Volume 156 — MY SERGEANT-MAJOR-DOMO.

When WILSON has abolished War And grim Bellona claims no more The greatest of her sons, What job has Peace to offer thee That shall fulfil thy destiny, O Sergeant-Major Buns? Shall thy great voice, at whose behests Trembled a hundred martial breasts, Be heard without a smile Urging astonished Cingalese To tap the tapering rubber trees Upon their distant isle? Shall thy dread presence clothed in tweed Be seen, O Buns, without the meed Of some regretful sigh, Fresh from the triumphs of the trench Upon the Opposition Bench Begging the SPEAKER'S eye? Nay, rather let thy mighty mind At length its true vocation find In the domestic sphere; The trivial round, the common task Shall furnish all thou needst to ask— There shalt thou earn thy beer. Yes, thou shalt play a worthy rôle, Thou great unconquerable soul, Within my humble flat; For when thy voice shall thunder, "Where Is master's cream?" what maid shall dare Invoke the mystic cat? And what or volatile Miss Gripps? The weekly notice on her lips Shall wither at thy look. And still one triumph waits for thee— And, oh! may I be there to see— When thou shalt face my cook!