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Rh She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee,

And there's 'eaps of wounded Tommies bless that V. A. D.

She's the lightest 'and at dressin's and she polishes the floor,

She feeds Bill Smith who'll never never use 'is 'ands no more;

And we're all of us supporters of the harristocracy

'Cos our weary days are lightened by that V. A. D.

And when the War is over, some knight or belted earl,

What's survived from killin' Germans, will take 'er for 'is girl;

They'll go and see the pictures and then 'ave shrimps and tea;

'E's a lucky man as gets 'er—and don't I wish 'twas me!

CHRISTMAS 1917

BY BRENT DOW ALLINSON

Is it a mocking jest that Christmas bells

Chime in this tragic hour of strife and pain,

That in the misery of conflicting wills

Breathless, men whisper words of love again?