Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/115

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THE LATEST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

A Milesian Medley.

[The Earl of Aberdeen on his promotion in the peerage has adopted the style of Marquess of Aberteen and Tara.]

The Harp that once in Tara's Hall The soul of music shedHas had a most disastrous fall And won't be comforted;For now, when the Milesian Gael Looms large upon the scene,Tara is tacked on to the tail Of Scottish Aberdeen.

O Casement dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?The Germans are by law forbid to land on Irish ground;And Cork's proud Corporation—may perdition seize their soul!—Have blotted Kuno Meyer's name from off their burgess roll.

I met wid Paddy Birrell on the links at Overstrand,An' sez he, "How's poor dear Ireland, and how does she stand?"She's the most amazin' counthry that iver yet was scen,For she's let the name of Tara come afther Aberdeen!

O if in dingy khaki we've got to see it through,And must not taste of raki (which is Turkish mountain-dew),Still we can wet our whistle with porter and poteen,And extirpate the thistle from Tara's sacred scene.

When laws can turn the pratie into the Frenchman's bean,An' when the Russian Ballet comes to dance on College Green,Then I'll accept the title, though I'm a patriot keen,But till that day Tara shall stay in front of Aberdeen.

Chorus (to the tune of Tarara-Boom-de-ay.)

Tara and Aberdeen—that's what it should have been,For never has there been an insult so obsceneTo dear Dark Rosaleen, our holy Island Queen,As letting Tara's sheen be dimmed by Aberdeen.

 

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"Grease Spots on Milk. Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."—North Wilts Herald.

They didn't. Perhaps we had the wrong kind of milk.

 

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Lady. "I want some studs, please, for my son."

Shopman. "Yes, Madam—for the front?"

Lady. "No—home defence."

 

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A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.

II.

My dear Mr. Punch,—I think I see now the reason for the wholesale transference of our Battalion to clerical duties as described in my last letter. We are being "trained for the Front in the shortest possible time." That much is certain, because it is in the official documents. Clearly, then, we are to form a new arm. Each man will be posted in a tree with a typewriter before him. The enemy, approaching, will hear from all sides a continuous tap-taping and will fly in disorder, imagining that he is being assailed by a new kind of machine-gun.

Did I tell you that we are living in a tent? Four of us occupy one tent; that is to say, we occupy that portion of it which is not required by some five hundred millions of ants. I arrived at this figure in the same way that other scientists count microbes—by multiplying the number on a square inch by the superficial area in inches of the tent. Ants are voracious brutes. In five minutes they can eat a loaf of bread, two pounds of treacle, a tin of oatmeal (unopened), eight bananas, a shaving brush and a magazine. So at least we were assured by our colleagues in the office, some of whom have been in India for many years and therefore ought to know.

When we leave the tent to step across into the office some of the more friendly of the ants accompany us and indulge in playful little pranks. Only this morning one of them, while my back was turned, upset a bottle of ink over a document I had just completed.

We keep alive our military ardour in

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