Late, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired but cheery,

Over many an optimistic record of War Office lore;

Whilst I worked, assorting, mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone rudely rapping, rapping at my Office-door.

"Some late messenger," I muttered, "tapping at my Office-door—

Only this, but it's a bore."

I remember—being sober—it was in the chill October,

Light from the electric globe or horseshoe lighted wall and floor;

Also that it was the morrow of the Holborn Banquet; sorrow

From the Blue Books croakers borrow—sorrow for the days of yore,

For the days when "Rule Britannia" sounded far o'er sea and shore.

Ah! it must have been a bore!

But on that let's draw the curtain. I am simply cock-sure—certain

That "our splendid little Army" never was so fine before.

It will take a lot of beating! Such remarks I keep repeating;

They come handy—after eating, and are always sure to score—

Dash that rapping chap entreating entrance at my Office-door!

It is an infernal bore!

Presently I grew more placid (Optimists should not be acid.)

"Come in!" I exclaimed—"confound you! Pray stand drumming there no more."

But the donkey still kept tapping. "Dolt!" I muttered, sharply snapping,

"Why the deuce do you come rapping, rapping at my Office-door?

Yet not 'enter' when you're told to?"—here I opened wide the door—

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open next I flung the shutter, when, with a prodigious flutter,

In there stepped a bumptious Raven, black as any blackamoor.

Not the least obeisance made he, not a moment stopped or stayed he,

But with scornful look, though shady, perched above my Office-door,

Perched upon BRITANNIA's bust that stood above my Office-door—

Perched, and sat, and seemed to snore.

"Well," I said, sardonic smiling, "this is really rather riling;

"It comports not with decorum such as the War Office bore

In old days stiff and clean-shaven. Dub me a Gladstonian craven

If I ever saw a Raven at the W.O. before.

Tell me what your blessed name is. 'Rule Britannia' held of yore,"

Quoth the bird, "'Tis so no more!"

Much I marvelled this sophistic fowl to utter pessimistic

Fustian, which so little meaning—little relevancy bore

To the rule of me and SOLLY; but, although it may sound folly,

This strange fowl a strange resemblance to "Our Only General" wore,

To the W-LS-L-Y whose pretensions to sound military lore

Are becoming quite a bore.

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that much-peeled bust, spake only

Of our Army as a makeshift, small, ill-manned, and precious poor.

Drat the pessimistic bird!—he grumbled of "the hurdy-gurdy

Marching-past side of a soldier's life in peace." "We've fought before,

Winning battles with boy-troops," I cried, "We'll do as we before—"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

"Nonsense!" said I. "After dinner at the Holborn, as a winner

Spake I in the Pangloss spirit to the taxpayers, (Don't snore!)

Told them our recruits—who'll master e'en unmerciful disaster,

Come in fast and come in faster, quite as good as those of yore,"—

"Flattering tales of (Stan) Hope!" cried the bird, whose dismal dirges bore,

One dark burden—"Nevermore!"

"Hang 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!

We came, we saw, we—held our tongues (myself—BADEN-POWELL—and Mr. DAWSON.)

We popped on each seal-island "unbeknownst," and what we discovered we held our jaws on.

We'd five hundred interviews within three months, which I think "cuts the record" in interviewing,

Corresponded with 'Frisco,