DANNY DEEVER "WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. “To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I 've got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear the Dead March play, The regiment 's in 'ollow square- they 're hangin' him to-day; They 've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-onParade. "It 's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-onParade. "A touch of sun, a touch of sun," the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round. They'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e 'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound O, they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! "'Is cot was right-'and 'cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'—you must look 'im in Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, "What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. 'It 's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What 's that that whimpers over 'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that 's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said. For they've done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they 'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. RUDYARD KIPLING. SONG O HAPPY lark, that warblest high O brook, that brawlest merrily by O graves in daisies drest, O Love and Life, how weary am I, ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (The Promise of May). HESPER-VENUS VENUS near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. Closer on the sun, perhaps a world of never-fading flowers. Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer-home of all good things— All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. Hesper - Venus were we native to that splendor, or in Mars, We should see the globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light? Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, "Would to God that we were there"? ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (Locksley Hall Sixty Years After). THE FRENCH REVOLUTION BUT slow that tide of common thought, Its frame yet stood without a breach, And oh, we cried, that on this corse Down came the storm! O'er France it pass'd, In sheets of scathing fire; All Europe felt that fiery blast, And shook as it rush'd by her. Down came the storm! In ruins fell The worn-out world we knew. The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky ; Upon them plies the race of man "Ye live," I cried, "ye work and plan, "Poor fragments of a broken world MATTHEW ARNOLD (Obermann). AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON As I came down from Lebanon, In emerald, showed each minaret Afire with radiant beams of sun, And glistened orange, fig, and lime, Where song-birds made melodious chime, As I came down from Lebanon, As I came down from Lebanon, As I came down from Lebanon, CLINTON SCOLLARD. WHAT HAVE I DONE? ; I LAY my finger on Time's wrist to score I never steep the rosy hours in sleep, Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt; No idle hands into my bosom creep; And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip, I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers, Be still, my soul; restrain thy lips from woe! The fruit comes after death; how canst thou know LILLIAN BLANCHE FEARING. THE DAY IS DONE THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Who, through long days of labor, |