se;
The war is going pretty strong,
_We've_ bade adieu to 'sha'n't be long';
And you at home across the seas,
Don't quite forget _us_, if you please."

The following poetic outburst requires a little explanation. We have had
the khaki this and the khaki that, and it has just occurred to me a
khaki Omar Khayyam would not be out of place, for of a truth one needs a
_soupcon_ of philosophy out here occasionally. With this idea in my
head, and having a little leisured ease, I have set out to minister a
long-felt want. Not, however, having my Persian "Fitzgerald" by me, I
must ask your indulgence for any grave discrepancies in the text.

THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM.

(_For the use of British Soldiers on the Veldt._)

The night has gone, the golden sun has riz,
The khaki men have all begun to friz,
Cleared is the mushroom camp of yesterday,
And forth they go upon the Empire's biz.

Oh! hopes of home that with each morning rise,
Oh! wondrous legends which wild minds devise;
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies,
The Yeoman, once enlisted, often sighs.

Oh! fool to cry "The Boer is on the run,"
He is, we know, and _ain't forgot his gun_;
And often from the rocky kopje side
He stops and pots--your mess is minus one.

I sometimes think that nought whiffs on the wind
As strong as where some dying steed reclined;
That any casual stranger passing by
The place, if asked, again could eas'ly find.

Alas! that Mausers are not turned to hoes,
That Christmas comes, and with the pudding goes;
And we stick here for ever and a day,
When we return (or _if_) _who knows_--WHO KNOWS?

Oh! Pard, could thou and I with Holmes conspire
To round De Wet up with his force entire;
Would we not smash it all to bits--and then
Get somewhere nearer to our heart's desire.

A pipe o' baccy 'neath a leafy tree,
A recent mail from far across the sea,
No one to worry for an hour or two,
And veldt, indeed, were Paradise to me.

And, lo, 'tis vain the generals to blame,
Keep boldly sticking at the ancient game;
And if to-day you are upon the veldt,
To-morrow it will also be the same.

Each morn's _reveille_ comes like some nightmare,
Sleepy you rise and pack your kit, and swear;
Then mount your saddled steed with gun in hand,
And hasten off, you know not why or where.

Some in the fighting let their hearts rejoice,
For some the