped a shell (Perishing Percy was the name he bore Amongst, the irreverent soldiery), ah me! And where the cottage stood there gaped a gulf; The jewel and the casket vanished both.

Were there no other humble homes but that For the vile Hun to fire at? Did some spy, In bitter jealousy, betray my shirt? What boots it to lament? The shirt is gone. It was not meant for such an one as I, A plain rough gunner with one only pip. No doubt 'twas destined for some lofty soul Who in a deck-chair lolls, and marks the map And says, "Push here," while I and all my kind Scrabble and slaughter in the appointed slough. But I, presumptuous, wore it, till the gods Called for my laundry with a thunderbolt.