Woe from Wanganui.

Being the 5 a.m. reflections of a shrewd private.

(with sincerest apologies to Milton.)

Alas what boots it with incessant care
To drill oft times in burning Phoebus ray,
In tunic that ill fits my shapely frame.
Were it not better done as others claim
To spend one's Easter at some lazy bay
Far form the city and the oil-lamp's glare.
Work is the spur which my content doth prick
(That loathsome word the present should forsake)
This jam in cans, oh why can I not kick
'Gainst the spoliation of our apple make
By other fruits whose name outside we pick
Living in hope their flavour will survive ?
Too near the sergeant's raucous roars resound
It is not meet that I should him connive,
For sauce unto the cook I'll go the round.
But, as the plaintive screech-owl wails its call,
The bugle sound arouses now the gall,
My martial muse has flown from mortal soil
And I bemoaning start my daily toil.

W. E. L.

The air is biting shrewd—Hamlet.