Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3832/Stable Information
Last winter I wasn't familiar with Brown, Our intercourse didn't extendPast a grunt if we met on the journey to town And a nod when I chose to unbend;But times are mutata, and now I've begun To cultivate Brown more and moreFor Brown has a son who is friends with the son Of a man at the Office of War.
When a fog is concealing how matters progress And editors wearily use(Upholding the goodly repute of the Press) A headline from yesterday's news,Brown's knowledge enables his friends to decide What the future is holding in store,For we gather that Kitchener loves to confide In that man at the Office of War.
And I in my turn spread the tidings about; To the heart that is apt to be glumAnd the spirit that suffers severely from doubt Like a sunbeam in winter I come;"The Teuton," I whisper, "will suffer eclipse In the course of a fortnight—no more;I have had it—well, almost direct from the lips Of the Chief of the Office of War."