THE RETURN OF THE GUARDS Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes, As clouds that drift, breathe darkness swift Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes, Whilst all felt fear, lest they should hear And if unstained that ancient banner Let none forget how vast the debt Let none forget THE OTHERS, marching Whose bodies sleep, by that grim deep Which shakes the Euxine shore. Sir Francis H. Doyle. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 1859 A.D. Last night, among his fellow roughs, To-day beneath the foeman's frown, Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame; He only knows, that not through him THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd, Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, The smoke, above his father's door, Yes, honour calls!-with strength like steel Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed; Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. Sir Francis H. Doyle. RIFLEMEN FORM! 1859 A.D. There is a sound of thunder afar, Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts, and take good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! |