“Hear! hear! hear!  Hark to the word I bring! 
Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy’s ring! 
List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll! 
Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal
Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew,
And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew. 
Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear! 
Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal!  Beware!”

“Hear! hear! hear!  Hark to me, one and all! 
Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn’s call! 
List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan: 
Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan;
Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind,
To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind,
To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair! 
Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks!  Beware!”

“Hear! hear! hear!  Hark to my stormy shriek! 
Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak! 
List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief: 
Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef
Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow,
And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below,
Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,—­
Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef!  Beware!”

* * * * *

And then, o’er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips,
Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound
   ships,—­
A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,—­
“Thanks, O Guard of the Deep!  Watchers, we hear! we hear!”

* * * * *

“THE REG’LAR ARMY MAN”

He ain’t no gold-laced “Belvidere,”
  Ter sparkle in the sun;
He do’n’t parade with gay cockade,
  And posies in his gun;
He ain’t no “pretty soldier boy,”
  So lovely, spick and span,—­
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
  The Reg’lar Army man;
    The marchin’, parchin’,
    Pipe-clay starchin’,
Reg’lar Army man.

He ain’t at home in Sunday-school,
  Nor yet a social tea,
And on the day he gets his pay
  He’s apt to spend it free;
He ain’t no temp’rance advocate,
  He likes ter fill the “can,”
He’s kind er rough, and maybe, tough,
  The Reg’lar Army man;
    The r’arin’, tearin’,
    Sometimes swearin’,
  Reg’lar Army man.

No State’ll call him “noble son,”
  He ain’t no ladies’ pet,
But, let a row start anyhow,
  They’ll send for him, you bet! 
He “do’n’t cut any ice” at all
  In Fash’n’s social plan,—­
He gits the job ter face a mob,
  The Reg’lar Army man;
    The millin’, drilling
    Made fer killin’,
  Reg’lar Army man.

[Illustration:  “They ain’t no tears shed over him.  When he goes off ter war.”]