The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 14

And when they tell thee "England is a fen Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey For the first comer," tell how the other day A crew of half a thousand Englishmen Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay!

Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, Biding G.o.d's pleasure and their chief's command.

Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band Close ranged upon the p.o.o.p, with bated breath, But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes!

Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith Of many a hurricane and trenched field?

Far other: weavers from the stocking frame; Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin, But steeped in honor and in discipline!

Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!

SIR HENRY YULE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

BEFORE SEDAN.

Here in this leafy place Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,-- Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves; So this man's eyes are dim;-- Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched There at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died;-- Message or wish, may be;-- Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled!-- Only the tremulous Words of a child;-- Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His--her dead father's--kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet; That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain!

If the grief died;--but no;-- Death will not have it so.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

THOMAS MOORE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROBERT BURNS.]

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

ROBERT BURNS.

JOHN ANDERSON.

John Andersson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' are anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE s.h.i.+P WOULD GO?

Where lies the land to which the s.h.i.+p would go; Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the s.h.i.+p would go?