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Poem	The Sergeant of a Highland Reg- -Iment was drilling of his men; With temper notably on edge He blest them every now and then. A sweet old lady standing by, Was looking on with fascination, And then she dared this question shy, That pertubates the Celtic nation. "Oh gentle Sergeant do not scold; Please tell me, though your tone so curt is: These bare-legged boys look sadly cold - Do they wear wool beneath their skirties? The Sergeant's face grew lobster red, As one who sends a bloke to blazes . . . Then: "round about turn, squad," he said; "Now blast you! bend and pick up daises."
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