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 CORY i!>j

The stately music of thy Guards,

Which times our march beneath thy ken, Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,

From heart to heart, when we are men. And when we bleed on alien earth,

We'll call to mind how cheers of ours Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth

Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. And if for England's sake we fall,

So be it, so thy cross be won, Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,

And worn in death, for duty done. Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate,

Blending his image with the hopes of youth To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate

Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. Death from afar we call, and Death is here,

To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,

Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.

CXI

THE TWO CAPTAINS

WHEN George the Third was reigning a hundred

years ago,

lie ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. 'You're not afraid of shot,' said he, 'you're not

afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate

called Quebec.

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