Part 3 (2/2)

And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair; So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair.

At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies.

He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old; But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs) That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.

'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who t.i.ttupped on the way, When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.

They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt-- So stopped to take the message down--and this is what they learnt--

”Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore.

”Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?

”'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'

”Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?”

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill; For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:-- ”Don't dance or ride with General Bangs--a most immoral man.”

[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]

With d.a.m.natory dot and dash he heliographed his wife Some interesting details of the General's private life.

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the s.h.i.+ning Staff were still, And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.

And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):-- ”I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!”

All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know By word or act official who read off that helio.

But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan They know the worthy General as ”that most immoral man.”

THE LAST DEPARTMENT

Twelve hundred million men are spread About this Earth, and I and You Wonder, when You and I are dead, ”What will those luckless millions do?”

None whole or clean, we cry, ”or free from stain Of favour.” Wait awhile, till we attain The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools, Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again.

Fear, Favour, or Affection--what are these To the grim Head who claims our services?

I never knew a wife or interest yet Delay that pukka step, miscalled ”decease”;

When leave, long overdue, none can deny; When idleness of all Eternity Becomes our furlough, and the marigold Our thriftless, bullion-minting Treasury

Transferred to the Eternal Settlement, Each in his strait, wood-scantled office pent, No longer Brown reverses Smith's appeals, Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent.

And One, long since a pillar of the Court, As mud between the beams thereof is wrought; And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops Is subject-matter of his own Report.

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