Parliament has met again, not that there is any very urgent need for their labours just now.  With a caution that seemed excessive Mr. Bonar Law has thought it premature to discuss a military situation changing every hour—­though happily always for the better—­or even to propose a formal Vote of Thanks to men who are daily adding to their harvest of laurels.  On better grounds discussion of Mr. Wilson’s famous “fourteen points” and of demobilisation has been deprecated.  The suggestion—­made opportunely on Trafalgar Day—­for securing marks of distinction for our merchant seamen gained a sympathetic hearing, and the proposal to make women eligible for Parliament has been carried after a serious debate by an overwhelming majority in which the ci-devant anti-suffragists were as prominent as the others.  Five years ago such a motion would have furnished an orgy of alleged humour, and been laughed out of the House.  Mr. Dillon and his colleagues have put a great many questions about the torpedoing of the Leinster and the lack of an escort.  But it is unfortunate that their tone suggested more indignation with the alleged laches of the Admiralty than horror at the German crime.  Irish indignation over the outrage, according to a Nationalist M.P., is intense; but not to the point of expressing itself in khaki.

[Illustration:  Die Nacht am Rhein]

[Illustration:  PROSPEROUS IRISH FARMER:  “And what about the War, your Riverence?  Do ye think it will hould?”]

The woes of the Irish harvest labourers in England have not yet been fully appreciated, and seem to demand a revised version of “Moira O’Neill’s” beautiful poem: 

THE IRISH EXILE

  Over here in England I’m slavin’ in the rain;
  Six-an’-six a day we get, an’ beds that wanst were clane;
  Weary on the English work, ‘tis killin’ me that same—­
  Och, Muckish Mountain, where I used to lie an’ dhrame!

  At night the windows here are black as Father Murphy’s hat;
  ‘Tis fivepence for a pint av beer, an’ thin ye can’t get that;
  Their beef has shtrings like anny harp, for dacent ham I hunt—­
  Och, Muckish Mountain, an’ my pig’s sweet grunt!

  Sure there’s not a taste av butthermilk that wan can buy or beg,
  Thin their sweet milk has no crame, an’ is as blue as a duck-egg;
  Their whisky is as wake as wather-gruel in a bowl—­Och,
  Muckish Mountain, where the poteen warms yer sowl!

  ‘Tis mesilf that longs for Irish air an’ gran’ ould Donegal,
  Where there’s lashins and there’s lavins and no scarcity at all;
  Where no wan cares about the War, but just to ate an’ play—­
  Och, Muckish Mountain, wid yer feet beside the say!

  Sure these Englishmin don’t spare thimselves in this thremenjus fight;
  They say ‘tis life or death for thim, an’, faith, they may be right;
  But Father Murphy tells me that it’s no consarn av mine—­
  Och, Muckish Mountain, where the white clouds shine!