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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, September 5, 1917

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‏اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, September 5, 1917

Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, September 5, 1917

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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out flags. Besides, if we don't get a victory how shall we ever get a good German peace? And peace we must have, and that very soon.

Von H. Don't talk to me of peace. War is my business, not peace; and if I am to carry on war there must be no interference. If the ALL-HIGHEST does not like that, let him take the chief command himself.

Herr M. God forbid!


LINES TO A HUN AIRMAN,

WHO AROUSED THE DETACHMENT ON A CHILLY MORNING, AT 2.30 A.M.

Oh, come again, but at another time;

Choose some more fitting moment to appear,

For even in fair Gallia's sunny clime

The dawns are chilly at this time of year.

I did not go to bed till one last night,

I was on guard, and, pacing up and down,

Gazed often on the sky where every light

Flamed like a gem in Night's imperial crown;

And when the clamant rattle's hideous sound

Roused me from sleep, in a far distant land

My spirit moved and trod familiar ground,

Where a Young Hopeful sat at my right hand.

There was a spotless cloth upon the board,

Thin bread-and-butter was upon me pressed,

And China tea in a frail cup was poured—

Then I rushed forth inadequately dressed.

Lo! the poor Sergeant in a shrunken shirt,

His manly limbs exposed to morning's dew,

His massive feet all paddling in the dirt—

Such sights should move the heart of even you.

The worthy Corporal, sage in looks and speeches,

Holds up his trousers with a trembling hand;

Lucky for him he slumbered in his breeches—

The most clothed man of all our shivering band.

The wretched gunners cluster on the gun,

Clasping the clammy breech and slippery shells;

If 'tis a joke they do not see the fun

And damn you to the worst of DANTE'S hells.

And Sub-Lieutenant Blank, that martial man,

Shows his pyjamas to a startled world,

And shivers in the foremost of our van

The while our H.E. shells are upwards hurled.

You vanish, not ten centimes worth the worse

For all our noise, so far as we can tell;

The blest "Stand easy" comes; with many a curse

We hurry to the tents named after Bell.1

In two brief hours we must arise and shine!

O willow-waly! Would I were at home

Where leisurely I breakfasted at nine

And warm and fed went officeward to roam!

So come again, but at another time,

Say after breakfast or some hour like that,

Or I will strafe you with a viler rhyme—

I will, by Jove! or eat my shell-proof hat.


"The Rev. T.F. —— officiated in the church yesterday for the first time since his return from a four months' spell of work in connection with the Y.M.C.A. Huns in France."—Provincial Paper.

We congratulate him upon his discovery of this hitherto unknown tribe.


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