Chapter V: Her Own (1)

"And were he everything to which I've listened,
Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn't),
Poor, lowly-born, and destitute of 'go,'
He _is_ worth loving, for I love him so."

THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B.

BY F.H. GASSAWAY.

South Mountain towered on our right
Far off the river lay;
And over on the wooded height
We kept their lines at bay.

At last the muttering guns were stilled,
The day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners' pipes were filled,
The sergeant's yarns began.

When, as the wind a moment blew
Aside the fragrant flood,
Our brushwood razed, before our view
A little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven,
From fireside fresh she seemed;
Of such a little one in heaven
I know one soldier dreamed.

And as she stood, her little hand
Went to her curly head;
In grave salute, "And who are you?"
At length the sergeant said.

"Where is your home?" he growled again.
She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know I'm little Jane,
The pride of Battery B?

"My home? Why, that was burnt away,
And Pa and Ma is dead;
But now I ride the guns all day,
Along with Sergeant Ned.

"And I've a drum that's not a toy,
And a cap with feathers too;
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review.

"But now our baccy's all give out
The men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross; why even Ned
Won't play with me, and joke!

"And the big colonel said to-day--
I hate to hear him swear--
'I'd give a leg for a good smoke
Like the Yanks have over there.'

"And so I thought when beat the drum,
And the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent, and come
Out here across the hill.

"And beg, good Mr. Yankee-men,
You'd give me some Long Jack;
Please do, when we get some again,
I'll surely bring it back.

"And so I came; for Ned, says he,
'If you do what you say,
You'll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay.'"

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er,--
You should have heard her laugh,
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.

To kiss the little mouth stooped down
A score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant's husky voice
Said "'Tention, squad?" and then,

We gave her escort till good-night
The little waif we bid,
Then watched her toddle out of sight,
Or else 'twas tears that hid.

Her baby form nor turned about,
A man nor spoke a word,
Until at length a far faint shout
Upon the wind we heard,

We sent it back, and cast sad eyes
Upon the scene around,
That baby's hand had touched the ties
That brother's once had bound.

That's all, save when the dawn awoke:
Again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke
The screaming missiles fell.

Our colonel often rubbed his glass,
And marvelled much to see,
Not a single shell that whole day fell
In the camp of Battery B.

THE DANDY FIFTH.

BY F.H. GASSAWAY.

'Twas the time of the working men's great strike,
When all the land stood still
At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths
That labour could not fill;
When the thunder of the railroad ceased,
And startled towns could spy
A hundred blazing factories
Painting each midnight sky.

Through Philadelphia's surging streets
Marched the brown ranks of toil,
The grimy legions of the shops,
The tillers of the soil;
White-faced militia-men looked on,
And women shrank with dread;
'Twas muscle against money then--
'Twas riches against bread.

Once, as the mighty mob tramped on,
A carriage stopped the way,
Upon the silken seat of which
A young patrician lay.
And as, with haughty glance, he swept
Along the jeering crowd,
A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks
Took off his cap and bowed.

That night the Labour League was met,
And soon the chairman said:
"There hides a Judas in our midst;
One man who bows his head,
Who bends the coward's servile knee
When capital rolls by."
"Down with him! Kill the traitor cur!"
Rang out the savage cry.

Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held
Erect his head of grey--
"I am no traitor, though I bowed
To a rich man's son to-day;
And though you kill me as I stand--
As like you mean to do--
I want to tell you a story short,
And I ask you'll hear me through.

"I was one of those who enlisted first,
The old flag to defend,
With Pope and Hallick, with 'Mac' and Grant,
I followed to the end;
And 'twas somewhere down on the Rapidan,
When the Union cause looked drear,
That a regiment of rich young bloods
Came down to us from here.

"Their uniforms were by tailors cut,
They brought hampers of good wine;
And every squad had a nigger, too,
To keep their boots in shine;
They'd nought to say to us dusty 'vets,'
And through the whole brigade,
We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
When we passed them on parade.

"Well, they were sent to hold a fort
The Rebs tried hard to take,
'Twas the key of all our line which naught
While it held out could break,
But a fearful fight we lost just then,
The reserve came up too late;
And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth,
Hung the whole division's fate.

"Three times we tried to take them aid,
And each time back we fell,
Though once we could hear the fort's far guns
Boom like a funeral knell;
Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up,
An' then straight through we broke;
How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats
Still back of the drifting smoke.

"With the bands at play and the colours spread
We swarmed up the parapet,
But the sight that silenced our welcome shout
I shall never in life forget.
Four days before had their water gone--
They bad dreaded that the most--
The next their last scant rations went,
And each man looked a ghost,

"As he stood, gaunt-eyed, behind his gun,
Like a crippled stag at bay,
And watched starvation--but not defeat--
Draw nearer every day.
Of all the Fifth, not four-score men
Could in their places stand,
And their white lips told a fearful tale,
As we grasped each bloodless hand.

"The rest in the stupor of famine lay,
Save here and there a few
In death sat rigid against the guns,
Grim sentinels in blue;
And their Col'nel, _he_ could not speak nor stir,
But we saw his proud eye thrill
As he simply glanced at the shot-scarred staff
Where the old flag floated still!

"Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down,
While the wolf snarls at our door,
And the men who've risen from us--to laugh
At the misery of the poor;
But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand
I have left the strength to lift,
It will touch my cap to the proudest swell
Who fought in the Dandy Fifth!"

"BAY BILLY."

BY F.H. GASSAWAY.

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg--
Perhaps the day you reck--
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,
Kept Early's men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away
The fight went neck and neck.

All day we held the weaker wing,
And held it with a will;
Five several stubborn times we charged
The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed,
And kept our columns still.

At last from out the centre fight
Spurred up a general's aid.
"That battery _must_ silenced be!"
He cried, as past he sped.
Our colonel simply touched his cap,
And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more
The grand old fellow came.
No wounded man but raised his head
And strove to gasp his name,
And those who could not speak nor stir
"God blessed him" just the same.

For he was all the world to us,
That hero grey and grim;
Right well he knew that fearful slope
We'd climb with none but him,
Though while his white head led the way
We'd charge hell's portals in.

This time we were not half-way up,
When, 'midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bay'nets fell;
And, as we bore him back, the foe
Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,
And when the bugle said,
"Up, charge, again!" no man was there
But hung his dogged head.
"We've no one left to lead us now,"
The sullen soldiers said.

Just then, before the laggard line,
The colonel's horse we spied--
Bay Billy, with his trappings on,
His nostrils swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back
His master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place
That was his old of wont,
And with a neigh, that seemed to say,
Above the battle's brunt,
"How can the Twenty-second charge
If I am not in front?"

Like statues we stood rooted there,
And gazed a little space;
Above that floating mane we missed
The dear familiar face;
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire,
And it gave us hearts of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done;
Down all the battered line we felt
A lightning impulse run;
Up, up the hill we followed Bill,
And captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height
Died out the battle's hum;
Vainly 'mid living and the dead
We sought our leader dumb;
It seemed as if a spectre steed
To win that day had come.

At last the morning broke. The lark
Sang in the merry skies,
As if to e'en the sleepers there
It said awake, arise!--
Though naught but that last trump of all
Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more, with banners gay,
Stretched out the long brigade;
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
And bravely 'mid the ranks we closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men
Were in their place that morn,
And Corp'ral Dick, who yester-morn
Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the ranks,
For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour
When, as with misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant tries--
One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies.

And as in falt'ring tone and slow
The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse
Toiled up with weary tread.
It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick
Bay Billy's name was read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood,
All safe from battle's harms,
And ere an order could be heard,
Or the bugle's quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end,
The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
Could still our mighty cheer.
And ever from that famous day,
When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy's name was read, and then
The whole line answered "Here!"

THE OLD VETERAN.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came,
He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame--
The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose,
And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried,
"The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?
Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane?
'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "my brave old soldier, no!
And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so;
But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and
gray,
And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow,
"The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now;
They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white and blue,
And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true."

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun,
To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick them one by one.
Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while to try;
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry"

"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,--"God bless your loyal
heart!
But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part;
They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town,
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"

"But, General!"--still persisting, the weeping veteran cried,
"I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide;
And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least can I;
So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!"

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command
Put me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff in my hand:
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly,
I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!"

"I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given,
Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven,
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,--
'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'"

"And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly,
When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky,
If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face,
My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"

SANTA CLAUS.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The bells were ringing their cheerful chimes
In the old grey belfry tow'r,
The choir were singing their carols betimes
In the wintry midnight hour,
The waits were playing with eerie drawl
"The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,"
And the old policeman was stomping his feet
As he quiver'd and shiver'd along on his beat;

The snow was falling as fast as it could
O'er city and hamlet, forest and wood,
And Jack Frost, busy with might and main,
Was sketching away at each window-pane;

Father Christinas was travelling fast,
Mid the fall of the snow and the howl of the blast,
With millions of turkeys for millions to taste,
And millions of puddings all tied to his waist,
And millions of mince-pies that scented the air,
To cover the country with Christmas fare,--

When over the hills, from far away,
Came Santa Claus with the dawn of day;
He rode on a cycle, as seasons do,
With Christmas behind him a-tandem too;
His pockets were bigger than sacks from the mill--
The Soho Bazaar would not one of them fill,
And the Lowther Arcade and the good things that stock it
Would travel with ease in his tiniest pocket.
And these were all full of delights and surprises
For gifts and rewards and for presents and prizes.

Little knick-knackeries, beautiful toys
For mas and papas and for girls and for boys
There were dolls of all sorts, there were dolls of all sizes,
In comical costumes and funny disguises,--
Dolls of all countries and dolls of all climes,
Dolls of all ages and dolls of all times;
Soldier dolls, sailor dolls, red, white and blue;
Khaki dolls, darkie dolls, trusty and true;
Curio Chinese and quaint little Japs,
Nid-nodding at nothing, the queer little chaps;
Bigger dolls, nigger dolls woolly and black,
With never a coat or a shirt to their back.
Dolls made of china and dolls made of wood,
Dutch dolls and such dolls, and all of them good;
Dolls of fat features, and dolls with more pointed ones,
Dolls that were rigid and dolls that were jointed ones,
Dolls made of sawdust and dolls made of wax,
Dolls that go "bye-bye" when laid on their backs,
Dolls that are silent when nobody teases them,
Dolls that will cry when one pinches or squeezes them;
Dolls with fair faces and eyes bright of hue,
The black and the brunette, the blond and the blue;
Bride dolls and bridegrooms, the meekest of spouses;
And hundreds and thousands of pretty dolls' houses.
And as for the furniture--think for a day
He brought all you'll think of and all I could say!

And then there were playthings and puzzles and games.
With all kinds of objects and all sorts of names,--
Musical instruments, boxes and glasses,
And fiddles and faddles of various classes;
Mandolins ready for fingers and thumbs,
And banjos and tambourines, trumpets and drums.

Noah's arks, animals, reptiles and mammals,
Mammoths and crocodiles, cobras and camels;
Lions and tigers as tame as a cat,
Eagles and vultures as blind as a bat;
Bears upon bear-poles and monkeys on sticks,
Foxes in farmyards at mischievous tricks;
Monkeys on dogs too, and dogs too on bicycles,
Clumsy old elephants triking on tricycles;
Horses on rockers and horses on wheels,
But never a one that could show you his heels.

There were tops for the whip, there were tops for the string,
There were tops that would hum, there were tops that would
sing;
There were hoops made of iron and hoops made of wood,
And hoop-sticks to match them, as strong and as good;
There were books full of pictures and books full of rhymes,
There were songs for the seasons and tales for the times;
Pen-knives and pen-wipers, pencils and slates,
Wheelers and rockers and rollers and skates;
Bags full of marbles and boxes of bricks,
And bundles and bundles of canes and of sticks.

There were "prams" for the girls, there were "trams" for the
boys,
And thousands of clever mechanical toys,--
Engines and carriages running on rails,
Steamers and sailers that carry the mails;
Flags of all nations, and ships for all seas--
The Red Sea, the Black Sea, or what sea you please--
That tick it by clockwork or puff it by steam,
Or outsail the weather or go with the stream;
Carriages drawn by a couple of bays,
'Buses and hansoms, and waggons and drays,
Coaches and curricles, rallis and gigs--
All sorts of wheelers, with all sorts of rigs.

Cricket and croquet, and bat, trap, and ball,
And tennis--but really the list would appal.
There were balls for the mouth, there were balls for the feet,
There were balls you could play with and balls you could eat,
There were balls made of leather and balls made of candy,
Balls of all sizes, from footballs to brandy.

And then came the boxes of curious games,
With all sorts of objects and all sorts of names,--
Lotto and Ludo, the Fox and the Geese,
Halma and Solitaire--all of a piece;
Go-bang and Ringolette, Hook-it and Quoits,
For junior endeavours and senior exploits;
And Skittles and Spellicans, Tiddle-de-winks--
But one mustn't mention the half that one thinks;
Chessmen and draughtsmen, and hoards upon hoards
Of chess and backgammon and bagatelle boards;
And boxes of dominoes, boxes of dice,
And boxes of tricks you can try in a trice.

And Santa Claus went with his wonderful load
Through street after street, and through road after road,
And crept through the keyholes--or some other way;
He got down the chimneys--so some people say:
But, one way or other, he managed to creep
Where all the good children were lying asleep;
And when he got there, all the stockings in rows
That were ready hung up he cramm'd full to the toes
With the many good things he had brought with the day
From over the hills and far away.

And Santa Claus smiled as he look'd on the faces
Of all the good children asleep in their places,
And laugh'd out so loud as to almost awaken
One sharp little fellow who great pains had taken;
His socks were too small--for he'd hopes of great riches--
So, tying the legs, he had hung up his breeches!
And surely the tears almost came in his eyes
As he open'd a letter with joy and surprise
That he took from a stocking hung up to a bed,
And surely they fell as the letter he read;
'Twas a little girl's hand, and said, "Dear Santer Claws,
Don't fordit baby's sox--they's hung up to the drors."

But wasn't there laughter and shouting and noise
From the boys and the girls, and the girls and the boys,
When they counted the good things the good Saint had brought
them,
And laid them all out on their pillows to sort them.
Such wonderful voices, such wonderful lungs,
It was just like another confusion of tongues,
A Babel of chatter from master and miss--
And I don't think they've left off from that day to this.

Ah! good little people, if thus you shall find
Rich treasures provided, be grateful and mind,
In the midst of your pleasures, a moment to pause,
And think about Christmas and good Santa Claus!

Remember, in weary and desolate places,
With tears in their eyes and with grime on the faces,
The children of poverty, sorrow and weep,
With little to cheer them awake or asleep;
And remember that you who have much and to spare,
Can brighten their eyes and can lighten their cares,
If you take the example and work to the cause
Of your own benefactor, the good Santa Claus.

You need not climb chimneys in tempest and storm,
Nor creep into keyholes in fairy-like form;
You've a magical key for the dreariest place
In the light of your eyes and the smile of your face.
And remember the joy that you give to another
Will gladden your own heart as well as the other;
For troubles are halved when together we bear them,
And pleasures are doubled whenever we share them.

THE IMPERIAL RECITER

"And we are peacemen, also; crying for Peace, peace at any price--though it be war! We must live free, at peace, or each man dies With death-clutch fast for ever on the prize." --GERALD MASSEY.

The Editor's thanks are due to the Rev. A. Frewen Aylward for the use of the poem "Adsum," and to Messrs. Harmsworth Bros, for permission to include Mr. Rudyard Kipling's phenomenal success, "The Absent-Minded Beggar," in this collection; also to Messrs. Harper and Brothers, of New York, for special permission to copy from "Harper's Magazine" the poem "Sheltered," by Sarah Orme Jewett; to Messrs. Chatto and Windus for permission to use "Mrs. B.'s Alarms," from "Humorous Stories," by the late James Payn; to Miss Palgrave and to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for the use of "England Once More," by the late F. T. Palgrave; to Mr. Clement Scott for permission to include "Sound the Assembly" and "The Midnight Charge"; to Mr. F. Harald Williams and Mr. Gerald Massey for generous and unrestricted use of their respective war poems, and to numerous other authors and publishers for the use of copyright pieces.

PREFATORY.

There is a true and a false Imperialism. There is the Imperialism of the vulgar braggart, who thinks that one Englishman can fight ten men of any other nationality under the sun; and there is the Imperialism of the man of thought, who believes in the destiny of the English race, who does not shrink from the responsibilities of power from "craven fear of being great," and who holds that an Englishman ought to be ready to face _twenty_ men if need be, of any nationality, including his own, rather than surrender a trust or sacrifice a principle. The first would base empire on vanity and brute force, inspired by the vulgar reflection--

"We've got the men, we've got the ships, we've got the money too."

The second does not seek empire, but will not shrink from the responsibilities of its growth, and in all matters of international dispute believes with Solomon, that "He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding," and in all matters of international relationship that "Righteousness exalteth a nation."

The rapid and solid growth of the British Empire has been due largely to two characteristics of its rule--the integrity of its justice and the soundness of its finance. Native races everywhere appeal with confidence to the justice of our courts, and find in the integrity of our fiscal system relief from the oppressive taxation of barbarous governments.

These blessings we owe, and with them the strength of our empire, not to the force of our arms in the field, but to the subordination of the military to the civil spirit, both in peace and war.

Other nations fail in their attempts at colonisation because they proceed on military lines. With them it is the soldier first and the civilian where he can. England succeeds because she proceeds on _industrial_ lines. With her it is the plough where it may be and the sword where it must.

The military spirit never yet built up an enduring empire, and the danger of military success is that it is apt to confuse means and ends in the public mind, and to encourage the subordination of the civil to the military spirit in national institutions. Such a result could only be disastrous to the British Empire, and so, while rejoicing in the success of the British arms, it behoves us to oppose with all our strength the growth of the military spirit.

The seventh decade of the nineteenth century saw the realisation of one of the greatest facts of our time, the federation of the German states in one great military empire. The tenth decade has realised a greater fact, the federation of the British colonies in a great social and commercial empire. The German Empire must fall to pieces if it continues to subordinate the civil to the military Spirit in its national policy. The British Empire can never perish while it is true to the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man.

Signs of the growth of a military spirit are to be seen in the advocacy of some form of conscription or compulsory service for home defence; and this, too, at a time when the ends of the earth have been sending us _volunteers_ in abundance to espouse a foreign quarrel.

Such advocates neither understand the national history nor the English character. Were England in any real danger there would be no need for forced service, and service forced without need would breed revolution. The nation that cannot depend upon its volunteers for its home defence is not worth defending.

ALFRED H. MILES.
_October 1, 1900_.

CONTENTS.

NAME. AUTHOR.

The Englishman Eliza Cook England goes to Battle Gerald Massey England Once More F. T. Palgrave God Defend the Right F. Harold Williams The Volunteer Alfred H. Miles Down in Australia Gerald Massey Australia Speaks Gerald Massey An Imperial Reply Gerald Massey The Boys' Return Gerald Massey "Sound the Assembly!" Clement Scott The Absent-Minded Beggar Rudyard Kipling For the Empire F. Harald Williams Wanted--a Cromwell F. Harald Williams England's Ironsides F. Harald Williams The Three Cherry-Stones Anonymous The Midshipman's Funeral Darley Dale Ladysmith F. Harald Williams The Six-inch Gun "The Bombshell" St. Patrick's Day F. Harald Williams The Hero of Omdurman F. Harald Williams Boot and Saddle F. Harald Williams The Midnight Charge Clement Scott Mafeking--"Adsum!" A. Frewen Aylward The Fight at Rorke's Drift Emily Pfeiffer Relieved! (At Mafeking) "Daily Express" How Sam Hodge Won the V.C. Jeffrey Prowse The Relief of Lucknow R.T.S. Lowell A Ballad of War M.B. Smedley The Alma R.C. Trench After Alma Gerald Massey Balaclava--The Charge of the Light Lord Tennyson Brigade After Balaclava James Williams Inkerman Gerald Massey Killed in Action F. Harald Williams At the Breach Sarah Williams Santa Filomena H.W. Longfellow The Little Hatchet Story Burdette The Loss of the _Birkenhead_ Sir F.H. Doyle Elihu Alice Carey The Last of the _Eurydice_ Sir Noel Paton The Warden of the Cinque Ports H.W. Longfellow England's Dead Felicia Hemans Mehrab Khan Sir F.H. Doyle The Red Thread of Honour Sir F.H. Doyle The Private of the Buffs Sir F.H. Doyle A Fisherman's Song Alfred H. Miles The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron The Lay of the Brave Cameron J. S. Blackie A Song for Stout Workers J. S. Blackie At the Burial of a Veteran Alfred H. Miles Napoleon and the British Sailor Thomas Campbell The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe At Trafalgar Gerald Massey Camperdown Alfred H. Miles The Armada Lord Macaulay Mr. Barker's Picture Max Adeler The Wooden Leg Max Adeler The Enchanted Shirt Colonel John Hay Jim Bludso Colonel John Hay Freedom J.R. Lowell The Coortin' J.R. Lowell The Heritage J.R. Lowell Lady Clare Lord Tennyson Break, Break, Break Lord Tennyson The Lord of Burleigh Lord Tennyson Dora Lord Tennyson Mrs. B.'s Alarms James Payn Sheltered Sarah Orme Jewett Guild's Signal Bret Harte Bill Mason's Bride Bret Harte The Clown's Baby "St. Nicholas" Aunt Tabitha O. Wendell Holmes Little Orphant Annie J. Whitcomb Riley The Limitations of Youth Eugene Field Rubinstein's Playing Anonymous Obituary William Thomson The Editor's Story Alfred H. Miles Nat Ricket Alfred H. Miles 'Spatially Jim "Harper's Magazine" 'Arry's Ancient Mariner Campbell Rae-Brown The Amateur Orlando George T. Lanigan A Ballad of a Bazaar Campbell Rae-Brown A Parental Ode Thomas Hood 'Twas ever Thus Henry S. Leigh Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question Mary Mapes Dodge The Heathen Chinee Bret Harte Ho-ho of the Golden Belt John G. Saxe The Hired Squirrel Laura Sanford Ballad of the Trailing Skirt New York "Life" To the Girl in Khaki "Modern Society" The Tender Heart Helen G. Cone A Song of Saratoga John G. Saxe The Sea Eva L. Ogden A Tale of a Nose Charles F. Adams Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles F. Adams Dot Baby of Mine Charles F. Adams A Dutchman's Mistake Charles F. Adams The Owl Critic James T. Fields The True Story of King Marshmallow Anonymous The Jackdaw of Rheims R.H. Barham Tubal Cain Charles Mackay The Three Preachers Charles Mackay Say not the Struggle A.H. Clough Patriotism Lord Tennyson To-day and To-morrow Gerald Massey Ring Out, Wild Bells Lord Tennyson "Rule, Britannia!" James Thomson

THE IMPERIAL RECITER. _EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES_.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

BY ELIZA COOK.

There's a land that bears a well-known name,
Though it is but a little spot;
I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame,
And who shall aver it is not?
Of the deathless ones who shine and live
In arms, in arts, or song,
The brightest the whole wide world can give
To that little land belong.
'Tis the star of the Earth--deny it who can--
The Island-home of the Englishman.

There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
No matter when or where;
And to treat that flag as aught but the free
Is more than the strongest dare.
For the lion spirits that tread the deck
Have carried the palm of the brave;
And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck,
But never float o'er a slave;
Its honour is stainless--deny it who can--
And this is the flag of the Englishman.

There's a heart that beats with burning glow,
The wrong'd and the weak to defend;
And strikes as soon for a trampled foe
As it does for a soul-bound friend.
It nurtures a deep and honest love,
The passions of faith and pride,
And yearns with the fondness of a dove,
To the light of its own fireside,
'Tis a rich rough gem--deny it who can--
And this is the heart of an Englishman.

The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone
And boldly claim his right,
For he calls such a vast domain his own
That the sun never sets on his might.
Let the haughty stranger seek to know
The place of his home and birth;
And a flush will pour from cheek to brow
While he tells of his native earth;
For a glorious charter--deny it who can--
Is breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman."

ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Now, glory to our England,
She arises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes,--
The good sword in her hand!
Our royal right on battle-ground
Was aye to bear the brunt:
Ho! brave heart, with one passionate bound,
Take the old place in front!
Now glory to our England,
As she rises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes,--
The good sword in her hand!

Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?
Her stem is thorny, but doth burst
A glorious Rose a-top!
And shall our proud Rose wither? First
We'll drain life's dearest drop!
Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?

To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As lover to the altar, on
A merry marriage-day.
A weary night she stood to watch
The clouds of dawn up-rolled;
And her young heroes strain to match
The valour of the old.
To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As lover to the altar, on
A merry marriage-day.

Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints wet with blood.
Up with our red-cross banner--roll
A thunder-peal of drums!
Fight on there, every valiant soul
Have courage! England comes!
Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints wet with blood!

Now, victory to our England!
And where'er she lifts her hand
In freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!
And when the Storm hath passed away,
In glory and in calm,
May she sit down i' the green o' the day,
And sing her peaceful psalm!
Now victory to our England!
And where'er she lifts her hand
In freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!

ENGLAND ONCE MORE.

BY FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.

Old if this England be
The Ship at heart is sound,
And the fairest she and gallantest
That ever sail'd earth round!
And children's children in the years
Far off will live to see
Her silver wings fly round the world,
Free heralds of the free!
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

They are firm and fine, the masts;
And the keel is straight and true;
Her ancient cross of glory
Rides burning through the blue:--
And that red sign o'er all the seas
The nations fear and know,
And the strong and stubborn hero-souls
That underneath it go:--
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

Prophets of dread and shame,
There is no place for you,
Weak-kneed and craven-breasted,
Among this English crew!
Bluff hearts that cannot learn to yield,
But as the waves run high,
And they can almost touch the night,
Behind it see the sky.
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

As Past in Present hid,
As old transfused to new,
Through change she lives unchanging,
To self and glory true;
From Alfred's and from Edward's day
Who still has kept the seas,
To him who on his death-morn spoke
Her watchword on the breeze!
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

What blasts from East and North
What storms that swept the land
Have borne her from her bearings
Since Cæsar seized the strand!
Yet that strong loyal heart through all
Has steer'd her sage and free,
--Hope's armour'd Ark in glooming years,
And whole world's sanctuary!
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless her as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

Old keel, old heart of oak,
Though round thee roar and chafe
All storms of life, thy helmsman
Shall make the haven safe!
Then with Honour at the head, and Faith,
And Peace along the wake,
Law blazon'd fair on Freedom's flag,
Thy stately voyage take:--
While now on Him who long has bless'd
To bless Thee as of yore,
Once more we cry for England,
England once more!

GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

Where Roman eagle never flew
The flag of England flies,
The herald of great empires new
Beneath yet larger skies;
Upon a hundred lands and seas,
And over ransomed slaves
Who poured to her no idle pleas,
The pledge of Freedom waves;
Whatever man may well have done
We have with dauntless might,
And England holds what England won,
And God defends the right.

Where hardly climb the mountain goats,
On stormy cape and crag,
The refuge of the wanderer floats--
Our hospitable flag;
While alien banners only mock
With glory's fleeting wraith,
It stands on the eternal rock
Of our eternal faith;
And handed on from sire and son,
It furls not day nor night;
So England holds what England won,
And God defends the right.

When wrongs cry out for brave redress,
Our justice does not lag,
And in the name of righteousness
Moves on our stainless flag;
The helpless see it proudly shine
And hail the sheltering robe,
That heralds on the thin red line
That girdles round the globe;
A pioneer of truth as none
Before it scatters light,
And England holds what England won,
And God defends the right.

Beneath the shadow of its peace
Though riddled to a rag,
The down-trod nations gain release,
And rally round the flag;
We fight the battles of the Lord,
And never may we yield
A foot we measure with the sword--
On the red harvest-field;
And we will not retreat, while one
Stout heart remains to fight;
Let England hold what England won,
And God defend the right.

THE VOLUNTEER.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Conscription? Never! The word belongs
To the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs,
And unto them alone.
The first and worst of the Tyrant's terms,
Barbed to spike at the writhing worms
That crawl about his throne.
Only the mob at a despot's heels
Would juggle a man at Fortune's wheels,
Or conjure one with the die that reels
From the lip of the dice-cup thrown!
The soldier forced to the field of fight,
With never a reck of the wrong or right,
Wherever a flag may wave--
By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown--
Fights with a will that is not his own,
A victim and a slave!

Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue
By the hand of Knavery.
And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.

Compulsion? Never! The word is dead
In a land of Freedom born and bred,
Of old in the years of yore,
Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought
May do as they will, who will as they ought,
And none desire for more.
Who brooks no spur has need of none,
(Who needs a spur is a traitor son,)
And all are ready and all are one
When Freedom calls to the fore!
The soldier forced to the field of war
By the iron hand of a tyrant law,
Wherever a flag may wave,
And the press'd--at best but a coward's 'hest--
Fight with the bitter, sullen zest,
And the ardour of a slave!

A hireling? Never! The bought and sold
Are ever the prey of the traitor's gold,
Wherever the fight may be.
Or ever a man will sell his sword,
The highest bidder may buy the gaud
With a coward's niggard fee.
Who buys and sells to the market goes,
And sells his friends as he sells his foes,
So he gain in the main by his country's woes,--
But the gain is not to the free;--
For the soldier bought with a price has nought
But his fee to 'fend when the fight is fought,
Wherever the flag may wave.
And he who fights for the loot or pay,
Fights for himself, or ever he may--
A huckster and a slave!

Or ever a Free land needs a son
To follow the flag with pike or gun
Upon the field of war,
There's never a need to seek for one
In the dice's throw, or the number's run,
Or the iron grip of the law;--
All are ready, where all are free,
With never a spur and never a fee,
To fight and 'fend the liberty
That Freemen hold in awe.
The Volunteer is a son sincere,
And ready, or ever the cause appear,
Whole-hearted, free as brave,--
Ready at call to sally forth
From east and west, and south and north,
Wherever the flag may wave,--
With never a selfish thought to mar
The sacrifice of the holy war,
And never a self to save.
And the flag shall float in the blue on high
Till the last of the Volunteers shall die,
And Hell shall tear it out of the sky--
From Freedom's trampled grave!

Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue
By the hand of Knavery.
And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.

DOWN IN AUSTRALIA.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout,
For the Harvest going out,
With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;
And our message shall be hurled
Ringing right across the world,
There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land.

We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land!
For the old ancestral tree
Striketh root beneath the sea,
And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land!
We shall come, too, if you call,
We shall fight on if you fall;
Shakespere's land shall never be a bought and sold land....

O, a terror to the Tyrant is that bold Land!
He remembers how she stood,
With her raiment roll'd in blood,
When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land;
And he looks with darkened face,
For he knows the hero race
Strike the Harp of Freedom--draw her sword with bold hand....

When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land
You shall see the Tyrant down!
You shall see her lifted crown
Wears another peerless jewel won with bold hand;
She shall thresh her foes like corn,
They shall eat the bread of scorn;
We will sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land.

Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout
For the Harvest going out,
Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;
And our answer shall be hurled
Ringing right across the world,--
All true hearts are beating for you in the Gold Land.

AUSTRALIA SPEAKS.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

What is the News to-day, Boys?
Have they fired the Signal gun?
We answer but one way, Boys;
We are ready for the fray, Boys,
All ready and all one!

They shall not say we boasted
Of deeds that would be done;
Or sat at home and toasted:
We are marshall'd, drilled, and posted,
All ready and all one!

We are not as driven cattle
That would the conflict shun.
They have to test our mettle
As _Volunteers_ of Battle,
All ready and all one!

The life-streams of the Mother
Through all her youngsters run,
And brother stands by brother,
To die with one another,
All ready and all one!

AN IMPERIAL REPLY.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

'Tis glorious, when the thing to do
Is at the supreme instant done!
We count your first fore-running few
A thousand men for every one!
For this true stroke of statesmanship--
The best Australian poem yet--
Old England gives your hand the grip,
And binds you with a coronet,
In which the gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

They talked of England growing old,
They said she spoke with feeble voice;
But hear the virile answer rolled
Across the world! Behold her Boys
Come back to her full-statured Men,
To make four-square her fighting ranks.
She feels her youth renewed again,
With heart too full for aught but "Thanks!"
And now the gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

"My Boys have come of age to-day,"
The proud old mother smiling said.
"They write a brand-new page to-day,
By far-off futures to be read!"
Throughout all lands of British blood,
This stroke hath kindled such a glow;
The Federal links of Brotherhood
Are clasped and welded at a blow.
And aye the gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

THE BOYS' RETURN.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Wives, mothers, sweethearts sent
Their dearest; waved their own defenders forth;
And, fit companions for the bravest, went
The Boys, to test their manhood, prove their worth.

As Sons of those who braved
All dangers; to Earth's ends our Flag unfurled,
The old pioneers of Ocean, who have paved
Our pathway with their bones around the world!

To-day the City waits,
Proudly a-throb with life about to be:
She welcomes her young warriors in her gates
Of glory, opened to them by the Sea.

Let no cur bark, or spurt
Defilement, trying to tarnish this fair fame;
No Alien drag our Banner through the dirt
Because it blazons England's noble name.

Upon the lips of Praise
They lay their own hands, saying, _"We have not won
Great battles for you, nor Immortal bays,
But what your boys were given to do is done!"_

When Clouds were closing round
The Island-home, our Pole-star of the North,
Australia fired her Beacons--rose up crowned
With a new dawn upon the ancient earth.

For us they filled a cup
More rare than any we can brim to them!
The patriot-passion did so lift men up,
They looked as if each wore a diadem!

Best honours we shall give,
If to that loftier outlook still we climb;
And in our unborn children there shall live
The larger spirit of this great quickening time.

To-day is the Women's day!
With them there's no more need o' the proud disguise
They wore when their young heroes sailed away;
Soft smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes!

And, when to the full breast,
O mothers! your re-given ones you take,
And in your long embraces they are blest,
Give them one hug at heart for England's sake.

The Mother of us all!
Dear to us, near to us, though so far apart;
For whose defence we are sworn to stand or fall
In the same battle as Brothers one at heart.

All one to bear the brunt,
All one we move together in the march,
Shoulder to shoulder; to the Foe all front,
The wide world round; all heaven one Triumph Arch.

One in the war of Mind
For clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers;
One for the Federation of mankind,
Who will speak one language, and that language ours.

"SOUND THE ASSEMBLY!"

BY CLEMENT SCOTT.

_(From Punch's Souvenir. May 3rd, 1900.)_

Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!
For England has need of her bravest to-day.
Sound! and the World Universal will know
We shall fight to a finish, in front or at bay.
Sound the Assembly! They'll hear it, and spring
To the saddle, and gallop wherever they're led.
Sound! Every city and village will ring
With the shout "To the front!" It shall never be said--

That an Englishman's heart ever failed in its glow
For Queen, or for country, when threatened by foe,
For Liberty, stabbed by oppression and woe,
So, Sound the Assembly! Blow! Buglemen, blow!
Sound the Assembly!

Sound the Assembly! You'll see, as of yore,
The Service united in heart and in head,
When blue-jackets leap from their ships to the shore
To bring up the guns for their comrades in red!
Sound the Assembly! Our Naval Brigade
Will prove they are sailors and soldiers as well;
They will pull, they will haul, they will march, they will wade,
And dash into furnaces hotter than hell!

A long pull, a strong pull, a cheery "Yo! ho!"
Do you see that big mountain? 'Tis Jack who will know
To be first at the top, when, by gad! he will crow!
So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound the Assembly!

Sound the Assembly! Brave Union Jack!
You have floated triumphant on sea and on shore;
Old England and Scotland are still back to back,
And Ireland, God bless her! is with us once more.
Sound the Assembly! Come! Forward! Quick march!
What! Feather-bed soldiers? Bah! give them the lie.
Divested by war of Society starch
They will shout "'Tis a glorious death to die!"--

What land in the world could produce such a show
Of heroes, who face both siroccos and snow,
Rush madly to danger, and never lie low?
So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound the Assembly!

Sound the Assembly! Form, citizens, form!
From smoke of the city, from country so green,
A horse of irregulars sweeps like a storm
To defend with their lives their dear country and Queen!
Sound the Assembly! Come! Volunteers, come!
Leave oldsters at grinding and tilling the sod!
Bold Yoemen, enrolled for defence of their home,
Enlist with a cheer for the Empire, thank God!--

To the front! to the front! with their faces aglow,
They will march, the dear lads, with a pulse and a go;
Wave flags o'er the Workman, the Johnnie, the Beau,
So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!
Sound the Assembly!

THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR.

BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

When you've shouted "Rule Britannia"--when you've sung "God Save the
Queen"--
When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth--
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
For a gentleman in kharki ordered South?
He's an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great--
But we and Paul must take him as we find him--
He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate--
And he's left a lot o' little things behind him!

Duke's son--cook's son--son of a hundred kings--
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after their
things?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay--pay--pay!

There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to,
For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due,
And it's more than rather likely there's a kid.
There are girls he walked with casual, they'll be sorry now he's
gone,
For an absent-minded beggar they will find him;
But it ain't the time for sermons with the winter coming on--
We must help the girl that Tommy's left behind him!

Cook's son--Duke's son--son of a belted Earl--
Son of a Lambeth publican--it's all the same to-day!
Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the
girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!

There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak--
And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,
And they'll live on half o' nothing paid 'em punctual once a week,
'Cause the man that earned the wage is ordered out.
He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,
And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him:
He chucked his job and joined it--so the job before us all
Is to help the home that Tommy's left behind him!

Duke's job--cook's job--gardener, baronet, groom--
Mews or palace or paper-shop--there's someone gone away!
Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the
room?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!

Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face,
And tell him--what he'd very much prefer--
That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved his place,
And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her.
He's an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget it all,
But we do not want his kiddies to remind him,
That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul,
So we'll help the home our Tommy's left behind him!

Cook's home--Duke's home--home of a millionaire.
(Fifty'thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of 'em doing his country's work (and what have you got to
spare?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!

FOR THE EMPIRE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

It is no more place and party,
It is no more begging votes;
But the roaring of steam-packets,
And a rushing of bluejackets
And a rally of redcoats;
For the Empire's will is hearty,
Thundered by united throats.