Volume 25 — "THE SOLDIER'S DREAM."

We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured, And the sentinels' throats were the only things dry; And under their tents Chobham's heroes had cowered, The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh. While dozing that night in my camp-bed so small, With a Mackintosh over to keep out the rain— After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all— I'd a dream, which I hope I shall ne'er have again. Methought from damp Chobham's mock battle-array, I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack; 'Twas the season, and wax-lights illumined the way To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back. I flew to the dancing-rooms, whirled through so oft With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung, I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft, And heard the shrill notes Weippert's orchestra flung. She was there—I would "pop"—and a guardsman no more, From my sweet little partner for life ne'er would part, When sudden I saw—just conceive what a bore— A civilian—by Jove—laying siege to her heart! "Out of sight, out of mind!" It was not to be borne— To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away— When sudden the twang of that vile bugle-horn Scared my visions, arousing the Camp for the day.