Patriotic Recitations.

Speak the words in italics with full, earnest tones of command. Then change easily to a manner suited to animated description. An excellent selection for one who can make these changes effectively.

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,And the sleepy mist on the river lies,Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.Awake! awake! awake!O’er field and wood and brake,With glories newly born,Comes on the blushing morn.Awake! awake!You have dreamed of your homes and your friends all night;You have basked in your sweethearts’ smiles so bright:Come, part with them all for a while again—Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.Turn out! turn out! turn out!You have dreamed full long I know,Turn out! turn out! turn out!The east is all aglow.Turn out! turn out!From every valley and hill there comeThe clamoring voices of fife and drum;And out on the fresh, cool morning airThe soldiers are swarming everywhere.Fall in! fall in! fall in!Every man in his place.Fall in! fall in! fall in!Each with a cheerful face.Fall in! fall in!Michael O’Connor.

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!

The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,

And the sleepy mist on the river lies,

Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.

Awake! awake! awake!

O’er field and wood and brake,

With glories newly born,

Comes on the blushing morn.

Awake! awake!

You have dreamed of your homes and your friends all night;You have basked in your sweethearts’ smiles so bright:Come, part with them all for a while again—Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.

You have dreamed of your homes and your friends all night;

You have basked in your sweethearts’ smiles so bright:

Come, part with them all for a while again—

Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.

Turn out! turn out! turn out!You have dreamed full long I know,Turn out! turn out! turn out!The east is all aglow.Turn out! turn out!

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

You have dreamed full long I know,

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

The east is all aglow.

Turn out! turn out!

From every valley and hill there comeThe clamoring voices of fife and drum;And out on the fresh, cool morning airThe soldiers are swarming everywhere.Fall in! fall in! fall in!Every man in his place.Fall in! fall in! fall in!Each with a cheerful face.Fall in! fall in!

From every valley and hill there come

The clamoring voices of fife and drum;

And out on the fresh, cool morning air

The soldiers are swarming everywhere.

Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Every man in his place.

Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Each with a cheerful face.

Fall in! fall in!

Michael O’Connor.

Admirably suited to rapid utterance, vivid description and full tones on an elevated key. Hurrah in the last lines as you would if you saw the enemy routed on the field of battle.

With bray of the trumpetAnd roll of the drum,And keen ring of bugles,The cavalry come,Sharp clank the steel scabbards,The bridle-chains ring,And foam from red nostrilsThe wild chargers fling.Tramp! tramp! o’er the green swardThat quivers below,Scarce held by the curb-bit,The fierce horses go!And the grim-visaged colonel,With ear-rending shout,Peals forth to the squadrons,The order—“Trot out.”One hand on the sabre,And one on the rein,The troopers move forwardIn line on the plain.As rings the word “Gallop!”The steel scabbards clank,And each rowel is pressedTo a horse’s hot flank:And swift is their rushAs the wild torrent’s flow,When it pours from the cragOn the valley below.“Charge!” thunders the leader.Like shaft from the bowEach mad horse is hurledOn the wavering foe.A thousand bright sabresAre gleaming in air;A thousand dark horsesAre dashed on the square.Resistless and recklessOf aught may betide,Like demons, not mortals,The wild troopers ride.Cut right! and cut left!For the parry who needs?The bayonets shiverLike wind-shattered reeds!Vain—vain the red volleyThat bursts from the square—The random-shot bulletsAre wasted in air.Triumphant, remorseless,Unerring as death,—No sabre that’s stainlessReturns to its sheath.The wounds that are dealtBy that murderous steelWill never yield caseFor the surgeons to healHurrah! they are broken—Hurrah! boys, they fly—None linger save thoseWho but linger to die.

With bray of the trumpetAnd roll of the drum,And keen ring of bugles,The cavalry come,Sharp clank the steel scabbards,The bridle-chains ring,And foam from red nostrilsThe wild chargers fling.

With bray of the trumpet

And roll of the drum,

And keen ring of bugles,

The cavalry come,

Sharp clank the steel scabbards,

The bridle-chains ring,

And foam from red nostrils

The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o’er the green swardThat quivers below,Scarce held by the curb-bit,The fierce horses go!And the grim-visaged colonel,With ear-rending shout,Peals forth to the squadrons,The order—“Trot out.”

Tramp! tramp! o’er the green sward

That quivers below,

Scarce held by the curb-bit,

The fierce horses go!

And the grim-visaged colonel,

With ear-rending shout,

Peals forth to the squadrons,

The order—“Trot out.”

One hand on the sabre,And one on the rein,The troopers move forwardIn line on the plain.As rings the word “Gallop!”The steel scabbards clank,And each rowel is pressedTo a horse’s hot flank:And swift is their rushAs the wild torrent’s flow,When it pours from the cragOn the valley below.

One hand on the sabre,

And one on the rein,

The troopers move forward

In line on the plain.

As rings the word “Gallop!”

The steel scabbards clank,

And each rowel is pressed

To a horse’s hot flank:

And swift is their rush

As the wild torrent’s flow,

When it pours from the crag

On the valley below.

“Charge!” thunders the leader.Like shaft from the bowEach mad horse is hurledOn the wavering foe.A thousand bright sabresAre gleaming in air;A thousand dark horsesAre dashed on the square.

“Charge!” thunders the leader.

Like shaft from the bow

Each mad horse is hurled

On the wavering foe.

A thousand bright sabres

Are gleaming in air;

A thousand dark horses

Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and recklessOf aught may betide,Like demons, not mortals,The wild troopers ride.Cut right! and cut left!For the parry who needs?The bayonets shiverLike wind-shattered reeds!

Resistless and reckless

Of aught may betide,

Like demons, not mortals,

The wild troopers ride.

Cut right! and cut left!

For the parry who needs?

The bayonets shiver

Like wind-shattered reeds!

Vain—vain the red volleyThat bursts from the square—The random-shot bulletsAre wasted in air.Triumphant, remorseless,Unerring as death,—No sabre that’s stainlessReturns to its sheath.

Vain—vain the red volley

That bursts from the square—

The random-shot bullets

Are wasted in air.

Triumphant, remorseless,

Unerring as death,—

No sabre that’s stainless

Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealtBy that murderous steelWill never yield caseFor the surgeons to healHurrah! they are broken—Hurrah! boys, they fly—None linger save thoseWho but linger to die.

The wounds that are dealt

By that murderous steel

Will never yield case

For the surgeons to heal

Hurrah! they are broken—

Hurrah! boys, they fly—

None linger save those

Who but linger to die.

Hold your body erect, but not awkwardly stiff, let every nerve be tense, your voice full and round, and let your manner indicate that you have a grand story to relate, as you recite Admiral Schley’s thrilling description of the great naval battle at Santiago. You are depicting the scene as though you were there and yourself won the brilliant victory.

One hour before the Spaniards appeared my quartermaster on the Brooklyn reported to me that Cervera’s fleet was coaling up. This was just what I expected, and we prepared everything for a hot reception. Away over the hills great clouds of smoke could be faintly seen rising up to the sky. A little later and the smoke began to move towards the mouth of the harbor. The black cloud wound in and out along the narrow channel, and every eye on board the vessels in our fleet strained with expectation.The sailor boys were silent for a full hour and the grim old vessels lay back like tigers waiting to pounce upon their prey. Suddenly the whole Spanish fleet shot out of the mouth of the channel. It was the grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. The flames were pouring out of the funnels, and as it left the channel the fleet opened fire with every gun on board. Their guns were worked as rapidly as possible, and shells were raining around like hail.It was a grand charge. My first impression was that of a lot of maddened bulls, goaded to desperation, dashing at their tormentors. The storm of projectiles and shells was the hottest imaginable. I wondered where they all came from. Just as the vessels swung around the Brooklyn opened up with three shells, and almost simultaneously the rest of the fleet fired. Our volley was a terrible shock to the Spaniards, and so surprised them that they must have been badly rattled.When our fleet swung around and gave chase, we not only had to face the fire from the vessels, but were bothered by a cross-fire from the forts on either side, which opened on our fleet as soon as the Spaniards shot out of the harbor. The engagementlasted three hours, but I hardly knew what time was. I remember crashing holes through the Spanish Admiral’s flagship, the Maria Teresa, and giving chase to the Colon.I was on the bridge of the Brooklyn during the whole engagement, and at times the smoke was so dense that I could not see three yards ahead of me. The shells from the enemy’s fleet were whistling around and bursting everywhere, except where they could do some damage. I seemed to be the only thing on the vessel not protected by heavy armor, and oh! how I would have liked to get behind some of that armor!I don’t know how I kept my head, but I do know that I surprised myself by seeing and knowing all that was going on, and I could hear my voice giving orders to do just what my head thought was right, while my heart was trying to get beneath the shelter of the armored deck. How do I account for such a victory with so little loss? That would mean how do I account for the rain of Spanish shell not doing more execution? They fought nobly and desperately, but they were not a match for our Yankee officers and sailors.I was proud of the boys in our fleet during that engagement. They knew just what their guns could do, and not one shot was wasted. Their conduct was wonderful. It was inspiring. It was magnificent. Men who can stand behind big guns and face a black storm of shells and projectiles as coolly as though nothing was occurring; men who could laugh because a shell had missed hitting them; men who could bet one another on shots and lay odds in the midst of the horrible crashing; men who could not realize that they were in danger—such men are wonders, and we have a whole navy of wonders.Admiral W. S. Schley.

The sailor boys were silent for a full hour and the grim old vessels lay back like tigers waiting to pounce upon their prey. Suddenly the whole Spanish fleet shot out of the mouth of the channel. It was the grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. The flames were pouring out of the funnels, and as it left the channel the fleet opened fire with every gun on board. Their guns were worked as rapidly as possible, and shells were raining around like hail.

It was a grand charge. My first impression was that of a lot of maddened bulls, goaded to desperation, dashing at their tormentors. The storm of projectiles and shells was the hottest imaginable. I wondered where they all came from. Just as the vessels swung around the Brooklyn opened up with three shells, and almost simultaneously the rest of the fleet fired. Our volley was a terrible shock to the Spaniards, and so surprised them that they must have been badly rattled.

When our fleet swung around and gave chase, we not only had to face the fire from the vessels, but were bothered by a cross-fire from the forts on either side, which opened on our fleet as soon as the Spaniards shot out of the harbor. The engagementlasted three hours, but I hardly knew what time was. I remember crashing holes through the Spanish Admiral’s flagship, the Maria Teresa, and giving chase to the Colon.

I was on the bridge of the Brooklyn during the whole engagement, and at times the smoke was so dense that I could not see three yards ahead of me. The shells from the enemy’s fleet were whistling around and bursting everywhere, except where they could do some damage. I seemed to be the only thing on the vessel not protected by heavy armor, and oh! how I would have liked to get behind some of that armor!

I don’t know how I kept my head, but I do know that I surprised myself by seeing and knowing all that was going on, and I could hear my voice giving orders to do just what my head thought was right, while my heart was trying to get beneath the shelter of the armored deck. How do I account for such a victory with so little loss? That would mean how do I account for the rain of Spanish shell not doing more execution? They fought nobly and desperately, but they were not a match for our Yankee officers and sailors.

I was proud of the boys in our fleet during that engagement. They knew just what their guns could do, and not one shot was wasted. Their conduct was wonderful. It was inspiring. It was magnificent. Men who can stand behind big guns and face a black storm of shells and projectiles as coolly as though nothing was occurring; men who could laugh because a shell had missed hitting them; men who could bet one another on shots and lay odds in the midst of the horrible crashing; men who could not realize that they were in danger—such men are wonders, and we have a whole navy of wonders.

Admiral W. S. Schley.

Let your tones of voice be strong and bold, not boisterous, and give to the most spirited lines full force. You are depicting a daring deed, and it must not be done in a weak, timid, hesitating way, but with strong utterance and emphasis. The sinking of the steam collier Merrimac was a famous exploit.

Thunder peal and roar and rattle of the ships in line of battle,Rumbling noise of steel volcanoes hurling metal from the shore,Drowned the sound of quiet speaking and the creaking, creaking, creakingOf the steering-gear that turned her toward the narrow harbor door.On the hulk was calm and quiet, deeper for the shoreward riot;Dumb they watched the fountain streaming; mute they heard the waters hiss,Till one laughed and murmured, “Surely it was worth while rising earlyFor a fireworks exhibition of such character as this.”Down the channel the propeller drove her as they tried to shell herFrom the dizzy heights of Morro and Socapa parapet;She was torn and she was battered, and her upper works were shatteredBy the bursting of the missiles that in air above her met.Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on,And they flashed through morning darkness like a giant’s flaming teeth;Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning;Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath.Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory was alteredOf the detailed plan agreed on—not a doubt was there expressed;This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging;Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest.And they won. But greater glory than the winning is the storyOf the foeman’s friendly greeting of that valiant captive band;Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not;But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand.

Thunder peal and roar and rattle of the ships in line of battle,

Rumbling noise of steel volcanoes hurling metal from the shore,

Drowned the sound of quiet speaking and the creaking, creaking, creaking

Of the steering-gear that turned her toward the narrow harbor door.

On the hulk was calm and quiet, deeper for the shoreward riot;Dumb they watched the fountain streaming; mute they heard the waters hiss,Till one laughed and murmured, “Surely it was worth while rising earlyFor a fireworks exhibition of such character as this.”

On the hulk was calm and quiet, deeper for the shoreward riot;

Dumb they watched the fountain streaming; mute they heard the waters hiss,

Till one laughed and murmured, “Surely it was worth while rising early

For a fireworks exhibition of such character as this.”

Down the channel the propeller drove her as they tried to shell herFrom the dizzy heights of Morro and Socapa parapet;She was torn and she was battered, and her upper works were shatteredBy the bursting of the missiles that in air above her met.

Down the channel the propeller drove her as they tried to shell her

From the dizzy heights of Morro and Socapa parapet;

She was torn and she was battered, and her upper works were shattered

By the bursting of the missiles that in air above her met.

Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on,And they flashed through morning darkness like a giant’s flaming teeth;Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning;Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath.

Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on,

And they flashed through morning darkness like a giant’s flaming teeth;

Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning;

Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath.

Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory was alteredOf the detailed plan agreed on—not a doubt was there expressed;This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging;Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest.

Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory was altered

Of the detailed plan agreed on—not a doubt was there expressed;

This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging;

Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest.

And they won. But greater glory than the winning is the storyOf the foeman’s friendly greeting of that valiant captive band;Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not;But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand.

And they won. But greater glory than the winning is the story

Of the foeman’s friendly greeting of that valiant captive band;

Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not;

But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand.

“Fighting Joe,” as he was familiarly called, was one of the most conspicuous and heroic figures in the battles fought around Santiago. Recite this tribute to the hero with feeling, and show by looks, tone and gestures that you appreciate the patriotism and valor of the famous commander of cavalry.

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon’s bay—He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,Where his country’s best blood splashed and flowed ’round the old Red, White and Blue.Fevered body and hero heart! This Union’s heart to youBeats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blueWho stood or fell ’mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!James Lindsay Gordon.

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,

Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;

But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,

Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.

Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.

Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—

Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;

“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,

And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.

From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!

From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,

And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,

As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,

Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!

Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon’s bay—He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,Where his country’s best blood splashed and flowed ’round the old Red, White and Blue.

Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,

For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon’s bay—

He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,

Where his country’s best blood splashed and flowed ’round the old Red, White and Blue.

Fevered body and hero heart! This Union’s heart to youBeats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blueWho stood or fell ’mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!

Fevered body and hero heart! This Union’s heart to you

Beats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blue

Who stood or fell ’mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,

As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!

James Lindsay Gordon.

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Blue and crimson and white it shinesOver the steel-tipped, ordered lines,Hats off!The colors before us fly!But more than the flag is passing by,Sea-fights and land-fights grim and greatFought to make and to save the state;Cheers of victory on dying lips;Weary marches and sinking ships;Days of plenty and years of peaceMarch of a strong land’s swift increase;Equal justice, right and law,Stately honor and reverend awe;Sign of a nation great and strong,To ward her people from foreign wrong;Pride and glory and honor, allLive in the colors to stand or fall.Hats off!

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!

Hats off!

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,

A flash of color beneath the sky:

Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shinesOver the steel-tipped, ordered lines,Hats off!The colors before us fly!But more than the flag is passing by,

Blue and crimson and white it shines

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines,

Hats off!

The colors before us fly!

But more than the flag is passing by,

Sea-fights and land-fights grim and greatFought to make and to save the state;Cheers of victory on dying lips;Weary marches and sinking ships;Days of plenty and years of peaceMarch of a strong land’s swift increase;Equal justice, right and law,Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sea-fights and land-fights grim and great

Fought to make and to save the state;

Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Weary marches and sinking ships;

Days of plenty and years of peace

March of a strong land’s swift increase;

Equal justice, right and law,

Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation great and strong,To ward her people from foreign wrong;Pride and glory and honor, allLive in the colors to stand or fall.Hats off!

Sign of a nation great and strong,

To ward her people from foreign wrong;

Pride and glory and honor, all

Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!

A graphic description of the great naval battle of Manila and Admiral Dewey’s overwhelming victory. Unless this recital is delivered in an animated, exultant manner, and with great oratorical force, the grand power of the description will be weakened, if not entirely lost. Put your whole soul into it.

On the broad Manila BayThe Spanish cruisers lay,In the shelter of their forts upon the shore;And they dared their foes to sailThrough the crashing iron hailWhich the guns from decks and battlements would pour.All the harbor ways were missed,And along the channel blindSlept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath.Yea! the fiery hates of hellLay beneath the ocean’s swell,Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path.Breasting fierce Pacific gales,Lo! a little squadron sails,And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars.It is friendless and alone,Aids and allies it has none,But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars:“We’re ten thousand miles from home;Ocean’s wastes and wave and foamShut us from the land we love so far away.We have ne’er a friendly portFor retreat as last resort,But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.“They have mines beneath the sea,They have forts upon their lee,They have everything to aid them in the fray;But we’ll brave their hidden mines,And we’ll face their blazing lines;Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.“If we’re worsted in the fight,We shall perish in the right—No hand will wipe the dews of death away.The wounded none will tend,For we’ve not a single friend;But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.“No ironclads we sail,Only cruisers light and frail,With no armor plates to turn the shells away.All the battleships now steerIn another hemisphere,But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.“Ho! Remember now the Maine!Up! And smite the ships of Spain!Let them not forget for years this first of May!Though hell blaze up from beneath,Forward through the cannon’s breath,When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.”There, half-way round the world,Swift and straight the shots were hurled,And a handful of bold sailors won the day.Never since earth was begunHas a braver deed been doneThan when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.God made for him a pathThrough the mad torpedoes’ wrath,From their slumbers never wakened into play.When dawn smote the east with gold,Spaniards started to beholdDewey and his gallant fleet within their bay.Then from forts and warships firstIron maledictions burst,And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray;Like demons out of hellThe batteries roar and yell,While Dewey answers back across the bay.O Gods! it was a sight,Till the smoke, as black as night,Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day.When it lifted from the tide,Smitten low was Spanish pride,And Dewey was the master of their bay.Where the awful conflict roared,And red blood in torrents poured,There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day.Dewey! Hero strong and grand!Shout his name through every land!For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay.Charles Wadsworth, Jr.

On the broad Manila Bay

The Spanish cruisers lay,

In the shelter of their forts upon the shore;

And they dared their foes to sail

Through the crashing iron hail

Which the guns from decks and battlements would pour.

All the harbor ways were missed,And along the channel blindSlept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath.Yea! the fiery hates of hellLay beneath the ocean’s swell,Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path.

All the harbor ways were missed,

And along the channel blind

Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath.

Yea! the fiery hates of hell

Lay beneath the ocean’s swell,

Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path.

Breasting fierce Pacific gales,Lo! a little squadron sails,And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars.It is friendless and alone,Aids and allies it has none,But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars:

Breasting fierce Pacific gales,

Lo! a little squadron sails,

And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars.

It is friendless and alone,

Aids and allies it has none,

But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars:

“We’re ten thousand miles from home;Ocean’s wastes and wave and foamShut us from the land we love so far away.We have ne’er a friendly portFor retreat as last resort,But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“We’re ten thousand miles from home;

Ocean’s wastes and wave and foam

Shut us from the land we love so far away.

We have ne’er a friendly port

For retreat as last resort,

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“They have mines beneath the sea,They have forts upon their lee,They have everything to aid them in the fray;But we’ll brave their hidden mines,And we’ll face their blazing lines;Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“They have mines beneath the sea,

They have forts upon their lee,

They have everything to aid them in the fray;

But we’ll brave their hidden mines,

And we’ll face their blazing lines;

Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“If we’re worsted in the fight,We shall perish in the right—No hand will wipe the dews of death away.The wounded none will tend,For we’ve not a single friend;But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“If we’re worsted in the fight,

We shall perish in the right—

No hand will wipe the dews of death away.

The wounded none will tend,

For we’ve not a single friend;

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“No ironclads we sail,Only cruisers light and frail,With no armor plates to turn the shells away.All the battleships now steerIn another hemisphere,But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“No ironclads we sail,

Only cruisers light and frail,

With no armor plates to turn the shells away.

All the battleships now steer

In another hemisphere,

But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“Ho! Remember now the Maine!Up! And smite the ships of Spain!Let them not forget for years this first of May!Though hell blaze up from beneath,Forward through the cannon’s breath,When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.”

“Ho! Remember now the Maine!

Up! And smite the ships of Spain!

Let them not forget for years this first of May!

Though hell blaze up from beneath,

Forward through the cannon’s breath,

When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.”

There, half-way round the world,Swift and straight the shots were hurled,And a handful of bold sailors won the day.Never since earth was begunHas a braver deed been doneThan when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.

There, half-way round the world,

Swift and straight the shots were hurled,

And a handful of bold sailors won the day.

Never since earth was begun

Has a braver deed been done

Than when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.

God made for him a pathThrough the mad torpedoes’ wrath,From their slumbers never wakened into play.When dawn smote the east with gold,Spaniards started to beholdDewey and his gallant fleet within their bay.

God made for him a path

Through the mad torpedoes’ wrath,

From their slumbers never wakened into play.

When dawn smote the east with gold,

Spaniards started to behold

Dewey and his gallant fleet within their bay.

Then from forts and warships firstIron maledictions burst,And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray;Like demons out of hellThe batteries roar and yell,While Dewey answers back across the bay.

Then from forts and warships first

Iron maledictions burst,

And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray;

Like demons out of hell

The batteries roar and yell,

While Dewey answers back across the bay.

O Gods! it was a sight,Till the smoke, as black as night,Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day.When it lifted from the tide,Smitten low was Spanish pride,And Dewey was the master of their bay.

O Gods! it was a sight,

Till the smoke, as black as night,

Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day.

When it lifted from the tide,

Smitten low was Spanish pride,

And Dewey was the master of their bay.

Where the awful conflict roared,And red blood in torrents poured,There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day.Dewey! Hero strong and grand!Shout his name through every land!For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay.

Where the awful conflict roared,

And red blood in torrents poured,

There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day.

Dewey! Hero strong and grand!

Shout his name through every land!

For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay.

Charles Wadsworth, Jr.

When night comes on, when morning breaks, they rise,Those earnest prayers by faithful lips oft said,And pierce the blue which shrouds the inner skies:“God guard my boy; God grant he is not dead!”“My soldier boy—where is he camped to-night?”“God guard him waking, sleeping or in fight!”Far, far away where tropic suns cast downTheir scorching rays, where sultry damp airs riseAnd haunting breath of sickness holds its own,A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,The marching columns run to bitter strife;Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yetNaught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,She knows the heart-aches following victories won.

When night comes on, when morning breaks, they rise,

Those earnest prayers by faithful lips oft said,

And pierce the blue which shrouds the inner skies:

“God guard my boy; God grant he is not dead!”

“My soldier boy—where is he camped to-night?”

“God guard him waking, sleeping or in fight!”

Far, far away where tropic suns cast downTheir scorching rays, where sultry damp airs riseAnd haunting breath of sickness holds its own,A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”

Far, far away where tropic suns cast down

Their scorching rays, where sultry damp airs rise

And haunting breath of sickness holds its own,

A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.

“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.

“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”

Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,The marching columns run to bitter strife;Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yetNaught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,She knows the heart-aches following victories won.

Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,

The marching columns run to bitter strife;

Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yet

Naught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;

Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,

She knows the heart-aches following victories won.

For courage and dash there is no parallel in history to this action of the Spanish Admiral. He came, as he knew, to absolute destruction. There was one single hope. That was that the Spanish ship Cristobal Colon would steam faster than the American ship Brooklyn. The spectacle of two torpedo-boat destroyers, paper shells at best, deliberately steaming out in broad daylight in the face of the fire of battleships can only be described in one way. It was Spanish, and it was ordered by the Spanish General Blanco. The same may be said of the entire movement.In contrast to the Spanish fashion was the cool, deliberate Yankee work. The American squadron was without sentiment apparently. The ships went at their Spanish opponents and literally tore them to pieces. Admiral Cervera was taken aboard the Iowa from the Gloucester, which had rescued him, and he was received with a full Admiral’s guard. The crew of the Iowa crowded aft over the turrets, half naked and black withpowder, as Cervera stepped over the side bareheaded. The crew cheered vociferously. The Admiral submitted to the fortunes of war with a grace that proclaimed him a thoroughbred.The officers of the Spanish ship Vizcaya said they simply could not hold their crews at the guns on account of the rapid fire poured upon them. The decks were flooded with water from the fire hose, and the blood from the wounded made this a dark red. Fragments of bodies floated in this along the gun deck. Every instant the crack of exploding shells told of new havoc.The torpedo boat Ericsson was sent by the flagship to the help of the Iowa in the rescue of the Vizcaya’s crew. Her men saw a terrible sight. The flames, leaping out from the huge shot holes in the Vizcaya’s sides, licked up the decks, sizzling the flesh of the wounded who were lying there shrieking for help. Between the frequent explosions there came awful cries and groans from the men pinned in below. This carnage was chiefly due to the rapidity of the American fire.From two 6-pounders 400 shells were fired in fifty minutes. Up in the tops the marines banged away with 1-pounders, too excited to step back to duck as the shells whistled over them. One gunner of a secondary battery under a 12-inch gun was blinded by smoke and saltpetre from the turret, and his crew were driven off, but sticking a wet handkerchief over his face, with holes cut for his eyes, he stuck to his gun.Finally, as the 6-pounders were so close to the 8-inch turret as to make it impossible to stay there with safety, the men were ordered away before the big gun was fired, but they refused to leave. When the 3-inch gun was fired, the concussion blew two men of the smaller gun’s crew ten feet from their guns and threw them to the deck as deaf as posts. Back they went again, however, and were again blown away, and finally had to be dragged away from their stations. Such bravery and such dogged determination under the heavy fire were of frequent occurrence on all the ships engaged.Captain R. D. Evans.

In contrast to the Spanish fashion was the cool, deliberate Yankee work. The American squadron was without sentiment apparently. The ships went at their Spanish opponents and literally tore them to pieces. Admiral Cervera was taken aboard the Iowa from the Gloucester, which had rescued him, and he was received with a full Admiral’s guard. The crew of the Iowa crowded aft over the turrets, half naked and black withpowder, as Cervera stepped over the side bareheaded. The crew cheered vociferously. The Admiral submitted to the fortunes of war with a grace that proclaimed him a thoroughbred.

The officers of the Spanish ship Vizcaya said they simply could not hold their crews at the guns on account of the rapid fire poured upon them. The decks were flooded with water from the fire hose, and the blood from the wounded made this a dark red. Fragments of bodies floated in this along the gun deck. Every instant the crack of exploding shells told of new havoc.

The torpedo boat Ericsson was sent by the flagship to the help of the Iowa in the rescue of the Vizcaya’s crew. Her men saw a terrible sight. The flames, leaping out from the huge shot holes in the Vizcaya’s sides, licked up the decks, sizzling the flesh of the wounded who were lying there shrieking for help. Between the frequent explosions there came awful cries and groans from the men pinned in below. This carnage was chiefly due to the rapidity of the American fire.

From two 6-pounders 400 shells were fired in fifty minutes. Up in the tops the marines banged away with 1-pounders, too excited to step back to duck as the shells whistled over them. One gunner of a secondary battery under a 12-inch gun was blinded by smoke and saltpetre from the turret, and his crew were driven off, but sticking a wet handkerchief over his face, with holes cut for his eyes, he stuck to his gun.

Finally, as the 6-pounders were so close to the 8-inch turret as to make it impossible to stay there with safety, the men were ordered away before the big gun was fired, but they refused to leave. When the 3-inch gun was fired, the concussion blew two men of the smaller gun’s crew ten feet from their guns and threw them to the deck as deaf as posts. Back they went again, however, and were again blown away, and finally had to be dragged away from their stations. Such bravery and such dogged determination under the heavy fire were of frequent occurrence on all the ships engaged.

Captain R. D. Evans.

The first American flag, including the thirteen stars and stripes, was made by Mrs. Betsey Ross, a Quaker lady of Philadelphia. Recite these lines in an easy, conversational manner, yet with animation. In this and similar recitations never let your voice sink down into your throat, as if you were just ready to faint away. Your delivery should never be dull, least of all in patriotic pieces.

We have nicknamed it “Old Glory”As it floats upon the breeze,Rich in legend, song and storyOn the land and on the seas;Far above the shining river,Over mountain, glen and gladeWith a fame that lives foreverStreams the banner Betsey made.Once it went from her, its maker,To the glory of the wars,Once the modest little QuakerDeftly studded it with stars;And her fingers, swiftly flyingThrough the sunshine and the shade,Welded colors bright, undying,In the banner Betsey made.When at last her needle restedAnd her cherished work was doneWent the banner, love invested,To the camps of Washington;And the glorious continentalsIn the morning light arrayedStood in ragged regimentals’Neath the banner Betsey made.How they cheered it and its maker,They the gallant sons of Mars,How they blessed the little QuakerAnd her flag of stripes and stars;’Neath its folds, the foemen scorning,Glinted bayonets and blade,And the breezes of the morningKissed the banner Betsey made.Years have passed, but still in gloryWith a pride we love to see,Laureled with a nation’s gloryWaves the emblem of the free;From the rugged pines of NorthlandTo the deep’ning everglade,In the sunny heart of SouthlandFloats the banner Betsey made.A protector all have found itAnd beneath it stands no slave,Freemen brave have died around itOn the land and on the wave;In the foremost front of battleBorne by heroes not afraid,’Mid the musket’s rapid rattle,Soared the banner Betsey made.Now she sleeps whose fingers flyingWith a heart to freedom trueMingled colors bright, undying—Fashioned stars and field of blue;It will lack for no defendersWhen the nation’s foes invade,For our country rose to splendor’Neath the banner Betsey made.T. C. Harbaugh.

We have nicknamed it “Old Glory”

As it floats upon the breeze,

Rich in legend, song and story

On the land and on the seas;

Far above the shining river,

Over mountain, glen and glade

With a fame that lives forever

Streams the banner Betsey made.

Once it went from her, its maker,To the glory of the wars,Once the modest little QuakerDeftly studded it with stars;And her fingers, swiftly flyingThrough the sunshine and the shade,Welded colors bright, undying,In the banner Betsey made.

Once it went from her, its maker,

To the glory of the wars,

Once the modest little Quaker

Deftly studded it with stars;

And her fingers, swiftly flying

Through the sunshine and the shade,

Welded colors bright, undying,

In the banner Betsey made.

When at last her needle restedAnd her cherished work was doneWent the banner, love invested,To the camps of Washington;And the glorious continentalsIn the morning light arrayedStood in ragged regimentals’Neath the banner Betsey made.

When at last her needle rested

And her cherished work was done

Went the banner, love invested,

To the camps of Washington;

And the glorious continentals

In the morning light arrayed

Stood in ragged regimentals

’Neath the banner Betsey made.

How they cheered it and its maker,They the gallant sons of Mars,How they blessed the little QuakerAnd her flag of stripes and stars;’Neath its folds, the foemen scorning,Glinted bayonets and blade,And the breezes of the morningKissed the banner Betsey made.

How they cheered it and its maker,

They the gallant sons of Mars,

How they blessed the little Quaker

And her flag of stripes and stars;

’Neath its folds, the foemen scorning,

Glinted bayonets and blade,

And the breezes of the morning

Kissed the banner Betsey made.

Years have passed, but still in gloryWith a pride we love to see,Laureled with a nation’s gloryWaves the emblem of the free;From the rugged pines of NorthlandTo the deep’ning everglade,In the sunny heart of SouthlandFloats the banner Betsey made.

Years have passed, but still in glory

With a pride we love to see,

Laureled with a nation’s glory

Waves the emblem of the free;

From the rugged pines of Northland

To the deep’ning everglade,

In the sunny heart of Southland

Floats the banner Betsey made.

A protector all have found itAnd beneath it stands no slave,Freemen brave have died around itOn the land and on the wave;In the foremost front of battleBorne by heroes not afraid,’Mid the musket’s rapid rattle,Soared the banner Betsey made.

A protector all have found it

And beneath it stands no slave,

Freemen brave have died around it

On the land and on the wave;

In the foremost front of battle

Borne by heroes not afraid,

’Mid the musket’s rapid rattle,

Soared the banner Betsey made.

Now she sleeps whose fingers flyingWith a heart to freedom trueMingled colors bright, undying—Fashioned stars and field of blue;It will lack for no defendersWhen the nation’s foes invade,For our country rose to splendor’Neath the banner Betsey made.

Now she sleeps whose fingers flying

With a heart to freedom true

Mingled colors bright, undying—

Fashioned stars and field of blue;

It will lack for no defenders

When the nation’s foes invade,

For our country rose to splendor

’Neath the banner Betsey made.

T. C. Harbaugh.

Now can the world once more the glory seeOf this our flag, emblem of liberty.Now can the tyrant quake with direst fearAs o’er his land our banners shall appear.No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray,No base desire shall point our banner’s way;Each star has told a tale of noble deed,Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free.Our glorious past when first with thirteen starsOn field of blue with white and bright red bars,Our flag led on in battle’s fierce array,And freed the land from mighty Britain’s sway.And since this time when first it was unfurled,Our flag has proved the noblest in the world.From Cuba’s shore out to Manila BayIts mighty folds protecting fly to-day.Beneath this flag with patriotic prideFor freedom’s cause great men have gladly diedOur noblest sons beneath its folds so freeIn conflict died for Cuba’s liberty.Float on, dear flag, our nation’s greatest joy,Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy;Stretch out thy arms till war forever cease,And all the world is universal peace.Chas. F. Alsop.

Now can the world once more the glory seeOf this our flag, emblem of liberty.Now can the tyrant quake with direst fearAs o’er his land our banners shall appear.

Now can the world once more the glory see

Of this our flag, emblem of liberty.

Now can the tyrant quake with direst fear

As o’er his land our banners shall appear.

No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray,No base desire shall point our banner’s way;Each star has told a tale of noble deed,Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free.

No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray,

No base desire shall point our banner’s way;

Each star has told a tale of noble deed,

Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free.

Our glorious past when first with thirteen starsOn field of blue with white and bright red bars,Our flag led on in battle’s fierce array,And freed the land from mighty Britain’s sway.

Our glorious past when first with thirteen stars

On field of blue with white and bright red bars,

Our flag led on in battle’s fierce array,

And freed the land from mighty Britain’s sway.

And since this time when first it was unfurled,Our flag has proved the noblest in the world.From Cuba’s shore out to Manila BayIts mighty folds protecting fly to-day.

And since this time when first it was unfurled,

Our flag has proved the noblest in the world.

From Cuba’s shore out to Manila Bay

Its mighty folds protecting fly to-day.

Beneath this flag with patriotic prideFor freedom’s cause great men have gladly diedOur noblest sons beneath its folds so freeIn conflict died for Cuba’s liberty.

Beneath this flag with patriotic pride

For freedom’s cause great men have gladly died

Our noblest sons beneath its folds so free

In conflict died for Cuba’s liberty.

Float on, dear flag, our nation’s greatest joy,Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy;Stretch out thy arms till war forever cease,And all the world is universal peace.

Float on, dear flag, our nation’s greatest joy,

Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy;

Stretch out thy arms till war forever cease,

And all the world is universal peace.

Chas. F. Alsop.

Unfurl the starry banner,Till with loving eyes we viewThe stars and stripes we honorAnd the folds of azure blue’Tis the pride of all our nationAnd the emblem of its powers—The gem of all creationIs that starry flag of ours.Then raise aloft “Old Glory,”And its colors bright surround,In battle fierce and gory,Or in peace with honor bound.Let it float from spire and steeple,And from house-tops, masts and towers,For the banner of the peopleIs that starry flag of ours.Now, behold it, bright and peerless,In the light of freedom’s sky;See its colors floating, fearlessAs the eagle soaring high.And amid the cannon’s rattleAnd the bullets’ deadly showers,Ten million men will battleFor that starry flag of ours.

Unfurl the starry banner,Till with loving eyes we viewThe stars and stripes we honorAnd the folds of azure blue

Unfurl the starry banner,

Till with loving eyes we view

The stars and stripes we honor

And the folds of azure blue

’Tis the pride of all our nationAnd the emblem of its powers—The gem of all creationIs that starry flag of ours.

’Tis the pride of all our nation

And the emblem of its powers—

The gem of all creation

Is that starry flag of ours.

Then raise aloft “Old Glory,”And its colors bright surround,In battle fierce and gory,Or in peace with honor bound.

Then raise aloft “Old Glory,”

And its colors bright surround,

In battle fierce and gory,

Or in peace with honor bound.

Let it float from spire and steeple,And from house-tops, masts and towers,For the banner of the peopleIs that starry flag of ours.

Let it float from spire and steeple,

And from house-tops, masts and towers,

For the banner of the people

Is that starry flag of ours.

Now, behold it, bright and peerless,In the light of freedom’s sky;See its colors floating, fearlessAs the eagle soaring high.

Now, behold it, bright and peerless,

In the light of freedom’s sky;

See its colors floating, fearless

As the eagle soaring high.

And amid the cannon’s rattleAnd the bullets’ deadly showers,Ten million men will battleFor that starry flag of ours.

And amid the cannon’s rattle

And the bullets’ deadly showers,

Ten million men will battle

For that starry flag of ours.

In reciting this piece give stress and emphasis to the words, “the Tenth at La Quasina.” You are praising the valor of this regiment, and should not do it in a doubtful or hesitating manner.

We used to think the negro didn’t count for very much—Light-fingered in the melon patch, and chicken yard, and such;Much mixed in point of morals and absurd in point of dress,The butt of droll cartoonists and the target of the press;But we’ve got to reconstruct our views on color, more or less,Now we know about the Tenth at La Quasina!When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips,In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death’s eclipse,Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan,The negro soldier showed himself another type of man;Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can—The story of the Tenth at La Quasina!We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white—The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight—And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-dayFor the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say,And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray—All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina!B. M. Channing.

We used to think the negro didn’t count for very much—

Light-fingered in the melon patch, and chicken yard, and such;

Much mixed in point of morals and absurd in point of dress,

The butt of droll cartoonists and the target of the press;

But we’ve got to reconstruct our views on color, more or less,

Now we know about the Tenth at La Quasina!

When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips,In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death’s eclipse,Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan,The negro soldier showed himself another type of man;Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can—The story of the Tenth at La Quasina!

When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips,

In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death’s eclipse,

Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan,

The negro soldier showed himself another type of man;

Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can—

The story of the Tenth at La Quasina!

We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white—The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight—And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-dayFor the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say,And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray—All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina!

We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white—

The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight—

And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-day

For the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say,

And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray—

All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina!

B. M. Channing.

To be delivered with full, ringing tones. You are an exultant patriot, picturing the glorious deeds of our American army. This selection affords opportunity for very effective gestures.

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero’s star?Let the deeds of the dead be laureled, the brave of the elder years,But a song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks the hill-top to be won;There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,With “Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag of the Don!”What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!And now “Old Glory” waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years,A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!Clinton Scollard.

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,

That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero’s star?

Let the deeds of the dead be laureled, the brave of the elder years,

But a song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!

High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks the hill-top to be won;There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.

High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,

And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks the hill-top to be won;

There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place,

And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.

The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.

The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;

Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?

Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!

Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word.

“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.

“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,

While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.

Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,

While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.

Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,With “Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag of the Don!”What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!

Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,

With “Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag of the Don!”

What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain,

For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne!

See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!And now “Old Glory” waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years,A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!

See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!

And now “Old Glory” waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!

And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years,

A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers!

Clinton Scollard.

The battleships Brooklyn, Oregon and Texas pushed ahead after the Spanish ships Colon and Almirante Oquendo, which were now running the race of their lives along the coast. When Admiral Cervera’s flagship, the Almirante Oquendo, suddenly headed in shore, she had the Brooklyn and Oregon abeam and the Texas astern. The Brooklyn and Oregon pushed on after the Cristobal Colon, which was making fine time, and which looked as if she might escape, leaving the Texas to finish the Almirante Oquendo. This work did not take long. The Spanish ship was already burning. Just as the Texas got abeam of her she was shaken by a loud and mighty explosion.The crew of the Texas started to cheer. “Don’t cheer, because the poor devils are dying!” called Captain Philip, and the Texas left the Almirante Oquendo to her fate to join in the chase of the Cristobal Colon.That ship, in desperation, was ploughing the waters at a rate that caused the fast Brooklyn trouble. The Oregon made great speed for a battleship, and the Texas made the effort of her life. Never since her trial trip had she made such time. The Brooklyn might have proved a match to the Cristobal Colon in speed, but was not supposed to be her match in strength.It would never do to allow even one of the Spanish ships to get away. Straight into the west the strongest chase of modern times took place. The Brooklyn headed the pursuers. She stood well out from the shore in order to try to cut off the Cristobal Colon at a point jutting out into the sea far ahead. The Oregon kept a middle course about a mile from the cruiser. The Desperate Don ran close along the shore, and now and then he threw a shell of defiance. The old Texas kept well up in the chase under forced draught for over two hours.The fleet Spaniard led the Americans a merry chase, but she had no chance. The Brooklyn gradually forged ahead, so that the escape of the Cristobal Colon was cut off. The Oregon was abeam of the Colon then, and the gallant Don gave it up. He headed for the shore, and five minutes later down came the Spanish flag. None of our shipswere then within a mile of her, but her escape was cut off. The Texas, Oregon and Brooklyn closed in on her, and stopped their engines a few hundred yards away.With the capture of the Cristobal Colon the battle was ended, and there was great rejoicing on all our ships. Meantime the New York, with Admiral Sampson on board, and the Vixen were coming up on the run. Commodore Schley signalled to Admiral Sampson: “We have won a great victory.”

The crew of the Texas started to cheer. “Don’t cheer, because the poor devils are dying!” called Captain Philip, and the Texas left the Almirante Oquendo to her fate to join in the chase of the Cristobal Colon.

That ship, in desperation, was ploughing the waters at a rate that caused the fast Brooklyn trouble. The Oregon made great speed for a battleship, and the Texas made the effort of her life. Never since her trial trip had she made such time. The Brooklyn might have proved a match to the Cristobal Colon in speed, but was not supposed to be her match in strength.

It would never do to allow even one of the Spanish ships to get away. Straight into the west the strongest chase of modern times took place. The Brooklyn headed the pursuers. She stood well out from the shore in order to try to cut off the Cristobal Colon at a point jutting out into the sea far ahead. The Oregon kept a middle course about a mile from the cruiser. The Desperate Don ran close along the shore, and now and then he threw a shell of defiance. The old Texas kept well up in the chase under forced draught for over two hours.

The fleet Spaniard led the Americans a merry chase, but she had no chance. The Brooklyn gradually forged ahead, so that the escape of the Cristobal Colon was cut off. The Oregon was abeam of the Colon then, and the gallant Don gave it up. He headed for the shore, and five minutes later down came the Spanish flag. None of our shipswere then within a mile of her, but her escape was cut off. The Texas, Oregon and Brooklyn closed in on her, and stopped their engines a few hundred yards away.

With the capture of the Cristobal Colon the battle was ended, and there was great rejoicing on all our ships. Meantime the New York, with Admiral Sampson on board, and the Vixen were coming up on the run. Commodore Schley signalled to Admiral Sampson: “We have won a great victory.”

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