You did? shake hands. That warms my heart; for, if I do look People think a soldier's heart is nought But, Harry, when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre flames and smokes, While whole battalions lie a-field, one's apt to think about his folks. 66 And did you seem them-when ? and where? The Old Man—is he hearty yet? And Mother-does she fade at all? or does she seem to pine and fret For me? And Sis-has she grown tall? And did you see her friend-you know-that Annie Moss-How this pipe chokes :Where did you see her? Tell me, Hal, a lot of news about 'our folks.' "You saw them in the church, you say; it's likely, for they're always there; Not Sunday? No?-a funeral? Who, Harry, how you shake and stare! All well, you say, and all were out-what ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax? Why don't you tell me, like a man, what is the matter with our folks ?>" "I said all well, old comrade-true; I say all well; for He knows best Who takes the young ones in His arms before the sun goes to the west. Death deals at random, right and left, and flowers fall as well as oaks; And so fair Annie blooms no more! and that's the matter with your 'folks.' "But see, this curl was kept for you; and this white blossom from her breast; And look-your sister Bessie wrote this letter, telling all the rest. Bear up, old friend!" Nobody speaks; only the old camp raven croaks, And soldiers whisper Boys, be still; there's some bad news from Grainger's folks."" He turns his back-the only foe that ever saw it on this grief, And, as men will, keeps down the tears kind Nature sends to woe's relief; Then answers :- "Thank you, Hal, I'll try; but in my throat there's something chokes, Because, you see, I've thought so long to count her in among 'our folks.' "I daresay she is happier now; but that I can't help thinking, too, I might have kept all trouble off, by being tender, kind, and true But may be not. . . . She's safe up there! and, when God's hands deals other strokes, She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, and wait to welcome in 'our folks.'" You see how the drawbridge swings open You see how it's worked by the windlass, It is two years ago come the autumn, I was sitting at work in the house here, You must know, that the wages I'm getting I was pounding away on my lapstone, And Willie, my golden-haired darling, His cheeks all aglow with excitement, When the telegraph bell at the station I heard the wheel turn at the windlass, 66 'Help, father! oh help me!" he shouted. I sprang through the door with a scream, His clothes had got caught in the windlass, There he hung o'er the swift, rushing stream. And there, like a speck in the distance, And the bridge that I thought safely fastened, I rushed to my boy, ere I reached him, I saw his bright curls on the water, I sprang to the edge of the river, I heard a loud shriek just behind me, Should I leap in the swift-flowing torrent I looked at my wife and she whispered, Do your duty, and Heaven will help you Quick as thought, then, I flew to the windlass, How I fought with the swift-rushing water, How I eagerly seized on his girdle, He sank once again, but I followed, We had got to a bend of the river, The foaming and thundering whirlpool And there on the bank stood his mother, And right up the steep rock they dragged us, I cannot forget, to this day, How I clung to the rope, while my darling And down on the greensward I laid him THE STROLLERS. ROBERT REECE. [Mr. Reece is principally known as a pantomime and burlesque author. His little extravaganza, "Perfect Love," is an elegant specimen of poetic fancy and refined humour. Many charming lyrics, too, have emanated from his pen, and may be found among his various operatic libretti, notably in the English version of the abnormally successful "Les Cloches de Corneville," written in conjunction with Mr. H. B. Farnie. As a punster he would have excited the intense wrath of Dr. Johnson.] THE little village, all astir, Has turned out, to a man, to greet them! Run down the leafy lanes to meet them; Looks up and wisely shakes her head, The busybodies of the place Watch as the bills are posted there, Then slowly wags the lumbering cart And through the cracks of yawning planks Sly youngsters peep in wonderment. And ere the sun has quite gone down, The band a fiddle, horn, and drum Perambulate the lane, and urge Reluctant villagers to come. Whilst, ere they play kings, queens, and knaves, And ere one half the seats are taken, The company has sallied forth To buy their humble eggs and bacon. |