ang it, Raven, this _is_ riling!" cried I. "Stop your rude
reviling!"
Then I wheeled my office-chair in front of bird and bust and door;
And upon its cushion sinking, "I," I said, "will smash like winking
This impeachment you are bringing, O you ominous bird of yore,
O you grim, ungainly, ghastly, grumbling, gruesome feathered bore!"
Croaked the Raven, "You I'll floor."

Then methought the bird looked denser, and his cheek became
immenser.
And he twaddled of VON MOLTKE, and his German Army Corps;
"Flattering the tax-payers' vanity," and much similar insanity,
In a style that lacked urbanity, till the thing became a bore.
"Oh, get out of it!" I cried; "our little Army yet will score."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "of all evil, that we're 'going to the devil'
Has been the old croaker's gospel for a century, and more.
Red-gilled Colonels this have chaunted in BRITTANIA's ears
undaunted,
By their ghosts you must he haunted. Take a Blue-pill, I implore!
When our Army meets the foe it's bound to lick him as of yore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!

"Prophet!" said I, "that's uncivil. You may go to--well, the devil!
That Establishments are 'short,' and 'standards' lowered o'er and
o'er.
That mere 'weeds,' with chests of maiden, cannot march with
knapsack laden;
That the heat of sultry Aden, or the cold of Labrador,
Such can't stand, _may_ be the truth; but keep it dark, bird, I
implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Then excuse me, we'll be parting, doleful fowl," I cried,
upstarting;
"Get thee back to--the Red River, or the Nile's sand-cumbered shore!
Leave no 'Magazine' as token of the twaddle you have spoken.
What? BRITANNIA stoney-broken? Quit her bust above my door.
Take thy hook from the War Office; take thy beak from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

And the Raven still is sitting, croaking statements most unfitting,
On BRITANNIA's much-peeled bust that's placed above my Office-door,
And if _Pangloss_, e'en in seeming, lent an ear to his dark
dreaming,
Useless were official scheming, grants of millions by the score,
For my soul were like the shadow that he casts upon the floor,
Dark and dismal evermore!

* * * * *

[Illustration: THINGS