Stand here; he has once been a grand old gum,But it makes one reflect that the time will comeWhen we all shall have had our fling;Yet, our life soon passes, we scarce know how—You would hardly think, to see him now,That once he had been a king.In his youth, in the silence of the wood,A forest of saplings around him stood;But he overtopped them all.And, over their heads, through the forest shade,He could see how the sunlight danced and played,So straight he grew, and so tall.Each day of his life brought something new,The breeze stirred the bracken, the dry leaves flew,The wild bird passed on the wing:He heard the low, sad song of the wood,His childhood was passed in its solitude;And he grew—and became a king.Oft has he stood on the stormy night,When the long-forked flash has revealed to sightThe plain where the floods were out;When the wind came down like a hurricane,And the branches, broken and snapped in twain,Were scattered and strewn about.Oft, touched by the reddening bush-fire glow,When clouds of smoke, rolling up from below,Obscured the sun like a pall;When the forest seemed like a flaming sea,And down came many a mighty tree,Has he stood firm through it all.Those days of his youth have long gone by;The magpie's note and the parrot's cry,As borne on the evening wind,Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown,Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown,Of the youth he has left behind.On the brow of the hill he stands to-day,But the pride of his life has passed away;His leaves are withered and sere.And oft at night comes a sound of woe,As he sways his tired limbs to and froAnd laments to the bleak night air.He can still look down on the plain below,And his head is decked by the sunset glowWith a glorious crown of light;And from every field, as the night draws on,To his spreading arms the magpies comeTo shelter there for the night.Some night, when the waters rage and swell,He will hear the thunder roll his knell,And will bow his head to the ground;And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air,And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear,At the thundering, rending sound.And the magpies must find another home;No more, at the sunset, will they comeTo warble their evening song.Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown,For the good old friends we have loved and known:And the old tree falls by the tall new grown,And the weak must yield to the strong.Florence Bullivant.
Stand here; he has once been a grand old gum,But it makes one reflect that the time will comeWhen we all shall have had our fling;Yet, our life soon passes, we scarce know how—You would hardly think, to see him now,That once he had been a king.
In his youth, in the silence of the wood,A forest of saplings around him stood;But he overtopped them all.And, over their heads, through the forest shade,He could see how the sunlight danced and played,So straight he grew, and so tall.
Each day of his life brought something new,The breeze stirred the bracken, the dry leaves flew,The wild bird passed on the wing:He heard the low, sad song of the wood,His childhood was passed in its solitude;And he grew—and became a king.
Oft has he stood on the stormy night,When the long-forked flash has revealed to sightThe plain where the floods were out;When the wind came down like a hurricane,And the branches, broken and snapped in twain,Were scattered and strewn about.
Oft, touched by the reddening bush-fire glow,When clouds of smoke, rolling up from below,Obscured the sun like a pall;When the forest seemed like a flaming sea,And down came many a mighty tree,Has he stood firm through it all.
Those days of his youth have long gone by;The magpie's note and the parrot's cry,As borne on the evening wind,Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown,Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown,Of the youth he has left behind.
On the brow of the hill he stands to-day,But the pride of his life has passed away;His leaves are withered and sere.And oft at night comes a sound of woe,As he sways his tired limbs to and froAnd laments to the bleak night air.
He can still look down on the plain below,And his head is decked by the sunset glowWith a glorious crown of light;And from every field, as the night draws on,To his spreading arms the magpies comeTo shelter there for the night.
Some night, when the waters rage and swell,He will hear the thunder roll his knell,And will bow his head to the ground;And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air,And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear,At the thundering, rending sound.
And the magpies must find another home;No more, at the sunset, will they comeTo warble their evening song.Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown,For the good old friends we have loved and known:And the old tree falls by the tall new grown,And the weak must yield to the strong.
Florence Bullivant.
Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar,Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far.All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light,So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous night.All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen;Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green."Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right,When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."Faces paled at Patsy's order; none were listening to the song;Through their hearts went vague sensations—awful dreads of coming wrong;For they knew that Danny Murphy thought himself a singer quite,And knew that if he made his mind up, that, bedad, he'd sing that night.Everyone was close attention, knew that there would be a row,When the chairman said that "Mr. Murphy will oblige us now.""Not so fasht," said Pat O'Connor, rising to his fullest height,"This here pub belongs to me, and Murphy shall not sing to-night."Up jumps Murphy, scowling darkly as he looks at Pat O'Connor:"Is this the way," he says to Pat, "that you uphold Ould Oireland's honour?""Oi know Oi'm not much at singin'; any toime Oi'd sooner foight;But, to show me independence, s'help me bob, Oi'll sing to-night.""Gintlemin," says Pat O'Connor, wildly gazing round about,"It will be my painful duty to chuck Danny Murphy out;It has been a rule with me that no man sings when he is tight;When Oi say a thing Oi mane it—Murphy shall not sing to-night."Then says Doolan to O'Connor, "Listen what Oi've got to tell;If yez want to chuck out Murphy, yez must chuck out me as well."This lot staggered Pat O'Connor, Doolan was a man of might;But he bluffed him, loudly crying, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."Then he rushed on Danny Murphy and he smote him hip and thigh;Patsy looked a winner straight, when Doolan jabbed him in the eye.All the crowd at once took sides, and soon began a rousing fight;The battle cry of Patsy's push was "Murphy shall not sing to-night."The noise soon brought a copper in: 'twas Patsy's cousin, Jim Kinsella."Hould yer row," he says to Doolan, when Mick lands him on the smeller.They got the best of Doolan's push, though; lumbered them for getting tight.Patsy then had spoken truly, "Murphy did not sing that night."Epilogue.Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round the City court.There before the awful sentence was a touching lesson taught—Then away they led the prisoners to a cell, so cool and white;And for fourteen days to come Murphy shall not sing at night.Montague Grover.
Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar,Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far.All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light,So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous night.
All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen;Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green."Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right,When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."
Faces paled at Patsy's order; none were listening to the song;Through their hearts went vague sensations—awful dreads of coming wrong;For they knew that Danny Murphy thought himself a singer quite,And knew that if he made his mind up, that, bedad, he'd sing that night.
Everyone was close attention, knew that there would be a row,When the chairman said that "Mr. Murphy will oblige us now.""Not so fasht," said Pat O'Connor, rising to his fullest height,"This here pub belongs to me, and Murphy shall not sing to-night."
Up jumps Murphy, scowling darkly as he looks at Pat O'Connor:"Is this the way," he says to Pat, "that you uphold Ould Oireland's honour?""Oi know Oi'm not much at singin'; any toime Oi'd sooner foight;But, to show me independence, s'help me bob, Oi'll sing to-night."
"Gintlemin," says Pat O'Connor, wildly gazing round about,"It will be my painful duty to chuck Danny Murphy out;It has been a rule with me that no man sings when he is tight;When Oi say a thing Oi mane it—Murphy shall not sing to-night."
Then says Doolan to O'Connor, "Listen what Oi've got to tell;If yez want to chuck out Murphy, yez must chuck out me as well."This lot staggered Pat O'Connor, Doolan was a man of might;But he bluffed him, loudly crying, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."
Then he rushed on Danny Murphy and he smote him hip and thigh;Patsy looked a winner straight, when Doolan jabbed him in the eye.All the crowd at once took sides, and soon began a rousing fight;The battle cry of Patsy's push was "Murphy shall not sing to-night."
The noise soon brought a copper in: 'twas Patsy's cousin, Jim Kinsella."Hould yer row," he says to Doolan, when Mick lands him on the smeller.They got the best of Doolan's push, though; lumbered them for getting tight.Patsy then had spoken truly, "Murphy did not sing that night."
Epilogue.
Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round the City court.There before the awful sentence was a touching lesson taught—Then away they led the prisoners to a cell, so cool and white;And for fourteen days to come Murphy shall not sing at night.
Montague Grover.
By John B. O'Hara, M.A.
(By kind permission of the Author.)
Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time,Dear is the song of your welcome chime;Dear is the burden that softly wellsFrom your joyous throats, O tolling bells!Dear is the message sweet you bindDove-like to wings of the wafting wind.You tell how the Yule-king cometh forthFrom his home in the heart of the icy North;On his Eastern steeds how rusheth onThe wind-god of storms, Euroclydon;How his trumpet strikes to the pallid starsThat shrink from the mad moon's silver bars,Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea,And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea,As the snow king hurls from his frozen zoneThe fragments fast of a tumbled throne.But what is the song, O silver bells,You sing of the ferny Austral dells,Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream,And the breezy woodland's summer dream,Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rillsIn the trembling heart of the great grave hills?Ah, what is the song that you sing to meOf the soft blue isles of our shimmering sea,Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple hazeFringes the skirts of the windless bays,That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair,Start in the face of the dreamer there;O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes,Bells of the golden Christmas times?You sing of the summer gliding downFrom the stars that gem bright heaven's crown;Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere,And the sunlit death of the old, old year.Of the sweet South wind that sobs aboveThe grass-green grave of our buried love:No bitter dirge from the stormy flowOf a moaning sea,—ah! no, no, no!But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymnUnder the beautiful moons that swimOver the silver seas that tossTheir foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross!O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes,Bells of the joyous Christmas times!You bring to the old hearts throbbing slowThe beautiful dreams of the long ago;Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule,When hearts beat high in life's young school.Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes,Will the voices rise of the olden times,Till the wings of peace brood over the hoursSlipping like streams through sleepy bowers,While you whisper the story loved of OneWho suffered for us—the sad sweet Son—Who taught that afflictions, sent in love,Chasten the soul for the realms above.
Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time,Dear is the song of your welcome chime;Dear is the burden that softly wellsFrom your joyous throats, O tolling bells!Dear is the message sweet you bindDove-like to wings of the wafting wind.
You tell how the Yule-king cometh forthFrom his home in the heart of the icy North;On his Eastern steeds how rusheth onThe wind-god of storms, Euroclydon;How his trumpet strikes to the pallid starsThat shrink from the mad moon's silver bars,Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea,And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea,As the snow king hurls from his frozen zoneThe fragments fast of a tumbled throne.
But what is the song, O silver bells,You sing of the ferny Austral dells,Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream,And the breezy woodland's summer dream,Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rillsIn the trembling heart of the great grave hills?Ah, what is the song that you sing to meOf the soft blue isles of our shimmering sea,Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple hazeFringes the skirts of the windless bays,
That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair,Start in the face of the dreamer there;O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes,Bells of the golden Christmas times?
You sing of the summer gliding downFrom the stars that gem bright heaven's crown;Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere,And the sunlit death of the old, old year.Of the sweet South wind that sobs aboveThe grass-green grave of our buried love:No bitter dirge from the stormy flowOf a moaning sea,—ah! no, no, no!But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymnUnder the beautiful moons that swimOver the silver seas that tossTheir foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross!
O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes,Bells of the joyous Christmas times!You bring to the old hearts throbbing slowThe beautiful dreams of the long ago;Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule,When hearts beat high in life's young school.Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes,Will the voices rise of the olden times,Till the wings of peace brood over the hoursSlipping like streams through sleepy bowers,While you whisper the story loved of OneWho suffered for us—the sad sweet Son—Who taught that afflictions, sent in love,Chasten the soul for the realms above.
Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness,All creation teems with joy;Banished be each thought of sadness,Life for me has no alloy.Fill a bumper!—drain a measure,Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup!Testifying thus our pleasureAt the news that "Wool is up."'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans,Subtly speeds the living fire;Who shall tell what wild emotionsSpring from out that thridden wire?"Jute is lower—copper weaker,"This will break poor neighbour Jupp;But for me, I shout "Eureka!"Wealth is mine—for wool is up!What care I for jute or cotton,Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax!Reeds like these are often rotten,Turn to rods for owners' backs.Fortune! ha! I have thee holdenIn what Scotia calls a "grup,"All my fleeces now are golden,Full troy weight—for wool is up!I will dance the gay fandango(Though to me its steps be strange),Doubts and fears, you all can hang go!I will cut a dash on 'Change.Atra Cura, you will please meBy dismounting from my crup—Per—you no more shall tease me,Pray get down—for wool is up!Jane shall have that stylish bonnetWhich my scanty purse denied;Long she set her heart upon it,She shall wear it now with pride.I will buy old Dumper's station,Reign as king at Gerringhup,For my crest a bust of Jason,With this motto, "Wool is up."I will keep a stud extensive;Bolter, here! I'll have those greys,Those Sir George deemed too expensive,You can send them—with the bays.Coursing! I should rather think so;Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup;Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so,I can stand it—wool is up!Wifey, love, you're looking charming,Years with you are but as days;We must have a grand house-warmingWhen these painters go their ways.Let the ball-room be got ready,Bid our friends to dance and sup:Bother!howcan I "go steady"?I'm worth thousands—wool is up!Garnet Walch.
Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness,All creation teems with joy;Banished be each thought of sadness,Life for me has no alloy.Fill a bumper!—drain a measure,Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup!Testifying thus our pleasureAt the news that "Wool is up."
'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans,Subtly speeds the living fire;Who shall tell what wild emotionsSpring from out that thridden wire?"Jute is lower—copper weaker,"This will break poor neighbour Jupp;But for me, I shout "Eureka!"Wealth is mine—for wool is up!
What care I for jute or cotton,Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax!Reeds like these are often rotten,Turn to rods for owners' backs.Fortune! ha! I have thee holdenIn what Scotia calls a "grup,"All my fleeces now are golden,Full troy weight—for wool is up!
I will dance the gay fandango(Though to me its steps be strange),Doubts and fears, you all can hang go!I will cut a dash on 'Change.Atra Cura, you will please meBy dismounting from my crup—Per—you no more shall tease me,Pray get down—for wool is up!
Jane shall have that stylish bonnetWhich my scanty purse denied;Long she set her heart upon it,She shall wear it now with pride.I will buy old Dumper's station,Reign as king at Gerringhup,For my crest a bust of Jason,With this motto, "Wool is up."
I will keep a stud extensive;Bolter, here! I'll have those greys,Those Sir George deemed too expensive,You can send them—with the bays.Coursing! I should rather think so;Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup;Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so,I can stand it—wool is up!
Wifey, love, you're looking charming,Years with you are but as days;We must have a grand house-warmingWhen these painters go their ways.Let the ball-room be got ready,Bid our friends to dance and sup:Bother!howcan I "go steady"?I'm worth thousands—wool is up!
Garnet Walch.
Blacker than 'eer the inky waters rollUpon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx,A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul,For that which was at "two" is now "one—six.""Come, disappointment, come!" as has been saidBy someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown,Stab to the core the heart that once has bled,(For "heart" read "pocket")—wool, ah! wool is down."And in the lowest deep a lower deep,"Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so,The road to—well, we know—is somewhat steep,And who shall stay us when that road we go?Thrice cursèd wire, whose lightning strikes to blast,Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the townThe news, which, being ill, has travelled fast,The dire intelligence that—wool is down.A rise in copper and a rise in jute,A fall alone in wool—but what a fall!Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute,He don't deserve such splendid luck at all.The smiles for him—for me the scalding tears;He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown,While I—untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears—Feel that my game is up when wool is down.Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine,Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays,My fortunes are not stable, they decline;Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs.And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed,Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown,Hie howling to thy former home with speed,Thy course with me is up—for wool is down.Why, Jane, what's this—this pile of letters here?Such waste of stamps is really very sad.Your birthday ball! Oh, come! nottwicea year,Good gracious me! the woman must be mad.You'd better save expense at once, that's clear,And send a bellman to invite the town!There—there—don't cry; forgive my temper, dear,But put these letters up—for wool is down.My station "Gerringhup"—yes, that must go,Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos,First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know,Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues."With it I leave the brotherhood of CashWho form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown;I tread along the devious path of Smash,I go where wool has gone—down, ever down.Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for meThe silken couch, the banquet, and the rout,They're flown—the baseresiduumwill beA mutton chop and half a pint of stout—Yet will I hold a corner in my soulWhere Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown.Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole—I'll keep my spirits up—though wool be down.Garnet Walch.
Blacker than 'eer the inky waters rollUpon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx,A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul,For that which was at "two" is now "one—six.""Come, disappointment, come!" as has been saidBy someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown,Stab to the core the heart that once has bled,(For "heart" read "pocket")—wool, ah! wool is down.
"And in the lowest deep a lower deep,"Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so,The road to—well, we know—is somewhat steep,And who shall stay us when that road we go?Thrice cursèd wire, whose lightning strikes to blast,Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the townThe news, which, being ill, has travelled fast,The dire intelligence that—wool is down.
A rise in copper and a rise in jute,A fall alone in wool—but what a fall!Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute,He don't deserve such splendid luck at all.The smiles for him—for me the scalding tears;He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown,While I—untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears—Feel that my game is up when wool is down.Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine,Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays,My fortunes are not stable, they decline;Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs.And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed,Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown,Hie howling to thy former home with speed,Thy course with me is up—for wool is down.
Why, Jane, what's this—this pile of letters here?Such waste of stamps is really very sad.Your birthday ball! Oh, come! nottwicea year,Good gracious me! the woman must be mad.You'd better save expense at once, that's clear,And send a bellman to invite the town!There—there—don't cry; forgive my temper, dear,But put these letters up—for wool is down.
My station "Gerringhup"—yes, that must go,Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos,First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know,Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues."With it I leave the brotherhood of CashWho form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown;I tread along the devious path of Smash,I go where wool has gone—down, ever down.
Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for meThe silken couch, the banquet, and the rout,They're flown—the baseresiduumwill beA mutton chop and half a pint of stout—Yet will I hold a corner in my soulWhere Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown.Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole—I'll keep my spirits up—though wool be down.
Garnet Walch.
By Lieut.-Colonel W. T. Reay.
(By kind permission of the Author.)
How am I to describe the sadly impressive scene at Modder River on the evening of the 13th of December? The sun has just set, and the period of twilight has commenced. The great heat of the day has passed, and although there is not a breath of wind, the air is cool and refreshing. The whole British camp at Modder River is astir. Not, however, with the alwaysgay bustle of warlike preparations; not with the laughter and jest which—such strange creatures are we—almost invariably come from the lips of men who dress for the parade which precedes a plunge into battle. There is this evening a solemn hush over the camp, and the men move from their lines in irregular and noiseless parties, for the time their pipes put out of sight, and their minds charged with serious thought. To what is given this homage of silence as the soldiers gather, and mechanically, without word of command or even request of any kind, leave a roadway from the head-quarters' flag to a point a quarter of a mile away, where a dark mound of upraised earth breaks the monotonous flatness of the whitey-green veldt? For these are mere spectators, deeply interested, it is true, yet still only spectators. What, then, is afoot? Civilians, hats off, and attention everyone. The Highland Brigade is about to bury its dead.
Stand here at the head of the lines of spectator soldiers—here where that significant mound is; here at the spot selected as a last resting-place—and observe. The whole Brigade, some of the regiments sadly attenuated, is on parade, and has formed funeral procession, under Colonel Pole-Carew. First come the pipers, and it is seen that they have for the nonce discarded their service kit, and are in the full dress of their several clans. "Savage and shrill" is the Byronic description of the pibroch, which, in the "noon of night," startled the joyous revellers before Waterloo. Now it is a low, deep wail, yet voluminous and weirdly euphonious, that comes from the music-makers of the Highlands, and every heart stands still to listen.Oh, so sad it is! "The Flowers of the Forest"—("He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down")—they are—playing, shall I say? No; rather does the music flow out from the very souls of the pipers in a succession of strangely harmonious moans, and soul calls to soul. Yet beneath it all, beneath the dominant note of heart-bursting sorrow, lurks that other element—"the savage and shrill." Yes, indeed; soul calls to soul through these pipes—calls for sobs and tears for the brave who have fallen—calls for vengeance on the yet unbeaten foe. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.
Following the pipers marches a small armed party. It would have been the firing party, but volleys are not fired over soldiers' graves in time of war. Then the chaplain, in his robes, preceding the corpse of General Wauchope (who had fallen at the head of his men), borne on a stretcher. One of the bearers is of the dead man's kin—a promising young Highland officer. Then come the several regiments of the Brigade, the Black Watch leading. The men march with arms reversed, stately, erect, stern, grim. They lift their feet high for the regulation step of the slow, funeral march. But observe that even in their grim sternness these men are quivering with an emotion which they cannot control—an emotion which passes out in magnetic waves from their ranks to those of their comrade spectators of England and Ireland, and brings tears to the eyes and choking sobs to the throats of the strong and the brave. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.
In a separate grave, at the head of a long,shallow trench, the body of General Wauchope is laid, in sight of and facing the foe. The chaplain advances, and the solemn service for the dead is recited in a clear and markedly Scotch voice, while all bow their heads and either listen or ponder. A grief-stricken kinsman's quivering hand drops earth upon the body at the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and the grave of the General is quickly filled in. There, beside the trench, already lie the corpses of fifty officers and men. They had been carried to the burial place earlier in the day. There, at the end nearer to the General's grave, the officers are laid. Beside them their comrades of minor rank in life, all brought to a worldly level by the hand of death, are placed in the trench. It is an excavation only about three feet deep, but it is twelve feet wide, and the dead men are put feet to feet in two parallel rows, twenty-five on each side. They are fully attired, just as they were brought in from the battlefield, and each is wrapped in his blanket. The sporan is turned over on to the dead face, and the kilt thrown back, the rigid limbs showing bare and scarred in the unfilled trench. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.
Once more the chaplain steps forward, and a new funeral service is commenced. Again great, powerful men weep. Some grow faint, some pray, some curse. "Oh, God! oh, God!" is the cry which comes from bursting hearts as comrades are recognised, and soil is sprinkled over them by hard, rough hands, which tremble now as they never trembled in the face of a foe. Then the burial parties get to work, gently as a sweet woman tucks the bedclothes round her sleeping child. The soft soil falls kindly upon the shreds of humanitybeneath. Men cease to weep, and catch something of the "rapture of repose" of which a poet has sung. Mother Earth has claimed her own, and the brave are sleeping their last sleep in her kindly embrace. Again the dirge of the pipes, and the sweet strains of "Lochaber no more" fill the evening air. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.
Meanwhile, the cable has carried its budget of sad messages to the old land. There, in a wee cottage by the bonnie burn side, the bereaved mother bows her aged head and says, "Thy will be done." There also the heart-broken once wife, newly-made widow, pours out the anguish of her soul as she clasps her fatherless bairn to her warm bosom. Her man comes no more. For the Highland Brigade has buried its dead.
By John B. O'Hara, M.A.
(By kind permission of the Author.)
Sons of ocean-girdled islands,Where the southern billows sigh,Wake! arise! the dread BellonaSpeeds her chariot through the sky;Yea, the troubled star of dangerOn Britannia shineth down—Wake! arise! maintain her gloryAnd renown, and renown!In the hour of Britain's perilShall we falter, while the firesStill are glowing on our altarsFrom the ashes of our sires?Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour,For the lustre of her crown,Wake! arise! maintain her gloryAnd renown, and renown!Ye are children of a nation,Ye are scions of the siresThat of old were in the vanguardOf the world's wide empires!With the spirit of your fathers,With the fulness of their fame,Wake! arise! maintain the honourOf her name, of her name!Long to Britain may "the crimsonThread of kinship" bind our wings!—Crimson thread that slowly slackensAs the newer race upsprings:Sons of heroes, men of courageThat reverse could never tame,Wake! arise! maintain the gloryOf her name, of her name!See! the star of ancient Britain,That hath never known decline,By your valour lit up newly,With a glow of fiercer shine,O'er the burning sands of Afric,With your loyalty aflame;Once again maintain the gloryOf her name, of her name!
Sons of ocean-girdled islands,Where the southern billows sigh,Wake! arise! the dread BellonaSpeeds her chariot through the sky;Yea, the troubled star of dangerOn Britannia shineth down—Wake! arise! maintain her gloryAnd renown, and renown!
In the hour of Britain's perilShall we falter, while the firesStill are glowing on our altarsFrom the ashes of our sires?Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour,For the lustre of her crown,Wake! arise! maintain her gloryAnd renown, and renown!
Ye are children of a nation,Ye are scions of the siresThat of old were in the vanguardOf the world's wide empires!With the spirit of your fathers,With the fulness of their fame,Wake! arise! maintain the honourOf her name, of her name!
Long to Britain may "the crimsonThread of kinship" bind our wings!—Crimson thread that slowly slackensAs the newer race upsprings:Sons of heroes, men of courageThat reverse could never tame,Wake! arise! maintain the gloryOf her name, of her name!
See! the star of ancient Britain,That hath never known decline,By your valour lit up newly,With a glow of fiercer shine,O'er the burning sands of Afric,With your loyalty aflame;Once again maintain the gloryOf her name, of her name!
Moostarchers and hair black as jet,Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile;Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set—A New Chum in manners and style.That's him, sir—that's him; he's been hereA matter of nigh fourteen weeks,Which I know by the rent in arrear,Though a gent—you can tell when he speaks—Came one night about eight, hired the roomWithout board—it's four shillings, and cheap,Though I say it, and me and the broom,And good yaller soap for its keep;And a widow with nine, which the twins—Bless their 'arts—are that sturdy and boldAt their tricks soon as daylight begins,Even now when it's perishing coldO' mornings; and Betsy, my girl,As answered the door, sir, for you,She's so slow for her age, though a pearlWhen there's any long job to get through;And Bobby—but there, I forgot;You'll pardon a mother, I know.Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot,And then I could see funds was low.He dressed just as neat, but his coatGot buttoned up nigher his chin,And the scarf twisted round his poor throatMissed a friend in the shape of a pin.So the rent it run on, for, says I,He's out of his luck, I can see,And wants all his money to buyHis wittles (you brat, let that be).Where he works I can't tell, but he's outEvery morning at nine from the house,And he comes back at six or about,And ups to his room like a mouse.On Sundays the same, so I s'poseHe visits his friends on that day,But where it may be that he goesIt's not in my knowledge to say.He ain't well. I can tell by his walk;He's as thin as a lath, andthatpale;But I never could get him to talk,So I can't rightly guess what may ail.He never sends out for no beer,He don't smoke, and as far as I see,Beyond the few clothes he brought here,And a desk, he's as hard up as me.What! you bring him good news; Iamglad!A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la!That's the physic foryou, my poor lad.This way, sir; it's not very far.Mind that stair, please—the banister's broke.Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep.Can't help it—you'd better be woke;The news is too pretty to keep.Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rockedTo rest in the Kingdom of Nod.We'd better go in. It's not locked.Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my God!Garnet Walch.
Moostarchers and hair black as jet,Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile;Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set—A New Chum in manners and style.That's him, sir—that's him; he's been hereA matter of nigh fourteen weeks,Which I know by the rent in arrear,Though a gent—you can tell when he speaks—Came one night about eight, hired the roomWithout board—it's four shillings, and cheap,Though I say it, and me and the broom,And good yaller soap for its keep;And a widow with nine, which the twins—Bless their 'arts—are that sturdy and boldAt their tricks soon as daylight begins,Even now when it's perishing coldO' mornings; and Betsy, my girl,As answered the door, sir, for you,She's so slow for her age, though a pearlWhen there's any long job to get through;And Bobby—but there, I forgot;You'll pardon a mother, I know.Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot,And then I could see funds was low.He dressed just as neat, but his coatGot buttoned up nigher his chin,And the scarf twisted round his poor throatMissed a friend in the shape of a pin.So the rent it run on, for, says I,He's out of his luck, I can see,And wants all his money to buyHis wittles (you brat, let that be).Where he works I can't tell, but he's outEvery morning at nine from the house,And he comes back at six or about,And ups to his room like a mouse.On Sundays the same, so I s'poseHe visits his friends on that day,But where it may be that he goesIt's not in my knowledge to say.He ain't well. I can tell by his walk;He's as thin as a lath, andthatpale;But I never could get him to talk,So I can't rightly guess what may ail.He never sends out for no beer,He don't smoke, and as far as I see,Beyond the few clothes he brought here,And a desk, he's as hard up as me.What! you bring him good news; Iamglad!A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la!That's the physic foryou, my poor lad.This way, sir; it's not very far.Mind that stair, please—the banister's broke.Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep.Can't help it—you'd better be woke;The news is too pretty to keep.Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rockedTo rest in the Kingdom of Nod.We'd better go in. It's not locked.Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my God!
Garnet Walch.
Yes, they were boys together in the grand old Fatherland,They fubbed at taw together, played truant hand-in-hand,They sucked each other's toffy, they cribbed each other's tops,They pledged eternal friendship in an ounce of acid drops.With no tie of blood between them, a greater bond was theirs,Cemented by the constant swop of apples, nuts, and pears;And when to manhood they had grown, with manhood's hispid chins,They held as close together still as Siam's famous twins.And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that heWould never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be,So Jobbins came with Dobbins across the restless main,And they traded as D., J. & Co., and gained much worldly gain.Each gave the other dinners, each drank the other's health,Each looked upon the other as a "mine of mental wealth,"And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that heWould never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be.But ah! for human nature—alas for human kind—There came a cloud between them, with a lot more clouds behind.The Tariff was the demon fell which sad disruption made,For our Dobbins loved Protection, while our Jobbins loved Free Trade.As partners now in business, they could no more agree,So they forthwith dissoluted and halved the £ s. d.And the fiercest opposition in every sort of way,Was carried on by DobbinsversusJobbins day by day.Then Dobbins entered Parliament, and so did Jobbins too,And each upheld his principles amidst that motley crew—And the side that Dobbins voted with were victors of the hour.And Dobbins was made Treasurer while Jobbins' grapes were sour.Then Dobbins went to work with glee, protecting everything,And gave his pet proclivities the very fullest swing,Set all the manger-loving dogs a-barking in his praise,And raised the Tariff up kite-high, a real four-aces' raise.He taxed the pots, he taxed the pans, he taxed the children's mugs,He taxed the brooms, he taxed the mops, He taxed the jars and jugs;In soft and hardware every line was smothered by his dues,Except the nationaltin tax—the Ministerialscrews.He taxed each article of food, each article of wear,He even taxed fresh water, and he tried to tax fresh air;He improvised new duties, new taxes by the score,And when he stopped awhile to think he taxed his brain for more.And not one blessed class of goods was entered at the port,But what he advaloremed till he made importers snort;Till even old Protectionists, grown hoary in the cause,Began to change to fidgets what had started as applause.Poor Jobbins suffered hugely by his whilom partner's tricks,But found it rather dangerous to kick against the pricks;He had to grin and bear it, as many a worthy manHas grinned and borne it in his turn since this mad world began.Now Dobbins, flushed with Fortune's smiles, his high ambition fed,Bethought him that the time had come when he might safely wed.So by the wire electrical, as he had nicely planned,He sent this loving message to the grand old Fatherland."Matilda, I am ready, with five thousand pounds a-year;Come out unto your Dobbins, love, and be his bride so dear;"To which there sped the answer back that very self-same day,"As soon as I have packed my things, I'm coming straight away."Matilda was an heiress of the old blue Bobbins' blood,Her ancestors owned land and beeves long years before the flood;One relative, 'tis said, indeed—a chemist, I'll engage—Sold bottled Protoplasm in the prehistoric age.Our Dobbins and our Jobbins, too, had loved the maid of old,But Bobbinspèrehad snubbed them both for lack of needful gold;Though when the telegram arrived, "Five thousand pounds a-year!"Pa winked a playful little wink—and said, "Be off, my dear."The packing of her luggage was a most stupendous job,She'd the miscellaneous wardrobe of the highest sort of nob,New trousseau, plate, and furniture, and presents from her friends,And Cockle's pills and raspberry jam, and various odds and ends.There were eighty zinc-lined cases and portmanteaus full a score,Of band and bonnet boxes at least some fifty more,Of carpet-bags three dozen most plethorically crammed,With nigh-forgotten articles in one wild chaos jammed.Our Venus had a transit out particularly quick,A glorioustransit mundi, but without the usualsic(k);Till one fine day she gazed upon the far-famed, Austral strand.One eye upon her luggage, and one eye upon the land.The vessel berthed beside the pier; Matilda's future lord,The "Honourable Dobbins," stepped jauntily on board;He clasped the maiden to his breast, nor heeded that close byThe melancholy Jobbins stood with sad reproachful eye."Come, come, my love!" says Dobbins, "let's get your things ashore;I have a cab in waiting here to take them to my store.""A cab!" cried she—"twice twenty cabs would not for me suffice;Behold my things!" He started, as though stung by cockatrice."That lofty mountain yonder, which high its head erects,That Alp of packing cases—are those, dear, your effects?""Of course they are, beloved, for keeping house withyou,Enough to furnish us complete, and everythingquite new!"He staggered as if hearing news of pestilence or dearth,Then gasped in low and anxious tones, "And what's the whole lot worth?"She thought that his emotion spoke of joy that knew no bounds,And whispered gaily in his ear, "Some forty thousand pounds!"He bit his lips, he ground his teeth, he tore out hunks of hair,He looked the full embodiment of desperate despair;Then with a shriek of agony, the hideous truth found vent,"There'sad valoremon the lot of ninety-five per cent.!"My new amended Tariff comes in force this very day,I little dreamt that you and I should be the first to pay;Besides, I haven't got the cash! oh dear, how bad I feel!"The maiden smiled a scornful smile and turned upon her heel.The miserable Dobbins gave a second piercing shriek,Then leaped into the briny flood, and stayed there for a week;Though Jobbins tried to find him hard, but failed, with these remarks,"He alwayswastoo deep for me—besides, there might be sharks."The very night of Dobbins' loss, the Ministry went out,The Jobbins' party took their place 'midst many a ringing shout;And of our Jobbins in a trice, their Treasurer they made.Because, as everybody knew, he gloried in Free Trade.He took the dues off everything, from thimbles up to tanks,And passed Miss Bobbins' goods himself, and won that virgin's thanks;And what is more, he won her hand, her chattels and her heart,And she is Mrs. Jobbins now, till death them twain doth part.As Dobbins to import his love had spared nor cash nor pains—They raised a handsome monument above his cold remains;The carved inscription to this day is there his tale to tell,"Hedidhis duties—and himself—not wisely but too well."Garnet Walch.
Yes, they were boys together in the grand old Fatherland,They fubbed at taw together, played truant hand-in-hand,They sucked each other's toffy, they cribbed each other's tops,They pledged eternal friendship in an ounce of acid drops.
With no tie of blood between them, a greater bond was theirs,Cemented by the constant swop of apples, nuts, and pears;And when to manhood they had grown, with manhood's hispid chins,They held as close together still as Siam's famous twins.
And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that heWould never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be,So Jobbins came with Dobbins across the restless main,And they traded as D., J. & Co., and gained much worldly gain.
Each gave the other dinners, each drank the other's health,Each looked upon the other as a "mine of mental wealth,"And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that heWould never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be.
But ah! for human nature—alas for human kind—There came a cloud between them, with a lot more clouds behind.The Tariff was the demon fell which sad disruption made,For our Dobbins loved Protection, while our Jobbins loved Free Trade.
As partners now in business, they could no more agree,So they forthwith dissoluted and halved the £ s. d.And the fiercest opposition in every sort of way,Was carried on by DobbinsversusJobbins day by day.
Then Dobbins entered Parliament, and so did Jobbins too,And each upheld his principles amidst that motley crew—And the side that Dobbins voted with were victors of the hour.And Dobbins was made Treasurer while Jobbins' grapes were sour.
Then Dobbins went to work with glee, protecting everything,And gave his pet proclivities the very fullest swing,Set all the manger-loving dogs a-barking in his praise,And raised the Tariff up kite-high, a real four-aces' raise.
He taxed the pots, he taxed the pans, he taxed the children's mugs,He taxed the brooms, he taxed the mops, He taxed the jars and jugs;In soft and hardware every line was smothered by his dues,Except the nationaltin tax—the Ministerialscrews.
He taxed each article of food, each article of wear,He even taxed fresh water, and he tried to tax fresh air;He improvised new duties, new taxes by the score,And when he stopped awhile to think he taxed his brain for more.
And not one blessed class of goods was entered at the port,But what he advaloremed till he made importers snort;Till even old Protectionists, grown hoary in the cause,Began to change to fidgets what had started as applause.
Poor Jobbins suffered hugely by his whilom partner's tricks,But found it rather dangerous to kick against the pricks;He had to grin and bear it, as many a worthy manHas grinned and borne it in his turn since this mad world began.
Now Dobbins, flushed with Fortune's smiles, his high ambition fed,Bethought him that the time had come when he might safely wed.So by the wire electrical, as he had nicely planned,He sent this loving message to the grand old Fatherland.
"Matilda, I am ready, with five thousand pounds a-year;Come out unto your Dobbins, love, and be his bride so dear;"To which there sped the answer back that very self-same day,"As soon as I have packed my things, I'm coming straight away."
Matilda was an heiress of the old blue Bobbins' blood,Her ancestors owned land and beeves long years before the flood;One relative, 'tis said, indeed—a chemist, I'll engage—Sold bottled Protoplasm in the prehistoric age.
Our Dobbins and our Jobbins, too, had loved the maid of old,But Bobbinspèrehad snubbed them both for lack of needful gold;Though when the telegram arrived, "Five thousand pounds a-year!"Pa winked a playful little wink—and said, "Be off, my dear."
The packing of her luggage was a most stupendous job,She'd the miscellaneous wardrobe of the highest sort of nob,New trousseau, plate, and furniture, and presents from her friends,And Cockle's pills and raspberry jam, and various odds and ends.
There were eighty zinc-lined cases and portmanteaus full a score,Of band and bonnet boxes at least some fifty more,Of carpet-bags three dozen most plethorically crammed,With nigh-forgotten articles in one wild chaos jammed.
Our Venus had a transit out particularly quick,A glorioustransit mundi, but without the usualsic(k);Till one fine day she gazed upon the far-famed, Austral strand.One eye upon her luggage, and one eye upon the land.
The vessel berthed beside the pier; Matilda's future lord,The "Honourable Dobbins," stepped jauntily on board;He clasped the maiden to his breast, nor heeded that close byThe melancholy Jobbins stood with sad reproachful eye.
"Come, come, my love!" says Dobbins, "let's get your things ashore;I have a cab in waiting here to take them to my store.""A cab!" cried she—"twice twenty cabs would not for me suffice;Behold my things!" He started, as though stung by cockatrice.
"That lofty mountain yonder, which high its head erects,That Alp of packing cases—are those, dear, your effects?""Of course they are, beloved, for keeping house withyou,Enough to furnish us complete, and everythingquite new!"
He staggered as if hearing news of pestilence or dearth,Then gasped in low and anxious tones, "And what's the whole lot worth?"She thought that his emotion spoke of joy that knew no bounds,And whispered gaily in his ear, "Some forty thousand pounds!"
He bit his lips, he ground his teeth, he tore out hunks of hair,He looked the full embodiment of desperate despair;Then with a shriek of agony, the hideous truth found vent,"There'sad valoremon the lot of ninety-five per cent.!
"My new amended Tariff comes in force this very day,I little dreamt that you and I should be the first to pay;Besides, I haven't got the cash! oh dear, how bad I feel!"The maiden smiled a scornful smile and turned upon her heel.
The miserable Dobbins gave a second piercing shriek,Then leaped into the briny flood, and stayed there for a week;Though Jobbins tried to find him hard, but failed, with these remarks,"He alwayswastoo deep for me—besides, there might be sharks."
The very night of Dobbins' loss, the Ministry went out,The Jobbins' party took their place 'midst many a ringing shout;And of our Jobbins in a trice, their Treasurer they made.Because, as everybody knew, he gloried in Free Trade.
He took the dues off everything, from thimbles up to tanks,And passed Miss Bobbins' goods himself, and won that virgin's thanks;And what is more, he won her hand, her chattels and her heart,And she is Mrs. Jobbins now, till death them twain doth part.
As Dobbins to import his love had spared nor cash nor pains—They raised a handsome monument above his cold remains;The carved inscription to this day is there his tale to tell,"Hedidhis duties—and himself—not wisely but too well."
Garnet Walch.
PATRIOTIC SONG AND CHORUS.
Australia's sons are we,And the freest of the free,But Love enchains us still with fetters strongTo the dear old land at Home,Far across the rolling foam—The little isle to which our hearts belong.It shall always be our boast,Our bumper-honoured toast,That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey;Then, if e'er the call is made,And Old England needs our aid,These are the words Australia's sons will say—There is not a strong right hand,Throughout this Southern land,But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause;Our numbers may be few,But we've loyal hearts and true,And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws.From our ocean-guarded strand,O'er the sunny plains inland,To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far,Australians bred and born,Behold yon banner torn,And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah!'Tis the brave old Union Jack,That nothing can beat back—Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies;For each frayed and faded threadBritain counts a hero dead,Who died to gain the liberties we prize.Then there's not, &c.The ever-honoured nameOn the bright bead-roll of Fame,That our fathers held through all the changing Past,In it we claim our share,And by Saint George we swear,We can keep that name untarnished to the last;Then, when the hour arrives,We will give our very livesFor the dearest land of all the lands on earth,And, foremost in the fray,Show Britain's foes the wayAustralia's sons can prove their British birth.Yes, there's not, &c.Sons of the South, uniteIn federated might,The Champions of your Country and your Queen;From New Zealand's glacier throneTo the burning Torrid Zone,We'll prove that welded steel is tough and keen.The wide world shall be shownThat we mean to hold our ownIn the home of our adoption, free and fair;And if the Lion needs,He shall see, by doughty deeds,How his Austral cubs can guard their father's lair.For there's not, &c.Garnet Walch.
Australia's sons are we,And the freest of the free,But Love enchains us still with fetters strongTo the dear old land at Home,Far across the rolling foam—The little isle to which our hearts belong.It shall always be our boast,Our bumper-honoured toast,That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey;Then, if e'er the call is made,And Old England needs our aid,These are the words Australia's sons will say—
There is not a strong right hand,Throughout this Southern land,But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause;Our numbers may be few,But we've loyal hearts and true,And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws.
From our ocean-guarded strand,O'er the sunny plains inland,To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far,Australians bred and born,Behold yon banner torn,And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah!'Tis the brave old Union Jack,That nothing can beat back—Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies;For each frayed and faded threadBritain counts a hero dead,Who died to gain the liberties we prize.
Then there's not, &c.
The ever-honoured nameOn the bright bead-roll of Fame,That our fathers held through all the changing Past,In it we claim our share,And by Saint George we swear,We can keep that name untarnished to the last;Then, when the hour arrives,We will give our very livesFor the dearest land of all the lands on earth,And, foremost in the fray,Show Britain's foes the wayAustralia's sons can prove their British birth.
Yes, there's not, &c.
Sons of the South, uniteIn federated might,The Champions of your Country and your Queen;From New Zealand's glacier throneTo the burning Torrid Zone,We'll prove that welded steel is tough and keen.The wide world shall be shownThat we mean to hold our ownIn the home of our adoption, free and fair;And if the Lion needs,He shall see, by doughty deeds,How his Austral cubs can guard their father's lair.
For there's not, &c.
Garnet Walch.
By Ethel Turner.