Law, justice, liberty, — great gifts are these; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,

Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease. Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,

Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light.

American I am; would wars were done! Now westward look, my country bids Good-night, Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G. E. WOODBERRY.

JERRY AN' ME.

Νο

Jerry an' Me.

O matter how the chances are,
Nor when the winds may blow,
My Jerry there has left the sea
With all its luck an' woe:
For who would try the sea at all,
Must try it luck or no.

They told him

- Lor', men take no care

How words they speak may fall They told him blunt, he was too old,

Too slow with oar an' trawl,

An' this is how he left the sea
An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land
Out of his beaten way,

If he is young 'twill do, but then,
If he is old an' gray,

A month will be a year to him,
Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks
The door-yard for a deck,

An' scans the boat a-goin' out
Till she becomes a speck,
Then turns away, his face as wet
As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again,
The days when we were wed.

But he shall never know

- my man

The lack o' love or bread,

While I can cast a stitch or fill

A needleful o' thread.

God pity me, I'd most forgot
How many yet there be,

Whose goodmen full as old as mine
Are somewhere on the sea,

Who hear the breakin' bar an' think

O' Jerry home an’

me.

H. RICH

THE GRAVEDIGGER.

The Gravedigger.

H, the shambling sea is a sexton old,

OH,

And well his work is done;

With an equal grave for lord and knave,
He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;

And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;

But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,

Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,

Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre

Went out, and where are they?

In the port they made, they are delayed

With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far

As the ships of long ago;

And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him
Is the sexton of the town;

For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,

He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim,
His honest graves are wide,

As well they know who sleep below
The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled;

With the burly note of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house
Where the ballads of eld were sung;
And merry enough is the burden rough,
But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
And wilful she must have been,

That she could bide at his gruesome side
When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home;