THE STRIKER AND TILE HUN.
[To THE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR."]
gm—Side by side with the warning issued to the A.S.E. by the Ministry of Munitions would it not be well to placard some such appeal as the following, written (I believe) in the early days of the war when like trouble threatened?—
As he sat at the fire and warmed his toes,
Angus M'Nab fell into a dose, And he found himself on a stricken field Where the thunderous voice of the cannon pealed.
He sees the Camerons, sore beset, Wounded and bloody, but fighting yet; Shattered and maimed by that hellish fire, Yet filled to the last with a fierce desire To keep the post from the Prussian horde, Wave on wave, like a flood outpoured.
Man by man the Camerons fall, Bat our guns are silent throughout it all.
Up dashes a panting gunner and yells : ' Shells! For the love of God, man, shells!'
' Nae,' says Angus, ye're in ma power, And I want ma extra twopence an hour.'
' Man, are ye mad? ' the gunner said; But a Prussian bullet smote him dead, And the flowing tide of the men in grey Steadily kept its onward way. * * * * * * Angus M'Nab awakes with a start, For it seems as if something had clutched his heart; Swiftly he reaches his coat and hat- ' Eh, but there'll he nee mair o' that.'
On he races, with never a stop.
Till he comes to the door of the idle shop; He thinks of the wasted days gone by, And hears the challenging striker's cry :
' Whaur are ye gaein', ye dirty scab?'
'To nark . . for ma country,' says Angus M'Nab.
C. E. B."
am, Sir, &c., T. J.
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