PETER PIGEON

THE pigeons dwell in Pimlico; they mingle in the street;They flutter at Victoria around the horses' feet;They fly to meet the royal trains with many a loyal phraseAnd strut to meet their sovereign on strips of scarlet baize;But Peter, Peter Pigeon, salutes his cradle days.The pigeons build in Bloomsbury; they rear their classic homesWhere pedants clamber sable steps to search forgotten tomes;They haunt Ionic capitals with learned lullabiesAnd each laments in anapaests and in iambics cries;But Peter, Peter Pigeon, how sleepily he sighs!The pigeons walk the Guildhall; they dress in civic tasteWith amplitude of mayoral chain and aldermanic waist;They bow their grey emphatic heads, their topknots rise and fall,They cluster in the courtyard at their midday dinner call;But Peter, Peter Pigeon, he nods beneath my shawl.The pigeons brood in Battersea; while yet the dawn is darkTheir ready aubade ripples in the plane-trees round the park;They light upon your balcony, a brave and comely band,Till night decoys their coral feet, their voices low and bland;But Peter, Peter Pigeon, his feet are in my hand.

THE pigeons dwell in Pimlico; they mingle in the street;

They flutter at Victoria around the horses' feet;

They fly to meet the royal trains with many a loyal phrase

And strut to meet their sovereign on strips of scarlet baize;

But Peter, Peter Pigeon, salutes his cradle days.

The pigeons build in Bloomsbury; they rear their classic homes

Where pedants clamber sable steps to search forgotten tomes;

They haunt Ionic capitals with learned lullabies

And each laments in anapaests and in iambics cries;

But Peter, Peter Pigeon, how sleepily he sighs!

The pigeons walk the Guildhall; they dress in civic taste

With amplitude of mayoral chain and aldermanic waist;

They bow their grey emphatic heads, their topknots rise and fall,

They cluster in the courtyard at their midday dinner call;

But Peter, Peter Pigeon, he nods beneath my shawl.

The pigeons brood in Battersea; while yet the dawn is dark

Their ready aubade ripples in the plane-trees round the park;

They light upon your balcony, a brave and comely band,

Till night decoys their coral feet, their voices low and bland;

But Peter, Peter Pigeon, his feet are in my hand.

I AM glad the martins are building again,They had all departedFrom the old desertedHouse by the stream;Its windows were black to the snow and the rainAnd the sky and the sun,And the river sobbed on,Like a child in a dream,Under the unlopped sycamore boughsThat stifled the old stone house.Now the axe-edge is blue on the sycamore rind,By the workers huzza'dTill the ashlared façadeOutpeers its disguise;Now little white curtains flap out to the windAcross the grey sillsAnd summer instilsThe peace of the skiesAnd the zest of the sun into every old roomSo given to grief and gloom.And the children who wake the green walks with their mirthAnd lift the shy headsOf the flowers from their beds,By a strange cry stirred—Desert their dear pastime, look up from the earth,Up, up, through the leavesWhere under the eavesClings the back of the bird:And his nest-mate white-throated regards the new dayFrom her arch of inverted clay.

I AM glad the martins are building again,

They had all departed

From the old deserted

House by the stream;

Its windows were black to the snow and the rain

And the sky and the sun,

And the river sobbed on,

Like a child in a dream,

Under the unlopped sycamore boughs

That stifled the old stone house.

Now the axe-edge is blue on the sycamore rind,

By the workers huzza'd

Till the ashlared façade

Outpeers its disguise;

Now little white curtains flap out to the wind

Across the grey sills

And summer instils

The peace of the skies

And the zest of the sun into every old room

So given to grief and gloom.

And the children who wake the green walks with their mirth

And lift the shy heads

Of the flowers from their beds,

By a strange cry stirred—

Desert their dear pastime, look up from the earth,

Up, up, through the leaves

Where under the eaves

Clings the back of the bird:

And his nest-mate white-throated regards the new day

From her arch of inverted clay.

GRIEF, let us come to terms! Your strict siege narrowsIn on the final citadel of my soul,Perish the outworks in a storm of arrows,Mangonel, mace and battleaxe gain their goal.Yet have we still provision and caparison,You will not brook, nor we admit, defeat—Take then the broken fort not grudge the garrisonGenerous safe-conduct and a proud retreat.Granted, O Grief? So am I saved disbanding,Even in my end, the powers which called me chief—Sick Memory, weak Will and UnderstandingWounded to death. Marvellest thou, chivalrous Grief,Seeing us slink into the eternal distance,A foe so faint should make such long resistance?

GRIEF, let us come to terms! Your strict siege narrows

In on the final citadel of my soul,

Perish the outworks in a storm of arrows,

Mangonel, mace and battleaxe gain their goal.

Yet have we still provision and caparison,

You will not brook, nor we admit, defeat—

Take then the broken fort not grudge the garrison

Generous safe-conduct and a proud retreat.

Granted, O Grief? So am I saved disbanding,

Even in my end, the powers which called me chief—

Sick Memory, weak Will and Understanding

Wounded to death. Marvellest thou, chivalrous Grief,

Seeing us slink into the eternal distance,

A foe so faint should make such long resistance?

HE rode upon the sorrel horse and led the dapple grey,They passed below the gables mute soon after dawn of day,Before the bell had chimed for Mass, while yet the sunless airLifted the straws of yesterday about the sleeping square.I recked not of his name and fate nor yet did I surmiseWhose were the steeds whose locks were blown betwixt their spacious eyes,The finches fluttered from their hoofs, I stayed to mark the easeOf him who led the grey and swayed the sorrel with his knees.They passed. Uprose the rural sun and spake his prologue clearAcross the world for suburbs sleek and linkèd slums to hear—"Come hither, hither, where are played the interludes of lightAnd day enacts her dearest parts for your abusèd sight!"

HE rode upon the sorrel horse and led the dapple grey,

They passed below the gables mute soon after dawn of day,

Before the bell had chimed for Mass, while yet the sunless air

Lifted the straws of yesterday about the sleeping square.

I recked not of his name and fate nor yet did I surmise

Whose were the steeds whose locks were blown betwixt their spacious eyes,

The finches fluttered from their hoofs, I stayed to mark the ease

Of him who led the grey and swayed the sorrel with his knees.

They passed. Uprose the rural sun and spake his prologue clear

Across the world for suburbs sleek and linkèd slums to hear—

"Come hither, hither, where are played the interludes of light

And day enacts her dearest parts for your abusèd sight!"

WHILE yet unfallen apples throng the bough,To ripen as they clingIn lieu of the lost bloom, I ponder howMyself did flower in so rough a spring;And was not set in graceWhen the first flush was gone from summer's face.How in my tardy season, making oneOf a crude congregation, sour in sin,I nodded like a green-clad mandarin,Averse from all that savoured of the sun.But now throughout these last autumnal weeksWhat skyey gales mine arrogant station thresh,What sunbeams mellow my beshadowed cheeks,What steely storms cudgel mine obdurate flesh;Less loath am I to see my fellows launchForth from my side into the air's abyss,Whose own stalk isGrown untenacious of its wonted branch.And yet, O God,Tumble me not at last upon the sod,Or, still superb above my fallen kind,Grant not my golden rindTo the black starlings screaming in the mist.Nay, rather on some gentle day and blandGive Thou Thyself my stalk a little twist,Dear Lord, and I shall fall into Thy hand.

WHILE yet unfallen apples throng the bough,

To ripen as they cling

In lieu of the lost bloom, I ponder how

Myself did flower in so rough a spring;

And was not set in grace

When the first flush was gone from summer's face.

How in my tardy season, making one

Of a crude congregation, sour in sin,

I nodded like a green-clad mandarin,

Averse from all that savoured of the sun.

But now throughout these last autumnal weeks

What skyey gales mine arrogant station thresh,

What sunbeams mellow my beshadowed cheeks,

What steely storms cudgel mine obdurate flesh;

Less loath am I to see my fellows launch

Forth from my side into the air's abyss,

Whose own stalk is

Grown untenacious of its wonted branch.

And yet, O God,

Tumble me not at last upon the sod,

Or, still superb above my fallen kind,

Grant not my golden rind

To the black starlings screaming in the mist.

Nay, rather on some gentle day and bland

Give Thou Thyself my stalk a little twist,

Dear Lord, and I shall fall into Thy hand.

THEY passed in dusty black defileAlong the burning champaign's edgeWhere English oaks for many a mileDripped acorns o'er the berried hedge,With valorous smiles on faces soiledOut of the autumn's heat and lightThese who on English earth had toiledCame forth for English earth to fight,Round their descending flank outspreadThe country like a painted page—God's truth, a man were lightly deadFor such a golden heritage!But these, the surging centuries' wrackBeyond all tides auspicious thrown,Doomed with bowed head and threadbare backTo till the land they might not own,Reft of the swallow's tranquil lease,Reft of the scrap-fed robin's dole—How have these reared in starving peaceThis flaming valiancy of soul?...O England, when with fluttered breathYou greet the victory they earnAnd when with eyes that looked on deathThe remnant of your sons return,On your inviolate soil repentAnd give the guerdon unbesought—To these whose lives were freely lentSome share of that for which they fought!

THEY passed in dusty black defile

Along the burning champaign's edge

Where English oaks for many a mile

Dripped acorns o'er the berried hedge,

With valorous smiles on faces soiled

Out of the autumn's heat and light

These who on English earth had toiled

Came forth for English earth to fight,

Round their descending flank outspread

The country like a painted page—

God's truth, a man were lightly dead

For such a golden heritage!

But these, the surging centuries' wrack

Beyond all tides auspicious thrown,

Doomed with bowed head and threadbare back

To till the land they might not own,

Reft of the swallow's tranquil lease,

Reft of the scrap-fed robin's dole—

How have these reared in starving peace

This flaming valiancy of soul?...

O England, when with fluttered breath

You greet the victory they earn

And when with eyes that looked on death

The remnant of your sons return,

On your inviolate soil repent

And give the guerdon unbesought—

To these whose lives were freely lent

Some share of that for which they fought!

HE had no heart for war, its ways and means,Its train of machinations and machines,Its murky provenance, its flagrant ends;His soul, unpledged for his own dividends,He had not ventured for a nation's spoils.So had he sighed for England in her toilsOf greed, was't like his pulse would beat less blitheTo see the Teuton shells on RotherhitheAnd Mayfair—so each body had 'scaped its niche,The wretched poor, the still more wretched rich?Why had he sought the struggle and its pain?Lest little girls with linked hands in the laneShould look "You did not shield us!" as they wendedAcross his window when the war was ended.

HE had no heart for war, its ways and means,

Its train of machinations and machines,

Its murky provenance, its flagrant ends;

His soul, unpledged for his own dividends,

He had not ventured for a nation's spoils.

So had he sighed for England in her toils

Of greed, was't like his pulse would beat less blithe

To see the Teuton shells on Rotherhithe

And Mayfair—so each body had 'scaped its niche,

The wretched poor, the still more wretched rich?

Why had he sought the struggle and its pain?

Lest little girls with linked hands in the lane

Should look "You did not shield us!" as they wended

Across his window when the war was ended.

BETSEY, when all the stalwarts leftUs women to our tasks befitting,Your little fingers, far from deft,Coped for an arduous week with knitting;And, though the meekness of your hairDrooped o'er the task disarmed my strictures,The Army gained when in despairYou dropped its socks to paint it pictures.I, knowing well your guileless brush,Urged that there wanted something subtlerTo put Meissonier to the blushAnd snatch the bays from Lady Butler;And so your skies retained their blue,Nor reddened with the wrath of nations,To prove at least one artist knewHer public and her limitations.A dozen warriors far awayCraved of your skill to keep them posted,With coloured pictures day by day,In aught of note their birthplace boasted;Hence these "Arriving Refugees"(Cheerful in burnt sienna) hurryTo soothe your uncle's hours of easeIn some congested hut in Surrey.I hear that Nurse's David gets(His valour is already French's)Your "Market" with the cigarettesHis sister forwards to the trenches;This "Cat" (for Rupert in the East),Limned in its moments of inertia,You send that he may show the beastTo its progenitors in Persia.Daily your brush depicts a homeSuch as our duller pens are mute on;Squanders Vermilion, Lake and ChromeAnd Prussian Blue—that furious TeutonPaper beneath your fingers callsFor forms and figures to divide it,Colours and cock-eyed capitalsAnd kisses cruciform to hide it.Till brushes sucked and laid apart,And candles lit and daylight dyingAnd you asleep, your works of artRanged on the mantelpiece and drying—We elders (older when you're gone)Muse on our country's gains and losses ...Ah, Betsey, is it you aloneWho send your kisses shaped like crosses?

BETSEY, when all the stalwarts left

Us women to our tasks befitting,

Your little fingers, far from deft,

Coped for an arduous week with knitting;

And, though the meekness of your hair

Drooped o'er the task disarmed my strictures,

The Army gained when in despair

You dropped its socks to paint it pictures.

I, knowing well your guileless brush,

Urged that there wanted something subtler

To put Meissonier to the blush

And snatch the bays from Lady Butler;

And so your skies retained their blue,

Nor reddened with the wrath of nations,

To prove at least one artist knew

Her public and her limitations.

A dozen warriors far away

Craved of your skill to keep them posted,

With coloured pictures day by day,

In aught of note their birthplace boasted;

Hence these "Arriving Refugees"

(Cheerful in burnt sienna) hurry

To soothe your uncle's hours of ease

In some congested hut in Surrey.

I hear that Nurse's David gets

(His valour is already French's)

Your "Market" with the cigarettes

His sister forwards to the trenches;

This "Cat" (for Rupert in the East),

Limned in its moments of inertia,

You send that he may show the beast

To its progenitors in Persia.

Daily your brush depicts a home

Such as our duller pens are mute on;

Squanders Vermilion, Lake and Chrome

And Prussian Blue—that furious Teuton

Paper beneath your fingers calls

For forms and figures to divide it,

Colours and cock-eyed capitals

And kisses cruciform to hide it.

Till brushes sucked and laid apart,

And candles lit and daylight dying

And you asleep, your works of art

Ranged on the mantelpiece and drying—

We elders (older when you're gone)

Muse on our country's gains and losses ...

Ah, Betsey, is it you alone

Who send your kisses shaped like crosses?

REMEMBER, on your knees,The men who guard your slumbers—And guard a house in a still streetOf drifting leaves and drifting feet,A deep blue window where belowLies moonlight on the roof like snow,A clock that still the quarters tellsTo the dove that roosts beneath the bell'sGrave canopy of silent brassRound which the little night winds passYet stir it not in the grey steeple;And guard all small and drowsy peopleWhom gentlest dusk doth disattire,Undressing by the nursery fireIn unperturbed numbersOn this side of the seas—Remember, on your knees,The men who guard your slumbers.

REMEMBER, on your knees,

The men who guard your slumbers—

And guard a house in a still street

Of drifting leaves and drifting feet,

A deep blue window where below

Lies moonlight on the roof like snow,

A clock that still the quarters tells

To the dove that roosts beneath the bell's

Grave canopy of silent brass

Round which the little night winds pass

Yet stir it not in the grey steeple;

And guard all small and drowsy people

Whom gentlest dusk doth disattire,

Undressing by the nursery fire

In unperturbed numbers

On this side of the seas—

Remember, on your knees,

The men who guard your slumbers.

"May those at war soon lay down the sword andso end the slaughter which is dishonouring Europeand humanity."—BenedictXV.

"PUT up thy sword." So Peter foundRebuke upon his weapon's aid,The High Priest's servant of his woundWas healed, and the disciple's bladeRebidden to its scabbard. See,O World, the lovely evidence—True lesson of Gethsemane—That Heaven on Earth disdained defence.For still the hostile ages pass,And force may strive for right, but know,You cannot cut at CaiaphasBut the hired servant bears the blow;And still the apostle, he who diesIn thought to stem Christ's Passion, fallsShort of his fervour and deniesHis Master in the High Priest's halls ...Forth leaps the sword upon the sameInnocent pretexts—little homesChildhood and womanhood wronged, the NameOf this rebuking Christ: hence comesA votive fury that beginsAll conflicts, and the justest prideIs first the stalking-horse of sinsAnd then deserted and denied.Despots, diplomatists, dark tradesSet men unceasingly at strife,Usurp the war-cries of crusades,Divert each God-devoted life;Never, Oh never yet, will war,Howe'er so poisonous root and stem,Lack the assurance of a starOutdazzling His of BethlehemTill Truth and Innocence reproveTheir ghastly champions with His word—Who chid the violence even of love—"Put up thy sword." "Put up thy sword."

"PUT up thy sword." So Peter found

Rebuke upon his weapon's aid,

The High Priest's servant of his wound

Was healed, and the disciple's blade

Rebidden to its scabbard. See,

O World, the lovely evidence—

True lesson of Gethsemane—

That Heaven on Earth disdained defence.

For still the hostile ages pass,

And force may strive for right, but know,

You cannot cut at Caiaphas

But the hired servant bears the blow;

And still the apostle, he who dies

In thought to stem Christ's Passion, falls

Short of his fervour and denies

His Master in the High Priest's halls ...

Forth leaps the sword upon the same

Innocent pretexts—little homes

Childhood and womanhood wronged, the Name

Of this rebuking Christ: hence comes

A votive fury that begins

All conflicts, and the justest pride

Is first the stalking-horse of sins

And then deserted and denied.

Despots, diplomatists, dark trades

Set men unceasingly at strife,

Usurp the war-cries of crusades,

Divert each God-devoted life;

Never, Oh never yet, will war,

Howe'er so poisonous root and stem,

Lack the assurance of a star

Outdazzling His of Bethlehem

Till Truth and Innocence reprove

Their ghastly champions with His word—

Who chid the violence even of love—

"Put up thy sword." "Put up thy sword."

"I am joined with ... nobility and tranquillity,burgomasters and great oneyers such as ... praycontinually to their saint the commonwealth."—IHenry IV, ii. 1.

SO ringed about with sparrow-hawks and owls,Bloodhounds and weasels, triplicated jowls,Complaisant dewlaps and uneasy eyes,He sits—this President of Destinies—Fingers his papers, strokes his creasy chin,Bellows beneath his borrowed baldaquin.Cocytus still sobs past him, on its brinkHe lays nice odds which souls emerge or sink,Paddles his bovine hoofs in the spilt blissOf Love, and in the tearfullest abyssAngles for little jests. He knows no ruth—Though even Pilate was concerned for TruthAnd Caiaphas for Forms—his scarlet thumbWas born reversed: and Innocence is dumbBound by the implication of his dream,Unholy revenant of a dead régime,Who made red War ere God made me and youAnd now, God willing, thinks to see it through.

SO ringed about with sparrow-hawks and owls,

Bloodhounds and weasels, triplicated jowls,

Complaisant dewlaps and uneasy eyes,

He sits—this President of Destinies—

Fingers his papers, strokes his creasy chin,

Bellows beneath his borrowed baldaquin.

Cocytus still sobs past him, on its brink

He lays nice odds which souls emerge or sink,

Paddles his bovine hoofs in the spilt bliss

Of Love, and in the tearfullest abyss

Angles for little jests. He knows no ruth—

Though even Pilate was concerned for Truth

And Caiaphas for Forms—his scarlet thumb

Was born reversed: and Innocence is dumb

Bound by the implication of his dream,

Unholy revenant of a dead régime,

Who made red War ere God made me and you

And now, God willing, thinks to see it through.

ALONG the silent lane I found—Where all night long the wind blew Hell—The chestnut trees had heaped the groundWith ruthless spoil of nut and shell.So shall we see our night's grim tolls—When dawn displays the insensate dusk'sRavage—the unnumbered, fallen souls,The unnumbered, vacant, mangled husks.

ALONG the silent lane I found—

Where all night long the wind blew Hell—

The chestnut trees had heaped the ground

With ruthless spoil of nut and shell.

So shall we see our night's grim tolls—

When dawn displays the insensate dusk's

Ravage—the unnumbered, fallen souls,

The unnumbered, vacant, mangled husks.

ONE dark December day, the text-books teach,The English Commons set unbending names,By the wan light of wavering candle-flames,To their immortal Protest for Free Speech:Stern signatories, who spared not to impeachMompesson and Mitchell of corrupted aims,"And argue and debate," said peevish James,"Publicly, matters far beyond their reach.""O fiery popular spirits," re-createSome sparkle of your ashes. Let us seeThe Phœnix Liberty, that chirps by stealthThrough chinks and crannies of our shuttered state,Bright as the sun and unabashed as he,Cry through the casements of the commonwealth.

ONE dark December day, the text-books teach,

The English Commons set unbending names,

By the wan light of wavering candle-flames,

To their immortal Protest for Free Speech:

Stern signatories, who spared not to impeach

Mompesson and Mitchell of corrupted aims,

"And argue and debate," said peevish James,

"Publicly, matters far beyond their reach."

"O fiery popular spirits," re-create

Some sparkle of your ashes. Let us see

The Phœnix Liberty, that chirps by stealth

Through chinks and crannies of our shuttered state,

Bright as the sun and unabashed as he,

Cry through the casements of the commonwealth.

Crown 8vo,3/6net.

Some Opinions of the Press

"The best first book produced in many a year."—The New York Times."It is difficult to describe the effect they produce without seeming to use the language of exaggeration."—The Westminster Gazette."There is not a piece in the engaging volume that does not make appeal."—The Daily Telegraph."A remarkable event in the world of women."—G. B. D., inThe Queen."The large bulk of this small volume is a sheer delight."—E. H. L., in theManchester Guardian."She has approached common things and great things with a quiet delicate ecstasy that is clean and refreshing."—J. M. B., inThe Graphic."Mrs. Eden at once secures for herself a place by her first volume in the distinctively literary class of her day. It is the best volume of light verse that has been issued for many a year."—Clement Shorter, inThe Sphere."I have read it a great many times myself and it has become part of my existence in a peculiar manner."—G. K. Chesterton, inThe New Witness."Poems ... which competent critics consider the noblest devotional poetry written since the death of Francis Thompson."—Joyce Kilmer, in theNew York Independent."She can work innocence into art without damaging the dew on it: the very cunning of her verse seems indeed a kind of added candour—a sort of celestial mischief that proves the possession of the full freedom of heaven."—Dixon Scott, in theLiverpool Daily Courier.

"The best first book produced in many a year."—The New York Times.

"It is difficult to describe the effect they produce without seeming to use the language of exaggeration."—The Westminster Gazette.

"There is not a piece in the engaging volume that does not make appeal."—The Daily Telegraph.

"A remarkable event in the world of women."—G. B. D., inThe Queen.

"The large bulk of this small volume is a sheer delight."—E. H. L., in theManchester Guardian.

"She has approached common things and great things with a quiet delicate ecstasy that is clean and refreshing."—J. M. B., inThe Graphic.

"Mrs. Eden at once secures for herself a place by her first volume in the distinctively literary class of her day. It is the best volume of light verse that has been issued for many a year."—Clement Shorter, inThe Sphere.

"I have read it a great many times myself and it has become part of my existence in a peculiar manner."—G. K. Chesterton, inThe New Witness.

"Poems ... which competent critics consider the noblest devotional poetry written since the death of Francis Thompson."—Joyce Kilmer, in theNew York Independent.

"She can work innocence into art without damaging the dew on it: the very cunning of her verse seems indeed a kind of added candour—a sort of celestial mischief that proves the possession of the full freedom of heaven."—Dixon Scott, in theLiverpool Daily Courier.

RECENT VERSE

CHRIST IN HADESByStephen Phillips.With an Introduction byC. Lewis Hind. Illustrated byStella Langdale.Demy 8vo. 3s.6d.net. (Uniform with "The Dream of Gerontius.")Daily News: "Mr. Lewis Hind has written a fascinating and amusing chapter of memories of the literary 'nineties."CACKLES AND LAYSRHYMES OF A HENWIFE. ByMargaret Lavington.With numerous Illustrations byHelen Urquhart.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.If Ann and Jane Taylor had lived in the twentieth century and taken to keeping poultry for profit in war time, they would probably have had a laudable desire to inculcate the principles and practice of hen-keeping among the young. But unless they had developed an unexpected sense of humour they wouldn't have produced anything like "Cackles and Lays," for while some of Margaret Lavington's rhymes are practical and sprightly, others are just delightfully whimsical and humorous.POEMS OF WEST AND EASTByV. Sackville-west(the Hon. Mrs. Harold Nicolson).Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Morning Post: "These poems reveal a personality both charming and courageous. They have all been lived—not merely written."THE RHYME GARDENByMarguerite Buller-allan. With Pictures in Black and White and Colour by the Author.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net.An unconventional book for children in that it is illustrated in what seems at first sight a conventional childish manner, but behind the apparent crudity there is real art and colour of the kind that will appeal to all children and all grown-ups who love children.HAY HARVEST and Other PoemsByLucy Buxton.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.A HIGHLAND REGIMENT and Other PoemsByLieut. E. A. Mackintosh, M.C. 3rd edition.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Daily Graphic: "This is one of the most notable poetic harvests of the war."WAR THE LIBERATOR and Other PiecesByLieut. E. a. Mackintosh, M.C., Author of "A Highland Regiment."Crown 8vo. With portrait. 5s.net.MESSINES ET AUTRES POÈMES. Messines and Other PoemsByEmile Cammaerts. English version byTita Brand Cammaerts.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.ON HEAVEN and Other PoemsByFord Madox Hueffer.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.RETROGRESSION and Other PoemsBySir William Watson.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.Daily News: "'Retrogressions' will revive a splendid reputation."AN EVENING IN MY LIBRARY AMONG THE ENGLISH POETSBy theHon. Stephen Coleridge.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.POEMS OF CAPTAIN BRIAN BROOKEWith a Foreword byM. P. Willcocks, and nine Illustrations.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Land and Water: "I cannot forbear the pleasure of quoting from a book that will soon be by the side of Lindsay Gordon's poems on the shelves of all those who love the poetry of out-of-doors."THERE IS NO DEATHPoems by the lateRichard Dennys. With an Introduction byCaptain Desmond Coke,and a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.Crown 8vo. 2s.6d.net.Globe: "This graceful verse is distinguished by its manly tone and vigorous quality."THE DAY and Other PoemsByHenry Chappell. With an Introduction bySir Herbert Warren, K.C.V.O.Crown 8vo. Cloth (with a Portrait), 2s.6d.net.Henry Chappell has long been widely known as the railway-porter poet of Bath, and many of his poems have been published in the press, and not a few set to music. His famous poem, "The Day," was printed in practically every newspaper in America. The present volume, however, constitutes the first publication of his work in a collected form.OUR GIRLS IN WAR TIMEByJoyce Dennys. With Topical Verses byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net. 2nd Edition.This is a companion volume to "Our Hospital A B C."Morning Post: "Once again these clever collaborators play up to the cheery souls on the Western Front, and their new consignment of the munitions of merriment will be even more sought after than the first volume. This Christmas the Dennys Girl will become as well established as the Gibson Girl."ODES TO TRIFLES, and Other War RhymesPoems byR. M. Eassie(Sergt. 5th Canadian Infantry)Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.The Times: "Humorous verse, by a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, in which every stanza gets well home; written with a refreshing air of conviction and a real wit which scintillates the more sharply because not a word of it could be spared."FLOWER-NAME FANCIESDesigned and Written byGuy Pierre Fauconnet.English Rhymes byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 2s.6d.net.A charming series of drawings illustrating in a delightfully quaint and delicate manner the popular nicknames of many flowers, both in French and English.Each drawing is accompanied by an explanation as quaint as itself, in French and English, the latter in rhyme by Hampden Gordon.

CHRIST IN HADES

ByStephen Phillips.With an Introduction byC. Lewis Hind. Illustrated byStella Langdale.Demy 8vo. 3s.6d.net. (Uniform with "The Dream of Gerontius.")Daily News: "Mr. Lewis Hind has written a fascinating and amusing chapter of memories of the literary 'nineties."

ByStephen Phillips.With an Introduction byC. Lewis Hind. Illustrated byStella Langdale.Demy 8vo. 3s.6d.net. (Uniform with "The Dream of Gerontius.")

Daily News: "Mr. Lewis Hind has written a fascinating and amusing chapter of memories of the literary 'nineties."

CACKLES AND LAYS

RHYMES OF A HENWIFE. ByMargaret Lavington.With numerous Illustrations byHelen Urquhart.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.If Ann and Jane Taylor had lived in the twentieth century and taken to keeping poultry for profit in war time, they would probably have had a laudable desire to inculcate the principles and practice of hen-keeping among the young. But unless they had developed an unexpected sense of humour they wouldn't have produced anything like "Cackles and Lays," for while some of Margaret Lavington's rhymes are practical and sprightly, others are just delightfully whimsical and humorous.

RHYMES OF A HENWIFE. ByMargaret Lavington.With numerous Illustrations byHelen Urquhart.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

If Ann and Jane Taylor had lived in the twentieth century and taken to keeping poultry for profit in war time, they would probably have had a laudable desire to inculcate the principles and practice of hen-keeping among the young. But unless they had developed an unexpected sense of humour they wouldn't have produced anything like "Cackles and Lays," for while some of Margaret Lavington's rhymes are practical and sprightly, others are just delightfully whimsical and humorous.

POEMS OF WEST AND EAST

ByV. Sackville-west(the Hon. Mrs. Harold Nicolson).Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Morning Post: "These poems reveal a personality both charming and courageous. They have all been lived—not merely written."

ByV. Sackville-west(the Hon. Mrs. Harold Nicolson).Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Morning Post: "These poems reveal a personality both charming and courageous. They have all been lived—not merely written."

THE RHYME GARDEN

ByMarguerite Buller-allan. With Pictures in Black and White and Colour by the Author.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net.An unconventional book for children in that it is illustrated in what seems at first sight a conventional childish manner, but behind the apparent crudity there is real art and colour of the kind that will appeal to all children and all grown-ups who love children.

ByMarguerite Buller-allan. With Pictures in Black and White and Colour by the Author.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net.

An unconventional book for children in that it is illustrated in what seems at first sight a conventional childish manner, but behind the apparent crudity there is real art and colour of the kind that will appeal to all children and all grown-ups who love children.

HAY HARVEST and Other Poems

ByLucy Buxton.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

A HIGHLAND REGIMENT and Other Poems

ByLieut. E. A. Mackintosh, M.C. 3rd edition.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Daily Graphic: "This is one of the most notable poetic harvests of the war."

ByLieut. E. A. Mackintosh, M.C. 3rd edition.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Daily Graphic: "This is one of the most notable poetic harvests of the war."

WAR THE LIBERATOR and Other Pieces

ByLieut. E. a. Mackintosh, M.C., Author of "A Highland Regiment."Crown 8vo. With portrait. 5s.net.

MESSINES ET AUTRES POÈMES. Messines and Other Poems

ByEmile Cammaerts. English version byTita Brand Cammaerts.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

ON HEAVEN and Other Poems

ByFord Madox Hueffer.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

RETROGRESSION and Other Poems

BySir William Watson.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.Daily News: "'Retrogressions' will revive a splendid reputation."

BySir William Watson.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.

Daily News: "'Retrogressions' will revive a splendid reputation."

AN EVENING IN MY LIBRARY AMONG THE ENGLISH POETS

By theHon. Stephen Coleridge.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

POEMS OF CAPTAIN BRIAN BROOKE

With a Foreword byM. P. Willcocks, and nine Illustrations.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Land and Water: "I cannot forbear the pleasure of quoting from a book that will soon be by the side of Lindsay Gordon's poems on the shelves of all those who love the poetry of out-of-doors."

With a Foreword byM. P. Willcocks, and nine Illustrations.Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Land and Water: "I cannot forbear the pleasure of quoting from a book that will soon be by the side of Lindsay Gordon's poems on the shelves of all those who love the poetry of out-of-doors."

THERE IS NO DEATH

Poems by the lateRichard Dennys. With an Introduction byCaptain Desmond Coke,and a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.Crown 8vo. 2s.6d.net.Globe: "This graceful verse is distinguished by its manly tone and vigorous quality."

Poems by the lateRichard Dennys. With an Introduction byCaptain Desmond Coke,and a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.Crown 8vo. 2s.6d.net.

Globe: "This graceful verse is distinguished by its manly tone and vigorous quality."

THE DAY and Other Poems

ByHenry Chappell. With an Introduction bySir Herbert Warren, K.C.V.O.Crown 8vo. Cloth (with a Portrait), 2s.6d.net.Henry Chappell has long been widely known as the railway-porter poet of Bath, and many of his poems have been published in the press, and not a few set to music. His famous poem, "The Day," was printed in practically every newspaper in America. The present volume, however, constitutes the first publication of his work in a collected form.

ByHenry Chappell. With an Introduction bySir Herbert Warren, K.C.V.O.Crown 8vo. Cloth (with a Portrait), 2s.6d.net.

Henry Chappell has long been widely known as the railway-porter poet of Bath, and many of his poems have been published in the press, and not a few set to music. His famous poem, "The Day," was printed in practically every newspaper in America. The present volume, however, constitutes the first publication of his work in a collected form.

OUR GIRLS IN WAR TIME

ByJoyce Dennys. With Topical Verses byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net. 2nd Edition.This is a companion volume to "Our Hospital A B C."Morning Post: "Once again these clever collaborators play up to the cheery souls on the Western Front, and their new consignment of the munitions of merriment will be even more sought after than the first volume. This Christmas the Dennys Girl will become as well established as the Gibson Girl."

ByJoyce Dennys. With Topical Verses byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 3s.6d.net. 2nd Edition.

This is a companion volume to "Our Hospital A B C."

Morning Post: "Once again these clever collaborators play up to the cheery souls on the Western Front, and their new consignment of the munitions of merriment will be even more sought after than the first volume. This Christmas the Dennys Girl will become as well established as the Gibson Girl."

ODES TO TRIFLES, and Other War Rhymes

Poems byR. M. Eassie(Sergt. 5th Canadian Infantry)Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.The Times: "Humorous verse, by a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, in which every stanza gets well home; written with a refreshing air of conviction and a real wit which scintillates the more sharply because not a word of it could be spared."

Poems byR. M. Eassie(Sergt. 5th Canadian Infantry)Crown 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

The Times: "Humorous verse, by a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, in which every stanza gets well home; written with a refreshing air of conviction and a real wit which scintillates the more sharply because not a word of it could be spared."

FLOWER-NAME FANCIES

Designed and Written byGuy Pierre Fauconnet.English Rhymes byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 2s.6d.net.A charming series of drawings illustrating in a delightfully quaint and delicate manner the popular nicknames of many flowers, both in French and English.Each drawing is accompanied by an explanation as quaint as itself, in French and English, the latter in rhyme by Hampden Gordon.

Designed and Written byGuy Pierre Fauconnet.English Rhymes byHampden Gordon.Crown 4to. 2s.6d.net.

A charming series of drawings illustrating in a delightfully quaint and delicate manner the popular nicknames of many flowers, both in French and English.

Each drawing is accompanied by an explanation as quaint as itself, in French and English, the latter in rhyme by Hampden Gordon.

JOHN LANE,The Bodley Head, Vigo Street, W.

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