Observe him, in the best armchair...

Observe him, in the best armchair,

At ev'ry “Service” Club reclining!

How brightly through its close-cropped hair!

His polished skull is shining!

His form, inert and comatose,

Suggests a stertorous repose.

What strains are these that echo clear?

What music on our ears is falling?

Through his AEolian nose we hear

The distant East a-calling.

( A good example here is found

Of slumber that is truly “sound.” )

He dreams of India's coral strand,

Where, camping by the Jimjam River,

He sacrificed his figure and

The best part of his liver,

And, in some fever-stricken hole,

Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control.

Blow lightly on his head, and note

Its surface change from chrome to hectic;

Examine that pneumatic throat,

That visage apoplectic.

His colour-scheme is of the type

That plums affect when over-ripe.

With rising gorge he stands erect,

Awakened by your indiscretion,

Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked —

( To coin a new expression );

Where stud and collar form a juncture,

You contemplate immediate puncture.

His head, like some inverted cup,

Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes;

His eyebrows rise and beckon up

His “porterhouse” moustaches;

And you acknowledge, as you flinch,

That he's a Colonel — ev'ry inch!

The voice that once in strident tones

Across the barrack-square could carry,

Reverberates and megaphones

A rich vocabulary.

( His “rude forefathers,” you'll agree,

Were never half so rude as he. )

As blatantly he catalogues

The grievances from which he suffers:—

“The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!”

“The men, sir, all damduffers!”

In so invet'rate a complainer

You recognise the “old champaigner.”

His raven locks ( just two or three )

Recall their retrospective splendour;

One of the brave Old Guard is he,

That dyes but wo n't surrender;

With fits of petulance afflicted,

When questioned, crossed, or contradicted.

But as, alas! from poor-man's gout,

Combined with chronic indigestion,

The breed is quickly dying out —

( The fact admits no question ) —

I'll give you, if advice you're taking,

A recipe for Colonel-making.

Select some subaltern whose tone

Is bluff and anything but “soul-y;”

Transplant him to a torrid zone;

There leave him stewing slowly;

Remove his liver and his hair,

Then serve up hot in an armchair.