pleasure
  May greet the youth who guard our State. 
    You, whose long memories can measure
  So wide a sweep of England’s war,
    Must joy to see her served as boldly
  As in those sad mad days afar,
    When, gazing on her children coldly,
  She alienated kindred hearts,
    Which might till now have beaten loyal. 
  At least you both played well your parts,
    Though blunderers blind, official, royal,
  May then or now have marred the work
    Of arduous years, and gallant spirits,
  My sons at least no peril shirk,
    Valour from age to age inherits. 
  The old tradition, duteous stands
    For the old Flag, wherever flying! 
  Brave WALLIS, gallant GRANT, clasp hands! 
    My sons!  Unfaltering, undying,
  Beneath grey hairs, or youth’s brown locks,
    The spirit proud of patriot valour! 
  Not desperate odds in war’s wild shocks
    Shall strike its flush to craven pallor. 
  Mud-fort, or “mealey” bastion, deck
    Of shot-torn ship, or red “death-valley,”
  What odds?  Of danger nought I reck,
    Whilst thus my sons to me can rally. 
  Come what, come will!  Whilst centuried age
    And youth in Spring strike hands before me,
  Let foemen band, let battle rage,
    You’ll keep my Flag still flying o’er me!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “GENERAL IDEA”

HITTING ON A NOVEL PLAN FOR OUR COAST DEFENCES.]

* * * * *

The Yankee Oracle on the Three-Volume Novel.

  Our people will not stand it—­no! 
    Of Fiction, limp or strong,
  Yanks want but little here below,
    Nor want that little long! 
  (But oh! our (Saxon) stars one thanks,
  Romance is not (yet) ruled by Yanks!)

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE UN-SENTIMENTALIST.

THE TAX-COLLECTOR’S HEART.

  I know his step, his ring, his knock,
    I hear him, too, explain,
  With emphasis my nerves that shock,
    That he “won’t call again!”
  I know that bodes a coming storm—­
    A summons looms a-head! 
  I follow his retreating form,
    And note his stealthy tread! 
  Some grace to beg, implore, beseech,
    ’Twere vain!  Let him depart! 
  I know no human cry can reach
    That Tax-Collector’s heart!

  He kept his word.  To claim that rate
    He never called again. 
  An outraged Vestry, loth to wait,
    Soon made their purpose plain. 
  I know not how, I missed the day,—­
    But that fell summons came. 
  Two shillings costs it took to play
    That Tax-Collector’s game. 
  I own the outlay was not much! 
    But, that is not the smart: 
  ’Tis that no anguished shriek can touch
    That Tax-Collector’s heart!

* * * * *