Early Writing in Canada
30th Jun 2016Posted in: Early Writing in Canada 0
Poems and Songs on the South African War






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It gives me much pleasure in your Lordship kindly consenting to allow this truly national and patriotic work to be dedicated to you, as the Representative of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, over this Dominion (but so shortly after this dedication was accepted by your Lordship, she died, and this universally mounred event, altered somewhat, the original copy).
Canadians will not forget the energy and help which you gave when our 1st Contingent was sent to the South African war, nor of that which was displayed when the 2nd and the “Strathcona Horse,” left for the same destination.
In whatever part of the British Empire your Lordship in after years may be, you will always carry with you the gratitude of all classes of Canadians, both in your governmental career and in your affability while presiding over the affairs of this Dominion.
Praying that the Great Disposer of Events may long spare your Lordship and your estimable family.

I remain,
Your obedient servant,

March, 1901. [unnumbered page]

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IN this collection will be found a great variety of Poems and Songs and from almost every part of the English speaking nations of the world.
The whole will form one grand galaxy of Patriotism, well worthy to be preserved in the homes of every Canadian.
Canada may well be proud of her position in the British Empire; and in sending forth those Contingents of her brave sons to South Africa, to uphold “The Old Flag,” and fight and die for the integrity of the same.
I have arranged the anthology so as to make a kind of chronological sequence of the war, placing only a few of special significance at the front as a key to what follows.
The collection consists of every variety of metre and merit, yet they all breathe but one sentiment, one wish, and one heartfelt prayer for “The Old Flag” and our late most Beloved Queen.
I must return my sincere thanks to all the Writers and Authors who have so spontaneously sent me their MSS, and by so doing, ensuring to the public, the latest corrections, by the Authors themselves, before they appear in this Anthology.

March, 1901. [unnumbered page]

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It’s only a small piece of bunting,
   It’s only an old coloured rag;
Yet thousands have died for its honour,
   And shed their best blood for the flag.

It’s charged with the Cross of St. Andrew,
   Which of old, Scotland’s heroes have led;
It carries the Cross of St. Patrick,
   For which Ireland’s bravest have bled.

Joined with these, on our own English ensign,
   St. George’s red Cross on white field,
Round which from King Richard to Wolsley.
   Britons conquer, or die, but ne’er yield.

It flutters in triumph o’er ocean,
   As free as the wind and the wave;
And bondsman from shackles unloosed,
   ‘Neath its shadows no longer a slave.

It floats over Cyprus and Malta,
   O’er Canada, the Indies, Hong Kong;
And Britons where’er their flag’s flying,
   Claim the rights which to Britons belong.

We hoist it to show our devotion
   To our Queen, to our country and laws;
‘Tis the outward and visible emblem
   Of advancement and liberty’s cause.

You may say it’s a small bit of bunting,
   You may call it an old coloured rag;
Yet freedom has made it majestic
   And time has ennobled the Flag.

Anon. [unnumbered page]

The following lines by J. Sheppard were copied by the Author when in London in 1888. Being in Wapping, on the Tunnel stairs at that station, and there waiting for the underground railway—amongst hundreds of other inscriptions—his eye caught the following words, very applicable to the present day of


What though the Powers, the world doth hold,
   Were all against us met,
We have the might, they felt of old, and England’s
   England yet;
The flags that waved o’er many a rout,
   From many a conquered wall,
For England shall again float out
   Triumphant ‘ere it fall;
Up English heart, up England hands,
Up for your homesteads and your lands.


England is England!—though not “merrie” still,
Matchless in power; supreme her dauntless will;
Bending to none but Him, whose will is hers;
Using her strength, alone when He avers.

England is England!—and her sons will fight,
To shield her banner and uphold her right;
Though for her love, her loyal soldiers spill
Their best heart’s blood—England is England still!

England is England! she will guard her own;
And make her power felt, as it is known.
Courage brave sons!—she knows the British heart!—
Beyond its life, no more can love impart,

England is England! she will make it known,
The cause of every Briton is her own—
Her noble sons shall tread the path she trod—
England is England! Yea—and God is God!

Amy Kingsland Pennington, Halifax, N.S. [page 8]


Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast,
   For a moment let the wailing bugles cease;
As the century is closing, I am going to my rest;
   Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace.
But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear,
   And on the winds, my hopes of peace are strowed;
The winds that waft the voices, that already I can hear—
   Of the rooi-baatje singing on the road.

Yes, the redcoats are returning; I can hear the steady tramp,
   After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep,
Since rank and file at Potchefstrom we hemmed them in their camp,
   And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep.
They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range,
   And we shot the British gunners where they showed;
I guessed they would return to us—I knew the chance must change—
   Hark! The rooi-baatje singing on the road!

But now from snow-swept Canada, from India’s torrid plains,
   From lone Australian outposts, hither led;
Obeying their command, as they heard the bugle’s strains,
   The men in brown have joined the men in red,
They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost,
   They come to pay us back the debt they owed;
And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colors tossed,
   ‘Mid the rooi-baatje singing on the road.

The old, old faiths must falter; the old, old creeds must fail—
   I hear it in the distant murmur low—
The old, old order changes, and ‘tis vain for us to rail,
   The great world does not want us—we must go.
And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong.
   No more to trek before him we shall load;
Too well, too well I know it, for I hear it in the song
   Of the rooi-baatje singing on the road.

From “The Telephone,” Cape Town. [page 9]


Friend, call me what you will; no jot care I;
I that shall stand for England till I die.
England! The England that rejoiced to see
Hellas unbound, Italy one and free;
The England that had tears for Poland’s doom,
And in her heart for all the world made room;
The England from whose side I have not swerved;
The immortal England whom I too have served,
Accounting her all living lands above,
In justice and in mercy and in love.

New York Sun.


They said, ‘She is old, this England—
   Old and her children few,
And scattered far at the ends of earth
   Each with his work to do.
Each thinking only of self and pelf,
   And no one thinking of her—
Shall we call the pack—her hands are full—
   Shall we bite—she cannot stir!’ 

Did she cry for help, our England?
   What need had she to call—
The yell of snarling hounds went forth,
   And was heard by her children all—
Sons and their sons and their children’s sons,
   From the white to the torrid zone;
Britannia’s brood, blood of her blood
   And bone of her very bone!

See, from the fields of old England,
   The children about her knee,
And see from Scotland’s heather hills,
   The free sons of the free,
And see from Ireland’s huts and halls
   Bravest they of the brave—
The empire that their hands have built,
   Her loyal sons shall save! [page 10] 

Canadians, straight as the pine trees,
   That pierce the new world’s sky—
They dream of an Isle they have not seen,
   And proudly for it would die!
And see how under the Southern Cross
   Australia’s sons stand forth—
Yes, mark how the needle of loyalty
   Points steadfast to the North!

From the East and the West, the Indies
   And isles of the farthest sea,
No son of the blood but hears and asks
   ‘Has the Mother need of me?’
And the yelpings cease, the cringing hounds
   Show now neither fang nor tongue—
They said, ‘This England is old and weak,’
   And lo, she is strong, she is young!

We of the self-same birthright,
   One blood, one spirit, one speech—
This to our brothers, who fight to-day
   For the rights of all and each—
From the Cape whose name is prophecy,
   Northward your feet are bent,
And above your banners we read, ‘Good Hope’
   For a darkened continent.

Daniel M. Henderson, Baltimore, U.S.A.


From Here on we claim descent—
   His bride King David’s daughter,
Who from the Holy Land was sent
   To Erin o’er the water.

Since then the Norman and the Dane,
The Teuton and the Frenchmen
Have mixed their blood, and from the strain
   Come sturdy British henchmen.


Hurrah, then, for the blood and birth
   With pedigree to fit on
The isles and continents of earth,
   The freedom-loving Briton. [page 11] 

The liberties our fathers won
   We’ll grant to every nation,
Till peace and justice, like the sun,
   Shall sine o’er all creation.

We seek no conquest to oppress,
   Or trample on a foeman;
And blest ourselves, we seek to bless,
   With enmity to no man.


Thus Celt and Teuton, Norman, Dane
   Come back, like cloud from ocean,
And fall upon the earth like rain,
   To set the crops in motion.

No Cadmus crop of armed bands,
   To meet in strife infernal,
But loving hearts and willing hands,
   To make God’s peace eternal.


Carroll Ryan, Montreal.

(Song of the Boer Woman.)

Trekking! trekking! will never the trek be done?
Will never the rest, will never the home be won, and forever won?
Are we only as beasts of the jungle afoot for the fleeting prey—
With a lair in the bush at midnight—on the veldt, a trackless way?
Ever the word is “onward”—ever out white train goes
Deeper and deeper northward beyond the grasp of our foes—
Deeper and deeper northward our fathers went before—
But the door of the veldt is closed—is closed!—Where can we trek to more?

Trekking! trekking! trekking! think you we love not our home?
Think you my father prized not the farm of the yellow loam?
And mother—I see her weeping beside my brother tall,
Turning and gazing northward beyond the mountain wall.
The cattle—they seem to be standing dumb in a brute despair
With a longing look at the pastures—they feel the trek in the air!
Even old Yok seems broken—he turns from the tempting bone—
I see him there in the corner, manlike, brooding alone! [page 12] 

Trekking! trekking! trekking! through Zululand we go,
The midnight tiger stalking us, and ever the savage foe—
Before—the savage foe to meet, the “redcoat” foe behind—
What have we done to be blown about like a leaf upon the wind?
Ah, over the Vaal we shall find our peace—over the rushing Vaal—
The Lord has led us to rest at last—blindly we followed His call;
The land He promised is ours to keep—is ours to forever keep—
Piet, what noise is that in the fold—think you a wolf at the sheep?

Trekking! trekking! trekking! we have trekked till our tall strong men
Have sworn an oath by our father’s God, we shall never trek again!
The doors of the northward veldt are closed—the doors of our heart are strong—
They shall ope their lock to a brother’s knock—but not to the threat of wrong!
There is the gun your father bore when he climbed Majuba hill—
‘Tis yours, Piet, to bear it now with your father’s faith and will—
For the land is ours—the land is ours—if ever a land was won—
You go at the dawn, you say, my son? Yes—go at the dawn, my son!

John Jerome Rooney, in New York Sun.


General Hector Macdonald, who did such wonders at Omdurman, and who rose from the ranks, was one of the officers who survived Majuba Hill, where he was taken prisoner. The sword he wore had been presented to him by the men of his company when he won his commission, and bore on it blade an inscription to that effect. The Boer leaders noticed it among the surrendered arms and brought it back to Macdonald, telling him to wear it, as a man who had won such a sword should not be separated from it. Gen. Macdonald still tells the story and says that those men were gentlemen.

The camp fire was red on our faces, but despair in our hearts was black;
We had fought, we had fought, we had failed—they had beaten us back and back!
Our country’ flag and her honour to us had been given in trust,
Her honour we’d lost on the mountain! Her flag we’d trailed in the dust!
Ah, many a comrade lying still on that stark hillside
We envied with bitter longing; would God we had also died!
Sweeter were death than capture, sweeter were death than shame,
The shame that our pride had yielded to a foe of despised name. [page 13] 

The camp fire shone on our captors, those men of veldt, and farms;
Sombre, rugged, uncultured, unskilled (save in use of arms),
Straight from the plough and the sowing they had shouldered their roers for the fight,
And we had gone down before them—gone down in our well-drilled might!
Oh, well might they look with triumph upon our grim despair,
As slowly within the red light we filed before them there.

And our captain gave his sword up—(its blade to-night was dim),
The sword his comrades gave to show their pride in him.
He gave it up in silence, but we who know his heart
Could guess the wild regretting, the aching pain and smart;
To yield his sword is an anguish that cuts a man full sore,
And his wore a sting still keener, for he gave it up to a Boer.

And they took it, too, in silence, that sternly quiet band,
And read of honour that won it as they passed it from hand to hand,
And then they turned to us, standing still in the dust and the glow,
With our thoughts up there on the mountain and black in our hearts the woe,
They spoke in our English language, their words were few and plain.
“We take not the sword of a brave man”—and they handed it back again.

That night when the stars were glinting above the camp fire flare,
As we lay around in the shadows, and the Boers with their guns watched there,
Our captain spoke to us shortly: “Men, we have lost the day;
Yet I hold we are not dishonoured, whatever the world may say;
To yield to a foe ignoble is a true cause for shame.
To souls small and ungenerous, no matter their race or name;
Our flag has gone down on Majuba, our pride is stricken sore;
But we’ve learnt that our foe is worthy, although that foe be a Boer.”

Many a sun o’er Majuba since then has risen and set;
Many a year has fleeted since Boer and soldier met,
The winds of this life have scattered them, scattered them wide and far;
The men who came down from the mountain, carried a heart-deep scar. [page 14] 
Yet, wherever our paths may wander, wherever our winds may blow,
To us that stood around that camp fire, that faded so long ago,
No scornful speech may be uttered of the Boer, nor contemptuous word,
For long as our life is with us, we’ll remember Macdonald’s sword!

H. M. Bromley, Bloemfontein, South African News.


This poem appeared in the Los Angeles ‘Times.’ It expresses the views of a large number of people there. The ‘Times’ is the most widely circulated paper south of San Francisco and west of St. Louis, and has great influence. The poem will please English-speaking people all over the world to know that such sentiments as it expresses emanated from an American writer in Southern California.

Mother England!—Mother England!—here is heart and hand with thee!
For Albin’s blood is in our veins—and Saxons too, are we;
One history, one destiny, one God, one tongue, one aim—
To bear the torch of Freedom round the shackled world aflame.

Mother England!—Mother England!—we are sons of Saxon sires,
And across the rolling oceans we behold the beacon-fires.
Your Scott, your Burns, your Shakespeare and your Tennyson are ours.
And our Yankee heart are with you when the cloud of danger lowers.

Mother England!—Mother England!—down the ages, blood will tell,
From the spears that baffled Caesar to the field where Symons fell;
Down through rugged Gael and Saxon, brawny Norse and stalwart Danes,
Still the blood of Bruce and Cromwell tingles in our Yankee veins.

Mother England!—Mother England!—all your hero-sons are ours,
And our Grant, our Meade, our Dewey and our Farragut are yours;
For they heard the call of ‘Duty’ from the deck at Trafalgar
And the ghostly voice of Alfred through the ages from afar. [page 15] 

Mother England!—Mother England!—Lo—your sons from sea to sea,
Bear the equal scales of Justice and the lamp of Liberty;
Only ties of love can bind them—strong as steel but soft as silk—
For they sucked the love of freedom with their English mother-milk.

Mother England!—Mother England!—if all Europe rise and roar,
We will meet them—we will beat them, on the sea and on the shore;
Then our stalwart Anglo-Saxons, side by side, on land and sea,
Will march on and sail together to one world-wide destiny—
Bearing still the scales of Justice and the lamp of Liberty.

Mother England!—Mother England!—here is heart and hand with thee!
For Albion’s blood is in our veins—and Saxons too, are we;
One history, one destiny, one God, one tongue, one aim—
To bear the torch of Freedom round the shackled world aflame.

H. L. G., Los Angeles, U.S.A.


Under an alien sky I keep my vigil,
   While with winged footstep glides the listening night,
And far from this white coast in moonlight sleeping,
   A world afar the Empire’s soldiers fight.

I, a girl exile, hopeless waif of Empire,
   I could not cheer one soldier on his way;
I had no gold to give, I could not even
   Hang out my own dear flag to greet the day.

Were quiet fields swam to my eyelids smarting,
   No echo of the shouting, reached my ear;
I could not see them in their pride, departing,
   Nor the glad tumult clustering at the pier.

Yet, of my Empire, under your flag’s floating,
   My deeper love, remembers you to-night;
And faith climbs closer to the veiled to-morrow—
   To-morrow shall not victory “tell the fight?”

Elizabeth Carter, N. Jersey, U.S.A. [page 16]


O Motherland, we hope with thee,
That soon triumphant thou wilt be—
          The Conqueror.
Not for the sake that thou should’st gain
All untold wealth beyond the ea,
          But for the mighty truth.

The motto long emblazoned on thy crest
Has been, “Protection to thy sons in every clime,”
Where’er they roam, whate’er should be their quest—
          They’re Britain’s sons.

The march of civilization thou hast led.
From northern seas to India’s tropic shores,
For God and Country, have thy legions sped
          O’er desert lands.

If gold or love of conquest drove thee on,
To spill thy children’s blood in foreign lands,
          Yet did they die in peace.

For never hast thou left an unripe field—
The curse of ignorance, or that of kings—
But ever hast thou been the shield
          Of Liberty.

Fight on! We hope with thee:
On Afric’s slopes our hearts will be,
          Until the end.

The blood of ancient Britain fills our veins—
We hear the war cry and the bugle strains,
          And pray with thee.

Fight on! Our battles and thine own,
For Britain’s glory and the race,
That yet shall live, tho’ every field be strewn
          With patriot dead.

Denman S. Wagstaff, late Col. Michigan National Guard, Detroit, Mich., U.S.A. [page 17]


Steady, England, on the left flank—
   On the right flank form again;
Mass your columns on the centre;
   Stand to colours, Englishmen!

England’s Empire has not fallen,
   Though a thousand men are slain;
Yet a thousand times a thousand
   “Rule Britannia” shall maintain.

Aye, a thousand times a thousand
   Lives have welcomed sacrifice,
Thus to win and hold and cherish
   England’s Empire—paid the price.

Checked and baffled, yet undaunted,
   See the conquering flag unfurled;
Herald-ensign of the tardy
   “Federation of the World.”

Steady, England, undisheartened,
   Still the “Thin Red Line” remains,
Rally! Rally to the rescue!
   Let the end wipe out the stains.

Heed not hungry, waiting vultures;
   Let them hover, yet forbear,
For the Lion still is monarch—
   And our Eagle watches there.

Mark, Columbia is neutral,
   Friendlier than the watchful three;
Wait: Britannia and Columbia
With a hand-clasp span the sea.

* * * * * *

By the paths we trod together,
   By the blood that mingled then;
By the charter-rights we wrested
   By the mother-tongue of men; [page 18] 

By the right that sons inherit
   By the pluck that won our own,
By the ties that bind all kindred—
   By “their fruits” both may be known.

By the darkness dissipated,
   By the battles she has fought,
By the realms emancipated,
   By the progress she has wrought.

By the bulwarks based on manhood,
   By the torch of freedom borne,
By the tests that make an Empire
   England’s glory is unshorn.

By the light that shines in darkness,
   Lent to pierce the future’s veil,
England’s past shall prove prophetic,
   England’s Empire shall prevail.

Steady, England, on the left flank;
   See, the right flank forms again;
Forward! Close up flanks and centre—
   Irish, Scotch and Englishmen!

J. H. J. in “The Worcester Spy.”


In all the ever happy lands beneath the genial sky,
   Where Britain’s light of freedom doth abound,
The cause of all true liberty doth never fade or die,
   Nor thrall of wicked tyranny be found.

In excelsis Gloria, Britannia, Victoria,
   Rule the wave, O Britain, bravely as of yore;
Freedom’s call o’er sea and land, trumpet notes of glory—
   Knell of basest bigots heard on Afric’s golden shore.

When Ulster’s men of long ago, in Inniskilling town,
   For just laws and for conscience sake, so nobly made their stand,
And the cry of Londonderry, unto Britain did resound,
   ‘Twas “No surrender, freemen,” it is the Lord’s command. [page 19] 

In excelsis Gloria, Hibernia, Victoria!
   Evermore the tyrants vile the deadly charge will fear;
Of Erin’s sons whose trusty steel does drive the foes before them,
   For freedom’s cause, and Britain’s name, and home, and all things dear.

Tho’ even in these present days of liberty and right,
   And peace, enjoyed in English speaking lands;
The cry still rings in other lands, aloud, for light,
   To stand against oppression’s base commands.

In excelsis Gloria, Canada, Australia!
   And all Britannia’s children, in every land or clime,
Thy fealty and thy daring so gallantly defending,
   The sacred cause of freedom, will be lauded for all time.

J. C. Collins, Chicago.



“One more embrace, then, o’er the main
   And nobly play the soldier’s part.”
Thus speaks, amid the martial strain,
   The Spartan mother’s aching heart.
               She hides her woe.
               She bids him go.
And tread the path his fathers trod.
“Who fights for England, fights for God.”

Helpless to help, she waits, she weeps,
   And listens for the far-off fray,
He scours the gorge; he scales the steeps,
   Scatters the foe—Away! Away!
               Feigned is their flight.
               Smite! again smite.
How fleet their steeds! How nimbly shod!
She kneels, she prays: “Protect him, God!” [page 20] 

The sister’s sigh, the maiden’s tear,
   The wife’s, the widow’ stifled wail,
These nerve the hand, these brace the spear;
   And speed them over veldt and vale.
               What is to him,
               Or life or limb,
Who rends the chain, and breaks the rod,
Who falls for freedom, falls for God.

And should it be his happy fate,
   Hale to return to home and rest,
She will be standing at the gate,
   To fold him to her trembling breast.
               Or should he fall,
               By ridge or wall—
And lie ‘neath some green southern sod,
Who dies for country, sleeps with God.

Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate of Great Britain.


   Said the Rose:
               “I must spread my petals sweet
With a deeper bloom than for years,
A rich, red glow the world must greet,
Wet with dew from the Empire’s tears.”

   Said the Thistle:
               “My bristles like bayonets bright
Must stand out with new force and pride,
Whilst a purple pall I spread over all
Who as heroes fall side by side.”

   Said the Shamrock:
               “This year I must sprout and grow
And wander o’er many a mile
To cover the graves of our hero-sons
Who lie far from the sod of our Isle.
The courage that’s born in old Erin’s ‘boys’
Will be found where’er war is seen,
And the Empire’s tears though they dampen our joys
Will freshen the Shamrock’s green. [page 21] 

The deepened hue in the ruby’s sheen
The fuller tone in the amethyst’s gem,
The richer sparkle in emerald green,
Will give to the crown on our monarch’s brow
An added lustre, a greater charm;
Whilst the Empire’s tears fall thick and warm
And burnish the ruby, the purple, the green,
In the circlet of gold that is worn by our Queen.

E. B. M.


Do you know the meaning of it, why the anxious nations pause,
     Pause and listen to the voices muttering near?
Why the aching eyes are watching for the shifting of the flaws,
     As the hovering clouds upon them drift and veer?
Yea, we know the meaning of it, but the issue no man knoweth,
     For the darkness hides our faces from the day,
And the fever in our bosoms like a smouldering fire gloweth
     While the mothers of the nations wait nd pray;
Spare our sons, O Lord, and grant us peace!
     Thus the mothers of the nations silent pray. 

Can we know the reason for it, why the nations anxious wait?
     Why they choose to drink the wormwood and the gall,
Why the vengeful souls are burning, swelling, cankered with their hate,
     Why we cannot read the writing on the wall?
Yea, we know the reason for it, ‘tis the pent-up brute within us
     Grinds our faces in the darkness and the dust;
And we waver in the blackness as the brutish voices win us,
     Whispering stripe for stripe and thrust for thrust.
And the echo never dies, but answers ever—
     Eye for eye and tooth for tooth and thrust for thrust.

Oh, the dread, the pity of it; Oh, the victims of the strife;
     Oh, the mighty tools of Death that mar the main!
Though the voices whisper louder: Thrust for thrust and life for life,
     Let us pause and count the richness of our gain.
Though our souls grow dull and weary as the nations war together,
     Let us pause and strive to pierce the dusky veil; [page 22] 
Though the years are onward fleeting and we cannot grasp the tether,
     Let us ask why stained and bloody is their trail.
And we ask our souls the question, though we wait in vain the aswer,
     Like the prophets of a deaf and sleeping Baal.

Frank Call, Frelighsburg, Que.


Beside a running mountain stream
   A poplar tall and fair,
Held rule supreme, and none around
   Might her high office share;
For e’en the roaring waters owned
   That she was empress there;—
And right across the rolling stream
   Her graceful shadow threw
To where upon the other bank
   An offshoot poplar grew,
Whose roots were intertwined with hers,
   That nought could part the two.

Now, like the polar, Britain stands,
   And she is ocean’s queen,
How proudly does she bear the name,
   And rightly, too, I ween,
While proud are we and close we cling,
   Though waters roll between;
So we who grow from out her roots
   Will cling to her through all;—
Should need arise, Britannia knows
   We’d follow at her call,
Resolved to stand as Britain stands!
   To fall, could Britain fall.

Ethelwyn. [page 23]


        Who’s that calling?
     It comes from far away,
The voice of a brother o’er the sea,
     It says: “Am I a stranger,
     That you leave me in danger,
Oh, my brothers, will you stretch a hand to me?
        Send us the flag!
        The red cross flag!
   Send us the banner that we love!
     We long for it, we sigh for it,
     To live for it, to die for it—
        God save the Red Cross flag!”

        Who’s that calling?
     It comes from far away,
The voice of a brother in the West,
     “We are loyal, we are true,
     We are flesh and blood of you.
We are coming with our bravest and our best.
        Bearing the flag,
        The red cross flag,
   Bearing the banner that we love.
     And I it stormy weather!
     Then we sink or swim together,
        God save the Red Cross flag!

        Who’s that calling?
     It comes from far away,
A voice from the far Pacific main, 
     “And shall we be behind
     When the banner’s in the wind,
And the old game is playing once again?
        We’re for the flag,
        The red cross flag,
   We’re for the flag that is our own.
     Do you ask a heart to care for it?
     A hand to do and dare for it?
        God save the Red Cross flag!” [page 24] 

        Who’s that calling?
     The old sea-mother calls,
In her pride at the children that she bore!
     “Oh, noble hearts and true,
     There is work for us to do,
And we’ll do it as we’ve done it oft before,
        Under the flag,
        The red cross flag,
   Under the flag our fathers bore;
     They died in days gone by for it,
     As we will gladly die for it,
        God save the Red Cross flag!

A. Conan Doyle, “London Daily News.”


For the first time in history, the British army has marched into battle with no colors at its head. They have been left at home, sometimes hung in churches and cathedrals. The following fine verses from “The London Outlook” are in reference to this fact:—

That rent is Talavera, that patch is Inkerman,
A hundred times in a hundred climes the battle round them ran;
But that is an ended chapter, they will not go to-day;
Hang them above as a link of love where the women come to pray.

In the country of the cactus, in the vale of Al Rashed,
I took them way from a boy who lay in a ring of the dying dead;
Dead—but he smiled as living; dead—but his hand held this,
The banner had been as the grace of his Queen (God’s light be hers and his.)

Perhaps when all is quiet, and the moon looks through the pane,
Under that shred the splendid dead are marshalled once again,
And hear the guns in the desert, and see the lines on the hill,
And follow the steel of the lance and feel that England is England still. [page 25] 


When, for a passing hour, Rome’s manly sway
Felt the sharp shock of Cannae’s adverse day,
Forum and field and Senate house were rent
With cries of—Not misgiving nor lament;
Only of men contending, men who said
Purchase the spot on which the victor stood.
Legion on legion sprang up from the ground,
Gleamed through the land, then over ocean wound,
Till Scipio’s eagles swarmed on Afric’s shore
And Carthage perished, to insult no more.

Not less resolved than Rome, now England stands,
Facing foul fortune with unfaltering hands;
Through her vast realm is neither fear nor feud,
But calm in strength and steeled in fortitude.
She fills the gaps of death with eager life
That will not lag nor haggle in the strife,
Till, having backward rolled the lawless tide
Of trusted treason, tyranny and pride,
Her flag hath brought, inflexible as fate,
Charter of Freedom to a fettered state.

Alfred Austin.


Britannia, armed, goes forth to war
To fling aside a half-closed door.
She bears the blazoned British shield,
And none but her that spear can wield.
Come! Who will follow, who will ride,
For England’s honor, at her side?

Sons of Britannia! You shall fight
Not solely for your country’s right;
Wise-ruling Peace’s life is made
The guerdon of our rescuing blade,
Not for your heritage alone—
For progress, fainting on her throne. [page 26] 

The corn-seed dies to yield the ear,
By Death comes Life in higher sphere,
Fear not to die! The best we give
Shall rear the best—die we, or live—
As fell the heroes of our race
That we might live to fill their place.

God is not mocked! His law shall run,
His chariot wheels are rolling on,
Who dares to stay them? Let us stand
To clear the path—a steadfast band.
As we have dealt, in ages past,
Oh, Lord! deal Thou with us, at last!

“London Chronicle.”


See Britannia’s wandering brood
   Call’d from various realms afar,
Staunch of heart, and stern of mood,
   Mustering in the pomp of war!
What stirs the Sea-Queen’s blood to-day?
Why marshals she her proud array?

Not for desert pastime these,
   With their fix’d and flaming eyes;
Not in sport they cross’d the seas,
   Dar’d the glare of Afric’s skies;
Why, then, do the bold roamers come
To camp and trench, from hearth and home?

Heard ye not that ruthless men,
   While the sated Lion slept,
Tow’rd her lone, unguarded den,
   Over veldt and kople crept,
Intent, while yet supine she lay,
To bear a weaning cub away?

But behold the spoiler’s hand
   Scarce had touch’d the struggling limb,
When amid that robber band
   Rose the Lion stark and grim;
And with a roar of rage and pride
Summon’d her offspring to her side. [page 27]

These are they; regard them well;
   Blanch’d of snows, and bronz’d with sun;
Needless here the tale to tell
   Of the deeds that race hath done.
Now in good sooth the Boer will feel
A foeman worthy of his steel.

What must, then, the issue be?
   Will the raider backward crawl?
Nay! too late to turn and flee—
   One must stand, and one must fall.
And ‘gainst the might of fang and claw
What can avail you appears of straw?

Robert Reid, Montreal.


O! Proudly I’ll sing, till the far echoes ring, of my Native Land,
Go! Sail the Main, you’ll search in vain, for one so grand;
‘Tis the home of the Beaver, the Maple Leaf,—Pray! excuse, if you don’t admire,
The keen fervor which runs thro’ Canadian Sons of our Great Empire.


          For—As a British subject I was born, so, a British subject will I die,
          For, could I own the Earth, I’d count it nothing worth,
          Till on ev’ry hand, I saw the grand
                    Old British Flag on high.

From the great Rockies’ crest, whereon Eagles nest, o’er dark defiles,
To the East and West, see Nature dress’d, and wreath’d in smiles;
They have titled our Land “The Lady of Snows,” which hath almost rous’d our ire,
As a blessing Snow comes to Canadian Sons of our Great Empire.

[page 28]

O! Our beautiful Land, ‘tis great and it’s grand, ‘tis the best on Earth;
‘Tis a haven of health, and its mineral wealth doth attest its worth,
Just gaze on our limitless grain-bearing fields, which are all that our farmers desire,
Golden grain’s golden funds for Canadian Sons of our Great Empire.


Songs of triumph we’ll raise, to honour and praise, (till life expires,)
They who fought, and bled, where duty led, Our Conq’ring Sires,
Like them too we’ll fight, and Britannia’s foe smite, with the old-time vigour and fire,
Till he dies, yields, or runs from Canadian Sons of Our Great Empire.


          For—As true British subjects we were born,
                    So true British subjects will we die,
                    For could we own the Earth,
                    We’d count it nothing worth,
                    Till, on ev’ry hand, we saw the grand
                    Old British Flag on high.
Drum-Major W. R. Boyd, 5th Royal Scots of Canada, Montreal.


The man’s voice broke as he gently spoke
   To the mother-eyes serene;
Yours to command, and yours to love,
   In past days I have been.
And yours with love I always am,
   Though sees may roll between;
Not yours, this year, to command, my dear,
   For I’ve sworn to serve the Queen.

Yet ere he went where the Queen has sent,
   Her servants brave and free,
He spoke a word for a maid to hear,
   And he now belongs to three;
Three who shall guide where’er he roves,
   On the veldt or on the sea,
Who pray to-night for our soldier bright,
   His mother, the Queen, and me.

Clytie. [page 29]

To the Canadian Transvaal Contingent.

Embark, sail hence, Canadian lads, like Britishers of yore;
Speed on, a strong true-hearted band, to face the unjust Boer,
When danger lurks ‘gainst Motherland who said that you were weak?
Who said, when others stood to strike, that our stout sons were meek?
Now let’s unite in strength and might, and thus the nations show,
That every voice in this land bids defiance to the foe!

In days of yore bold Britons bled for freedom dearly bought;
These heroes gave on land and wave their lives; and thus they taught
That when our day of duty came, we’d watch with jealous care
The foes that stand menacing Britain’s Empire, now so fair!
Then let’s unite in strength and might, and thus all nations show
That every voice in this land bids defiance to the foe!



The following verses, translated from a longer rhyme in Norwegian, are addressed to Britannia’s ‘eagle,’ by Kristofer Randers:

You now meet with disaster on field after field,
   Your warriors have fallen and died,
And the ocean you rule is of no help to you.
   Where your soldiers now fight side by side;
And they all watch their chance, they who wish for your fall,
   Just because your great power then defies,
And from Seine, Rhine, and Neva, and Spree can be heard,
   A chorus of threatening cries.

But you stand there as firm as a rock ‘gainst the storm,
   All lashed by the spray and the foam,
And there fell not one leader, nor sounded one voice,
   Breathing doubt or despair in your home,
No—calmly you answered. We have not commenced,
   And by Patience we’ll win our reward,
Though a year shall pass by, and the country’s dawn
   Be hailed by the clash of the sword! [page 30]


In Canada, the freedom,
     Which Britons love so well,
Fills every heart with gladness
     Makes every bosom swell.
So, raise aloft your voices!
     Invoke the heavenly powers
To bless our fair Dominion,—
     This Canada of ours!


Then raise aloft your voices!
     Invoke the heavenly powers
To bless our fair Dominion,—
     This Canada of ours!

In Canada, the toiler
     Has scope for honest toil,
Her waters, plains, and forests,
     Her mines below the soil,
Send forth their bounteous harvests;
     While sunshine, frosts and showers
Chase o’er our vast Dominion,—
     This Canada of ours.


In Canada, we firmly
     Stand up—as Britons should,—
The foremost in the cause of right
     Of truthfulness and good.
And when our gracious Sovereign
     Needs to increase her powers,
She confidently, then, can trust
     This Canada of ours.


James Crankshaw, B.C.L., Montreal.


The Christmas bells ring out again
Their “peace on earth, good-will toward men.”
Peace! and there soundeth from afar
The tumult of a mighty war. [page 31] 
O mother England o’er the sea!
Thy daughter’s Christmas gift to thee
Is strong men armed for ample serving,
To show my loyalty unswerving.

My land is rich in stalwart sons,
I’ve picked for thee my choicest ones;
Those without blemish in my eyes,
Of them I make the sacrifice.
I give the best I have to give,
I send them forth—to die or live—
Forth, where the free of war are burning,
I speak no word of the lads returning.

Disheartening rumors still are rife,
Come sickening tales of loss of life;
Long, long grows Britain’s roll of fame
With many a loved and cherished name
Of heroes who will never come
To hear their country’s welcome home!
We thrill to the martial deeds, with wonder,
All honor to those who sleep out yonder!

There must, there shall be victory!
But still there comes that glorious day
I wait with fears I cannot tell,
I loved my lads so well, so well.
God rest the feet that dare not tire,
God guide the eyes that look through fire,
Steady the hands—until the story
Rings round the world to Britain’s glory.

Mrs. Eiffie L. Forster, Toronto.


“Whose heart did not swell with the pride of patriotism, when he learned from the bravery of our Boys in the field, a new power had arisen in the West.”—Ringing words from the lips of Premier Laurier.

“A new Power has arisen in the West,”
     Triumphant hath its rapid progress been,
     Betwixt the Seats; whose valour, lately seen
     On Africa’s veldts, withstood the trying test. [page 32] 
Of steel and shell, with England’s fighters best:
     God-speed, safe back, fresh “Soldiers of the Queen,”
     But, yester, treading paths of Peace serene.
     Tomorrow, war! “Strathcona Horse” abreast!
Under the banners of Victoria,
     By the storm’d trenches where the Boers dwelt,
     Our brave Boys have already fought and won;
All worthy their great Mother, Canada,
     Blent with the blood of loyal Scot, and Celt,
     Sprung from the loins of France and Albion.

Dr. A. H. Chandler, Cocagne, N.B.


The battle cry is sounding,
   And forth to the war men go,
From comforts and peace surrounding
   To danger, distress and woe;
To horrors of death appalling,
   They march and we say, ‘God-speed’!
For they answer their country’s calling
   In the hour of her direst need.

They murmur not, nor daily,
   But volunteer over the world;
Around the standard they rally
   To keep it aloft unfurled,
For banner and Queen and nation
   They fight, for their country’s good,
Glory, promotion or station,
   For Britain as Britons should.

But what of the other story,—
   The suffering, the dead, the loss,
Dark shadow of war’s great glory,
   Her Crown is the nation’s cross.
Sons, husbands, fathers and brothers,
   Whom vic’try can ne’er restore,
The weeping of wives and mothers
   For those who return no more. [page 33] 

The love of freedom inspiring,
   For boundary of land, or fame,
Nation on nation firing
   To slaughter, despoil or maim.
Nay God, in His grace abounding,
   Heal hearts that grow sad and sore,
Soon, the noise of the battle sounding
   Be heard in our land no more.

Katherine A. Clarke, Toronto.


     Though-museled Canuck,
Blend of Gailic fire and British pluck,
   I love thee best of all the free,
   I pledge my fullest glass to thee,
           Here’s luck.

     No man hath seen
A better home than thine where’er he’s been,
   Lord of the Northland, thou art made
   With a soul in thee like a temper’d blade,
          Bright and keen.

     Long life and joy
To thee my tough Canuck—thou best alloy
   Of pioneer and hero blood,
   Thou foremost lad o’er field and flood,
          Britain’s boy.


Mother and Queen, from the golden West,
We offer in love at the foot of thy throne,
All we can give thee, our dearest and best,
Flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone,—
Take them, Queen of the brave and free,
They come in their love to die for thee. [page 34] 

Mother and Queen, from farm and mart,
From bank and factory, hill and plain,
They gather in love for a noble Heart,
To lighten its sorrow and bear its pain,
Take them, Queen of the brave and free,
They come in their love to die for thee.

Mother and Queen of the spotless throne,
Lady and Lord of the sea and land,
Thou makest our far-born sons thine own
By the tender clasp of a woman’s hand,—
Take them, Queen of the brave and free,
They come in their love to die for thee.

Revd. Frederick George Scott, Quebec.


Art thou among my children?
Then hearken to my call,
Thy brothers wait upon thee,
Now hasten lest they fall.

The bond of Empire binds thee;
The ties of blood are thick.
Answer before thine own sons,
But let thy aid be quick. [page 35] 

Mother of mighty Empire
Thou callest not in vain.
We of thy womb have hearkened,
And we respond again.

Canada’s sons are thy sons,
Loyal are they to each.
Witness O God of battles
The lesson this will teach.

A unit when foe threatens,
Resistless is our might.
The call to arms we answer,
Shoulder to shoulder fight.

The bond that binds us ever,
The flag that flies on high,
We glory in as Britons;
For it we’ll fight and die.

Send to our brothers greeting,
Bid them be of good heart.
Brothers to brothers hasten,
Only in death to part.

G. M. Fairchild, Jr., Quebec.


They have gone with a people’s hopes and prayers,
Out over the eastern brine,
To strike for the might of Britain’s right,
This bit of “the thin red line.”

They have gone by danger of flood and field,
As their brave sires went of yore,
To fight and bleed for the world’s great need,
As Britons have bled before.

To slay or be slain for the loved old flag,
In the cause of the just and true—
To stand for the right of common earth
And the heaven’s open blue. [page 36] 

And over our loyal land to-night,
Where the stars of our freedom shine,
From all true hearts the prayer goes up
For our bit of “the thin red line.”

They have gone to fight the freeman’s fight,
For our far off kith and kin;
Brothers of our own blood and breed,
In the fight where the right must win;

For the sacred cause of freedom’s laws,
To win the glad release,
Of those who tread ‘neath tyrannies dread,
And widen the gates of peace.

And shame on the soul on British soil,
Where the stars of freedom shine,
Who will not pray in his heart to-night
For our bit of “the thin red line.”

We send them forth from our, “True North,”
For sacred bond and sign,
That well or ill, to the great brave end,
We are Britons from brine to brine—

And whenever the Lion’s hunters are out,
And danger threatens his lair,
Be the world on this side, he on that,
Canadian hearts are there—

And stand or fall, though we go to the wall,
Canadian hearts are true,
Not only to stand for our own birth land,
But to die for the Empire too.

Yea, we send them forth, from our “True North.”
Sons of the Empire’s might—
And alien the heart that will not pray
For our soldier-boys to-night.

Yea, traitor the heart that takes our bread,
And drinks our free sunshine,
That will not throb when the battle joins,
For our bit of “the thin red line.”

W. Wilfred Campbell, Ottawa. [page 37]


Hush thee, O turbulent wind of the north!
   Cease thy wild, treacherous play;
Curb thy fleet steeds in their rockless career,
   Flecked with the white ocean spray!

Rest thee, fierce pulse of the clamorous deep!
   Calm the mad pranks of thy wave!
Guard thou the vessel where, dreaming to-night,
   Sleep the chosen of Canada’s brave.

Shine o’er them tenderly, pale stars of night;
   Though vallant soldiers they be.
Bless the young hearts that are dreaming of home,
   Out on the lone-tossing sea!

Lead them, thou glorious flag of the free,
   To hasten as Empire’s joy!
Cheer the sad hearts that are waiting at home
   News of their brave soldier boy.

Miss Margaret Evans, Hampton, N.B.


Sons of a clime where freedom reigns,
   And brethren breathe alike God’s air;
Go! Break forever serfdom’s chains,
   And hunt each hell hound from his lair.
What tho’ a varied host you seem,
   Shoulder to shoulder firmly stand?
What heart may face your rifles’ gleam,
   Or test your skill of eye and hand?

Great ocean calm your swelling waves
   And keep your fierce winds in your hold;
No Viking marshalls here his slaves!
   To waste your shores, or grasp men’s gold;
Our sons, tho’ arm’d, are arm’d for peace,
   The knife the periled limb must save;
Where’er they tread, mens’ wrongs, shall cease,
   And up shall spring the trodden slave. [page 38] 

And when loud swells the battle’s din,
   And shot and shell rend earth and sky,
Our thoughts for you will rise to Him,
   Who sends our meed from heavens high,
While mothers, sisters, sweethearts pray,
   And mingle with each prayer a sigh,
Your Fathers aye will proudly say,
   We know our boys will “Do or die.”

May Afric troubles cease to toss;
   May Cape and Cairo dayspring see;
Till all beneath the “Southern Cross”
   Raise one grand song of liberty!

Revd. Duncan Anderson, Monymusk, Que.


Our lads go forth—like knights of old
   To arid plains, o’er sturging sea,
Led by no lust of hireling gold
   But love of sacred liberty!
Our sea-girt mother-isle, from far,
   Summons her children,—scattered wide;
They spring,—as wakes the note of war,
   To fight for freedom, at her side!
          They hasten, at her call,
               To battle, in our name!
               Resound the loud acclaim,
          God shield them—one and all! 

We follow on, with thought and prayers,
   In the rich-freighted vessel’s wake,
Through northern chill, through tropic airs—
   Oh winds, blow softly for her sake!
She bears the hopes of hearts that bleed
   With parting pangs, with aching fears;—
Oh hear our Canada’s God-speed!
   Thou who must lead, where duty steers!
          They go, at duty’s call
                    To battle, in our name;—
                    Resound the loud acclaim;—
          God shield them,—one and all! [page 39] 

What peaceful years essayed to do
   Crisis and sorrow swift complete,—
Stir our wide Empire through and through,
   Till, with one throb, her pulses beat!
From pine-crowned hill and sun-baked strand,
   From Queen and peasant,—cot and hall,—
One yearning breathes from land to land,—
   God guard our warriors,—one and all!
          They go at Britain’s call,
                    To battle in her name,
                    Resound the loud acclaim,
          God guard them—one and all!

Oh God of battles,—Truth and Right,
   Who seest, as no mortal may,—
Whose hand can guide through passion’s night,
   To dawning of a glorious day;—
Grant victory, as Thou seest best,—
   Melt hate to love,—till slaughter cease,—
Lay sword in sheath, and lance in rest,
   And bring our wanderers home in peace!
          They go, at Britain’s call
                    To battle in our name,—
                    Resound the loud acclaim,—
          God guard them—one and all!

Miss Agnes Maule Mackar, (“Fidelis”) Kingston.


Lord Ernest Hamilton contributes these few lines to the Pall Mall Gazette under the above title.

“Canada, Australia, we stock of a Northern land,
Are stiff, and reserved, and proud, and the words that we speak are few;
But we took you straight in the face, and we grip your outstretched hand,
And God deal so with us, as we deal, in your need, with you.” [page 40] 


Thunder of guns on the mainland,
   Trooping of ships on the sea,
Hissing of shot and screaming of shells,
   What may this tumult be?
Look! from the north and the south;
   See! from the east and the west,
An Empire’s sons, from every clime,
   Are touched by a strange unrest. 

Thunder of guns on the mainland,
   Speeding of ships from far;
Sons of the Empire, oust and west,
  Are one in the strife of war.
East and west in the strife are they,
   One in the contest joined;
And the lagging world looks after them,
   From the lowlands far behind.

Thunder of guns on the mainland,
   Trooping of ships at sea,
Hissing of shot and screming of shell,
   Boom out the century;
For east and west are one in the strife
   When the war-drum bents alarms;
And an Empire’s sons, from every clime,
   Shall meet the world in arms.

Revd. R. Newell, Markdale, Ont. [page 41]


We come, Britannia, at thy call,
Whig and Tory, Colt and Gaul,
A surried square, a mitred wall,
     Of British subjects we.

We come from Abraham’s ancient plain,
From Queenston Heights and Lundy’s Lane
And as we march on our refrain,
     Is loyalty in Thee. [page 41] 

And, as at Ogdensburg of yore,
Allegiance, priest and pastor swore,
And crucifix and broad claymore
     Did vie in Loyalty.

Even so to-day, we firmly stand,
All creeds and classes, hand in hand,
As loyal to the Motherland,
     In sweet community.

A thousand strong, we represent
The might of half a continent,
In aim and inspiration blent,
     Britannia, one with Thee.

In sinews of expanding girth,
The peer of any power on earth;
Of thew, or heart, or life, the worth,
     We hold it all for Thee.

Britannia nursed us as her breast,
Our infancy, her hand caressed,
Our every wrong, her love redressed
     With tenderest agony.

From tutelage she taught the way
To nationhood’s self-conscious away;
And shall we not, in part, repay
     This love-wrought legacy?

Stout champion of freedom’s ward,
Of righteous laws defender, guard,
Despoiler of the despot’s shard,
     Empire, we come to thee.

Empire of peaceful arts, the home,
We stand beneath thine ancient dome.
And help roll back in broken foam
     Each storm that threatens Thee.

Now frantic nations in mad hate
Defiance loud hurt at thy gale,
And jealous of thy high estate;
     Empire, we come to Thee. [page 42] 

All one, in heritage and heart,
In travail thou, in reins we smart,
Whatever fate may be thy part,
     We stand or fall with Thee.

The first in all thy vast domains,
And thine own valor in our veins,
To purge the earth of serfdom stains,
     Empire, we come to Thee.

Thy burdens we take up and bear,
That in thy triumphs we may share,
And proudly show what we can dare,
     Empire, for love of Thee.

And, if the worst come to the worst,
And powers in concert on thee burst,
Our blood shall quench their hellish thirst,
     Or e’er we yield or flee.

Lord God of Hosts, her sun and shield,
No power on earth can make her yield,
Or force Britannia from the field
     Of proud supremacy.

God bless our country and our Queen,
God grant us peace, broad-based between
A suffrage wise and conduct clean,
     Our prayer shall ever be.

Revd. P. M. McEachern, Waterdown, Ont.


We’ve rallied round the old flag, we leave our native land.
          Singing our own Canadian war song.
We’re going to help old England on Afric’s sunny strand,
          Ringing our own Canadian war song.


          The Empire forever—the flag all so scarred,
          Our brothers are calling, we haste to their aid;
And we’ll fight beneath the old flag for which our fathers fought,
          Singing our own Canadian war song. [page 43] 

Let the God of battle hearken, we march to meet the foe.
          Singing our own Canadian war song,
And joined with brother Atkins the Boers we’ll overthrow.
          Singing our own Canadian war song.


          The Empire forever—the flag all so scarred,
          Our brothers are calling, we haste to their aid;
And we’ll fight beneath the old flag for which our fathers fought,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.

We’ll fight like British soldiers, our honor we’ll defend,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.
Our bullets they will whistle—we’re in it to the end,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.


          The Empire forever—the flag all so scarred,
          Our brothers are calling, we haste to their aid;
And we’ll fight beneath the old flag for which our fathers fought,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.

When the fighting all is ended, and we are home once more,
          Singing our own Canadian war song,
The bond of Empire strengthened—we’re loyal to the core,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.


          The Empire forever—the flag all so scarred,
          Our brothers are calling, we haste to their aid;
And we’ll fight beneath the old flag for which our fathers fought,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.

When the fighting all is ended, and we are home once more,
          Singing our own Canadian war song,
The bond of Empire strengthened—we’re loyal to the core,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.


          The Empire forever—the flag all so scarred,
          Our brothers are calling, we haste to their aid;
And we’ll fight beneath the old flag for which our fathers fought,
          Singing our own Canadian war song.

G. M. Fairchild, Jr., Quebec.


There’s a cry upon the air
From a land supremely fair,—
A cry for British justices and fair play;
There, oppression, growing bold,
Ever grasps a firmer hold
Of air ‘Outlanders’ rights, they say. [page 44] 
But, the whole world must know,
That ‘Our Lady of the Snow,’
Could not listen to such a cry for aid;
And cold and heartlessly,
Her blood relations, see
Pierc’d by a floers’ savage blade.

Though it’s truly a ‘far-cry,’
And there’s chance for some to die,—
She bids her bravest sons to arm,
And boldly cross the sea,
To make those Boers flee
Ere they can do much harm.

Her stalwart sns, so bold;
Young, middle-aged, and old,—
Are prearing in haste for the fray;
But they are not all required,
Though with martial glory fired,
Some heroes at home must stay.

But those, that cross the main,
When they return again,
We’ll crown their heads with laurel green.
For we know they’ll win the day,
And end oppression’s sway,
To the glory and the honor of our Queen.

But we, old ‘vets,’ that remain,
Will sing the old refrain,—
“Rule Britannia, Britain rules the waves,”
Till the song on echo’s pinion
Flies the length of this Dominion—
“Oh, Britons never shall be slaves!”

W. H. Cox, Granby, Que.


To arms! to arms! all England’s sons rise up from east and west;
What matter if a thousand guns are pointed at the breast?
For Britons never will be slaves, oppressors, or oppressed! [page 45] 

Rise up! rise up! heroic race, the bravest of the earth;
For matrons stern, with noble hearts, were they that gave thee birth;
And many a sire his blood hath shed to prove his nation’s worth.

Quail not! quail not! what matters it though thousand foes advance;
Remember how the Dervish horde was pierced by British lance;
Remember too the “thin, red, line” that marked the fall of France!

To arms! to arms! for mother land, and strike the deadly blow!
Let crimson blood wash hill and dale, and stain the ocean’s flow!
And down with him who furls he flag or lays the Empire low!

Strike for the flag, the glorious flag, that waves o’er land and sea,
Stand man to man in sterried rank, for God will side with thee!
A thousand suns may rise and set, but still on England free!

To arms! to arms! brve Albion’s sons, rise up from east and west!
What matter if a thousand guns are pointed at the breast?
The British race shall still remain thrice-happy and thrice-blest!

R. H. Phillimore, M.D., Cookshire Que.


O God, Creator, look not down
In wrath upon Thy creatures’ strife,
Pity our frames of dust, and bring
Some good from out this “life for life.”

Thou ridest on the beams of light,
And markest scenes of woe and death.
Where man his fellow’s blood doth spill,
And triumphs in his latest breath.

O Thou, from whom all good doth spring
Author of Justice, Truth and Right,
O’ershadow, with protecting wing,
Our brothers, foremost in the fight.

Guard each as precious in Thy sight,
The lives Thou gavest, safely hide
Within the hollow of Thy hand,
Till Peace shall reign and Right preside.

Miss Margaret Howe Pennington, Halifax. [page 46]


          Father, I call on Thee;
Belching guns shroud me in vapor and fume,
Death’s awful lightning’s fast flash in the gloom,
Ruter of Battles, I call on Thee;
          Father, oh! guide Thou me.

          Father, oh! guide Thou me;
Lead me to victory, or to death in the strife,
Lord, I avow Thee, Thou Sovereign of Life!
Lord, as Thou will, then, oh! guide Thou me;
          God, I confess but Thee.

          God, I confess but Thee:
As in the whisp’ring of leaves in the night,
So in the thuder and storm of the fight,
Fountain of Grace! I perceive but Thee;
          Father, then, bless Thou me.

          Father, then bless Thou me;
Into Thy hands, my poor life, I resign;
Thou canst recall it; all life is Thine;
Living or dying, oh! bless Thou me;
          Father, I worship Thee.

          Father, I worship Thee;
This is no conflict for earthly lust, O Lord,
Man’s sacred rights, we adjust by the sword;
Dying or conquering, I bow to Thee;
          Father, I yield to Thee.

          Father, I yield to Thee;
Stricken be I, by the lightning of Death,
Gushing my heart’s blood, and falling my breath,
Receive me, Jehovah!——I yield is Thee;
          God! I appeal to Thee!

W.A. Wanless, Sergt., R.C.A., London, Ont. [page 47]


Lord, God, who long hast been our shield—
Than Whom there is no higher Power—
Our homage now to Thee we yield,
   Lord, guide us in dread battle’s hour,
Give us, we pray, Thy guiding light,
That we may tread the path of Right.

Our loved Empire is at war,
   And we believe our cause is just;
O Thou Who guidest every star!
   In Thee alone we put our trust,
Lord God of battles, if Thou wilt,
Our blood in vain shall not be spilt.

Our fight we know is Freedom’s own,
   In Freedom’s cause we draw the blade;
To overthrow the tyrant’s throne
   We now implore Thy mighty aid,
Lord, if we fight for golf or greed,
Grant us that we may not succeed.

The stubborn prejudice and hate,
   The selfish pride of race and creed,
The tyranny of small and great,
   On men of our own British breed;
Does not all this a cause afford
For drawing now the Empire’s sword?

Our children, through the tedious years,
   Have borne too long oppression’s frown;
Now when bright Liberty appears,
   And Thou hast cast the despot down,
O King of king and Lord or lords,
Let us not use vain boastful words!

Lord God! be Thou our Empire’s guide
   Its peace and war, in calm and strife;
Shoulder by shoulder, side by side,
   Give us the strength to guard her life.
Thro’ luring light and darkness deep,
O Lord, Thy chosen Empire keep!

W. F. Wiggins, Toroonto. [page 48]

To the 1st Canadian contingent on their departure from Quebec.

Good-bye, Canadians. On far Afric’s strand,
   You’ll be the warders of a coutry’s pride;
   On you—whatever good or ill betide—
Depends the honor of your native land.

Your every act an Empire’s eyes will see;
   Upon your courage rests a people’s fame;
   In foreign climes ‘tis yours to guard a name—
Blood bought on Abram’s plain—for chivalry.

We wish you God-speed all your mission through;
   We pray that fortune may your steps attend;
Our hearts are with you in whate’er you do;
   We know full well our trust you will defend.
Brothers, adieu! an earnest, warm adieu!
In life,—in death—to Canada be true.

George Graham Currie.

“The Queen grieved continually over the terrible loss of life in South Africa.”—(London Paper).

“The love of all thy people, comfort thee,”
   Thy sweetest poet voiced the lender thought,
And would repeat it, had he lived to see
   The sorrow that the closing year has brought
Upon thy royal heart; as each sad day
   Thou mourn’st thy dead and dying, nor canst be
Won over to forgetfulness, yet may
   The love of all thy people comfort thee.

The love of all thy people, in thine isles
   They toiled for peace and prayed for it though strong
Their cause, fearless their hearts, they yearned that smiles,
   Not tears, should be thy portion all day long.
And those who die to keep thine Empire whole,
   And all within its borders, safe, and free,
Pray, even in the passing of the soul,
   Almighty God to bless and comfort thee. [page 49] 

And we, in those new lands, thou hast not seen,
   Strong, proud, free children of the South or West,
After our God, we reverence thee, our Queen,
   And offer our heart’s-dearest and our best;
And each would make thy heavy grief his own,
   So that thou mightiest from the weight be free;
May this rich warmth of love about thee thrown,
   This love f all thy people, comfort thee.

Miss Sarah E. Srigley, Britainville, Ont. [page 50]


Dear old England! we are thine,
     Thine in peace or war,
Sons, who for thy glory shine
     E’en in battle sore,
Strike, for liberty for others,
     As in days of old,
We are Britons, men and brothers,
     “What we have we’ll hold.”

Mother country! to thy need
     Swift thy children fly,
Equal freedom still our creed,
     Dare to do and die,
For the love of home and ntion
     Not for gain or gold,
We but fight for thy salvation,
     “What we have we’ll hold.”

Miss Katherine A. Clarke, Toronto.


Lo, how they come to me,
   Long through the night I call them,
Ah, how they turn to me.

East and South my children scatter,
North and West the world they wander, [page 50] 

Yet they come back to me,
   Come with their brave hearts beating,
Longing to die for me.

Me, the gray, old, weary mother,
Throned amid the Northern waters,

Where they have died for me,
   Died with their songs around me,
Girding my shores for me.

Narrow was my dwelling for them,
Homes they builded o’er the ocean.

Yet they leave all for me,
   Hearing their mother calling,
Bringing their lives for me.

Far from South seas swiftly sailing,
Out from under stars I know not,

Come they to fight for me,
   Sons of the sons I nurtured,
God keep them safe for me.

Long ago their fathers saved me,
Died for me among the heather.

Now they come back to me,
   Come, in their children’s children,
Brave of the brave for me.

In the wilds and wave they slumber,
Deep they slumber in the deserts,

Rise they from graves to me,
   Graves where they lay forgotten,
Shades of the brave for me.

Yet my soul is veiled in sadness,
For I see them fall and perish.

Strewing the hills for me,
   Claiming the world is dying,
Bought with their blood for me. [page 51] 

Hear the gray, old Northern mother,
Blessing now her dying children,—

God keep ye safe for me,
   Christ watch ye in your sleeping,
Where ye have died for me.

And when God’s own slogan soundeth,
All the dead world’s dust awaking,
Ah, will ye look for me?
   Bravely we’ll stand together,
I and my sons with me.

L. MacLean Watt.—The Spectator, London.


Is this the North Wind sweeping down to snap the storm-bent pine,
Or the South Wind whirling spindrift from Fuego to the Line?
No! East or West, fling out your best against the sea cliff sheer;
Far clearer than your storm-wind is the call that greets us here.

Where’er the Three Cross Banner waves the summons roll,
From mountain crest to river bed, from Tropic to the Pole.
It floats out o’er the lonely veldt, across the prairie grass;
It strikes the busy merchants ear where hurrying thousands pass;
Then crashing o’er the granite peak, it bids the billman come;
The stockman gathers from the plain, the dalesman from his home.
Men hear it in the workshop as it echoes down the street,
It stirs the ready hand to arm, the loyal heart to beat,
It peals o’er the desert waste, it thunders o’er the flood,
The Free Land’s call to Free Men to the Children of the Blood.

Where’er that brave old Banner flaunts our Triple Cross on high,
Where’er the Lion’s cubs are reared, rings out the stern reply,—
“We hear thy voice, Great Mother, and we answer to thy call,
The offspring of thy mighty loins, spread o’er the seagirt ball.
We stand with thee in union,—Lord God, be Thou our guide,
Wield Thou the Sword of Justice, but this link let none divide!
We bring our lives, a free gift, fr the land all freemen love,
For liberty and equal law, our charter from above.”
And as, when dark clouds low red of old, our Fathers grimly stood,
So now, before the Nations, stand the Children of the Blood.

C. M. to London, “Speaker.” [page 52]


The following verses were found in the tunic pocket of a trooper in the Impertial Yeomanry, killed in a South African skirmish. They were in a girl’s handwriting.

Your way lies over the hillside,
   Out in the rain and sleet;
Out in the world’s wide turmoil,
   Where bustle and business meet.
But mine by the noiseless fireside,
   Where the fanciful embers glow
With a changeful, life-like motion—
   Kiss me before you go.

My quiet way will be haunted
   With visions none others can see,
Glance more precious than diamonds,
   Smiles full of meaning to me.
The sound of a welcome footstep,
   A whisper thrillingly low.
Ah, thought will clasp memory closely!
   Kiss me before you go.

For this world is full of mischances,
   And one of those chances may fall
That we ne’er again in the firelight
   Make one shadow upon the wall,
Oh, thence, once more in parting—
   Alas! that it must be so—
Leave me a fond benediction—
   Kiss me before you go.


We have lent to our country all
   (Well knowing, well counting the cost),
By her colours to stand or fall,
   The Treasures we held to the most. [page 53] 

In the sigh of our wak’ning breath,
   In the sob of our nightly prayer,
We know, to the portals of death,
   Our brave ones will do or dare.

And the wires of fate have in charge
   The tidings for which we sicken,
Whether terrors our hearts enlarge,
   Or fond hopes our pulses quicken.

Ah! what shall be torn of to-day,
   Or what, then, brought forth to-morrow,
Is the care that has come to stay,
   The anxious thought, kin to sorrow.

‘Tis the link that in close-drawn band
   Anear brings us each unto each,
With helping hand held out to hand
   Its emotions too potent for speech.

If the lessons we’re learning to-day
   Were needed in truth and in deed,
To show us the narrow Gateway,
   And lead us therein to make speed.

Then, grant us to lay it to heart,
   Let, Father, Thy chastening cease,
Make foul fiends of war to depart,
   And send us white Angels of peace!

E. C. (Countess of) Cork.—Pall Mall Gazette.


Those left behind! Oh, hardest lot of all;
None of the fierce excitement of the fight;
Only the weary waiting for the news,
   The patient toil by day, the watch by night,
“Brave soldiers!” we have said, who saw them go,
   With stern, set faces, eager for the fray,
Bade them “God speed!” then turned us home again,
   To do our woman’s work to wait and pray. [page 54] 

To scan with anxious eyes the awful list,
   Which tells us who ere wounded, who are—dead,
And still do little deeds of tender love,
   In the hushed home from which all joy is fled.
They have gone forth to help the sore oppressed,
   We left behind, can still the labor share;
Theirs be the fierce excitement and the fight,
   Ours the strong wrestling on the Mount of Prayer!

Ellen M. Blunt.


With a rose in the rim of his fawn-colored hat,
   And a jingle of a sabre and spur,
A soldier rode by in the dawn and the dew
   Ere the village was scarcely astir,
The patter and clatter of sharp little hoofs
   Brought her into the window above;
Her eyes were as blue as the sky overhead,
   Unclouded by sorrow or love.

In the gold of the sunrise they halted below,
   Bay mare and brave rider, a space,
And her ‘kerchief dropped out as she leaned from the sill,
   A fragment of linen and lace.
He caught it in air on the point of his sword,
   And buttoned it under his blouse.
And cantered away, but drew rein on the hill,
   And turned to look back at the house.

While she dreamed of a soldier returning from war,
   To bait at her window again,
The mare sad her riner lay dead in the dust
   Where bullets were falling like rain!
And a comrade who passed in a moment of truce,
   Stopped over and covered his face
With a ‘kerchief be fum’d in the breast of his blouse,
   A fragment of linen and lace.

Minna Irving, in Leslie’s Weekly. [page 55]


When the day of battle is ended,
   And the cruel suspense is past;
When the hours of anguished waiting
   Are over for all at last.
Then those who are reunited
   Will offer their praise to God—
But the lad I have waited and longed for
   Lies, voiceless, under the sod.

There were many who climbed the hillside
   When they stormed the enemy’s post,
There was many a cheer outringing
   For the triumph of Britain’s host.
There were many who stood unwounded,
   Unharmed, at the set of sun,
But the lad I have waited and longed for,
   His day of battle was done.

Ere long—by many a fireside
   They will tell of that gallant fight,
They will praise those warrior heroes,
   The power of Britain’s might.
They will speak—with awestruck voices—
   Of their comrades among the slain—
But the lad I have waited and longed for
   Will speak to me never again.

You are dead for your Queen and your country;
   You are dead in your honor and pride!
You are dead that your brother soldiers
   Might rise with the trumpet-tide!
You have paid the price of their glory,
   As a soldier would wish to do—
Ah! but my lad that I’ve longed for
   My heart’s just breaching for you!

Dora Tickels.—The Queen. [page 56]

Told by One of the Forty-Third.

There are whispers in the canteen, there are whispers in the mess,
There are whispers where so’ever walked a lad in soldier dress,
Just another such a whisper as the one that grew and grew,
Till it burst in cannon’s thunder on the plains of Waterloo.

It was only just a murmur, but a murmur low and deep,
Like a lion’s angry growling when you rouse it from its sleep;
But it’s reached the golden Indies and the wild Canadian shore,
Bound to speak again in cannon, as the lion’s bound to roar.

And the burden of them whispers ran like this, “It’s bound to come;
Pull the Lion’s tail and wake him and you’ll find he isn’t dumb;
And if you want to work him up to action rougher still,
Rouse his mem’ry too, and whisper in his ear, ‘Majuba Hill!’

“We’ve been patient; don’t get talking foreign policy;
It is time our debt to settle, and what is to be will be.
We’ve had one bill receipted, just sent home from the Soudan,
And to settle up another we are ready to a man.”

Ay, it’s reached where’er our language makes the music of the breeze,
For I’ve just received a letter from a chum across the seas;
And he says, “We all are waiting with old England heart and hand
For to settle that account, boy, just received from Boerland.”

There was whispers in the canteen, there was whispers in the mess,
Till they found a vent in poetry, or we’d had to burst, I guess.
And we wrote a little ballad, an’ we all put in a word;
Here it is, “A British War-Song,” by the fighting Forty-Third.

There’s a blot upon our story,
   Say whate’er you will,
‘Tis that field of death and glory
   Called Majuba Hill.
There our vaunted pride was smitten—
   Unavenged as yet—
And the honest heart of Britain
   Burns to pay the debt. [page 57] 

Dark Majuba, yet how glorious
   Deeds that lit the fray!
What of him who held victorious
   Shot and shell at bay?
Ay! we’ve heard the story often,
   And we’ll hear it still,
How the flag of truce held Farmer
   On Majuba Hill.

Should be heard the loud war-rattle,
   What have we to fear?
There is music in a battle
   Unto Britons dear.
Dread and danger make us calmer,
   Strengthen heart and will.
Ay, there’s many a lad like Farmer
   In our Army still.

Who is he that comes a-looking
   Neither left nor right;
With the self-same mien he carried
   In the hottest fight?
Eyes of steel that match the fiery
   Gleam of cross and star;
Stern and sturdy, stiff and wiry
   Bobs of Candahar.

Who is he to fear a stranger,
   On, ‘mid shell and shot,
With a smile for death and danger—
   Who could daunt a Scot?
It is he whose sword made brightness
   In the dark Soudan;
Glorious and victorious Hector
   Of Macdonald’s clan.

Let the drums and trumpets rattle,
   Need we shrink away?
With such men to guide the battle
   Could we lose the day?
Nay, we would retrieve our honour,
   Fighting on until
Brightest boast upon our banner,
   Dark Majuba Hill. [page 58]

Now there ain’t a Rudyard Kipling in the fighting Forty-Third;
But it just expressed our feelings and our very souls is stirred;
For there’s something in the rumour of a war that seems to start
Into action the old Briton in the weakest English heart.

True, I know all men are brothers, or at least they ought to be,
But at bay we can’t help standing—we’re fighting family.

Kate Bishop (Kay Bee).


Hammers that beat and hands that weave
And brains that scheme and plan,
Hearts working out in hope and doubt
The destiny of man;
All these are found with the foam ringed round,
Where the circling pillows fall,
From the guardian sea that lips the key
That centres the British wall.

On floating bridges it spans the ridges
That seethe on soundless deeps,
To stretch its band o’er a northern land
From the dykes to the Rocky steeps—
In prairies broad, in forests dim,
By lakes and mountains tall,
The builders build with purpose grim
The grand, old British wall.

It spans the foam that beats like snow
On the coral-dotted sea.
To rise in tropic summer’s glow
On the isles of wild Fiji—
And dusky men by the palm and cane
Where the red-plumed parrots call
In the blistering beat of a torrid heat
Are building the British wall. [page 59] 

And down where the mighty Austral isles
Are set in the Southern sea,
Where the sheep graze wild
O’er the countless miles
And untold treasures be.
In darksome mines, on sunburnt plains,
They are building it straight and tall
And soldering good with their kindred blood
This tower of the British wall.

Where the tigers creep through the jungles deep;
‘Neath the snow of Himalay—
From the surf that roars on the Madras shores,
To the mute towers of Bombay;
There are millions baked by an Indian sun
Swarthy, and lithe and tall,
Who will prove in the reek of the foeman’s gun
True bricks in the British wall.

Where the Nile pours down her hundred rills;
Where Natal stands by the sea;
Where Capetown lies by the silent hills;
Ships peacefully riding a-lee.
Though the Boer may growl, and the Kaffir bark
And the Arab howling fall—
We have hemmed in a continental park
With the strength of the British wall.

A steep rock frowns by the narrowing flood
Of the Mediterranean blue;
Its guns have a scent for alien blood
On the war-ships steaming through.
There’s a sandy hill and a lonely isle
Where the waves of the Red Sea fall;
And Aden and Perim grimly smile;
“We are bricks in the British wall.”

Of various tongues and climes remote,
We have builded them everyone
In a solid line, no seas confine;
That knows no setting sun,
We have circled the world with a cordon brave.
And so braced are its girders all,
That the cannon’s shot and the dash of the wave
But strengthen the British wall. [page 60] 

So we say to the Frank and the Muscovite
And the Boer: “So be it known!
You may dash yourselves like a bird in flight
That strikes on a shaft of stone;
But while Freedom stands and men hate a lie,
While Justice reigns o’er all,
Your blood will but strengthen and beautify
The face of the British wall.”

“The Star,” Montreal.


This poem is from the “Natal Advertiser,” which will appeal to our readers. “We are not very big, but we have done our best for the honour of the Empire and the integrity of South Africa, and we ask for one favour, that the British and Colonial press will not imagine that Natal is a town in the Cape Colony any more.”

E. C. W., Natal.

She’s the smallest of the children
In the dear Old Lady’s shoe,
And yet the lass has shown the rest
The sort of thing to do;
For while they have been waiting,
Why, she’s knocked things into shape,
And shamed Miss Wacht-en-Beetje
And her cousins at the Cape.


She’s Britannia’s Piccaninny;
If she isn’t very big
She’s a Daughter of the Empire,
So she doesn’t care a fig,
Tho’ she landed in the front of it—
And bound to bear the brunt of it;
The grim and grisly brunt of it!

Natal! [page 61] 

She’s a plucky little midget,
If she doesn’t run to size,
And though she’s but a feather-weight
She’ll wipe the Dutchman’s eyes.
The way she peeled her jacket
Shows the good old fighting strain;
And what Britannia’s sons have done
Natal will do again!

When they told her men were wanted,
Well, she vowed she would be first,
And rolled her volunteers along;
Before the storm should burst;
So, while the Cape was wavering,
And kept her colors hid,
Natalia flung her flag aloft
And just sailed in and—‘did’!

Yes, we love this Piccaninny,
And will gather round her shield,
Sworn to keep her motto stainless
On the red and bloody field;
For she’s left her honour’s keeping
To her trusty Volunteers,
So they greet Natalia’s banner
With a storm of ringing cheers.


She’s Britannia’s Piccaninny;
If she isn’t very big,
She’s a Daughter of the Empire,
So she doesn’t care a fig.


   There is scarlet on the forehead,
   There are scars across his face,
‘Tis the bloody dew of battle dripping down, dripping down,
   But the war heart of the lion
   Turns to iron in its place, [page 62]
When he halts to face disaster, when he turns to meet disgrace,
Stung and keen and mettled with the life blood of his own,
   Let the hunters ‘ware who flout him
   When he calls his whelps about him,
When he sets the goal before him and he settles to the pace.

   Tricked and wounded! Are we beaten
   Though they hold our strength at play?
We have faced these things aforetimes, long ago, long ago,
   From sunlit Sydney Harbor
   And ten thousand miles away,
From the far Canadian forests to the sounds of Milford Bay,
They have answered, they have answered, and we know the answer now,
   From the Britons such as these,
   Strewn across the worldwide seas,
Come the rally and the bugle note that makes us one to-day.

   Beaten! Let them come against us,
   We can meet them one and all,
We have faced the world aforetimes, not in vain, not in vain.
   Twice ten thousand hearts we widowed,
   Twice ten thousand hearts may fall,
But a million voices answer: “We are ready for the call,
And the sword we draw for justice shall not see its sheath again,
   Nor our cannon cease to thunder
   Till we break their strength asunder
And the Lion’s whelps are round him and the Old Flag over all.”

Queensland, Australia News.


She hath raised her hand, the Island Queen,
For a brand’s been thrown in the Lion’s den,
And the answer’s borne by armed men,
Roll of drums and clatter of steel,
Champing of steeds and bugle peal,
A wall of sorrow and last good-night,
And cheers for those who go to fight,
          Children of the Queen. [page 63] 

She hath raised her hand, the Island Queen,
The black smoke foams from the funnel mouth
Of a flying squadron speeding south:
Free to the winds their pennants stream,
Where storm wreck drives and seabirds scream,
And the dawn sun kisses the muzzles grim
Of the war hounds leashed in the turrets dim,
          Children of the Queen.

She hath raised her hand, the Island Queen,
From a hundred hills a flood pours down
Of stern men clad in khaki brown,
Ghoorka, Afridi, Sikh, Sepoy,
Highlanders, heroes of Dargai,
Line of calvary, riflemen, guide,
Hurrying down to the trooper’s side,
          Children of the Queen.

She hath raised her hand, the Island Queen,
A cry comes up from the Austral land,
“We send our best for the Motherland”;
And Canada’s voice sweeps round the world,
Wherever the meteor flag’s unfurled,
“Saxon sired, full kin are we,
Bred by the Mistress of the Sea,”
          Children of the Queen.

She hath raised her hand, the Island Queen,
And Buller’s a hundred thousand men,
And standing behind them millions ten,
Or twenty if ever the need should be,
Ready to stand or fight or die,
With “Queen and Empire” battle cry,
          Children of the Queen.

She will raise her hand, the Island Queen,
And lightning seal the Maxim’s lips,
And peace flags float from a thousand ships,
When a stubborn foe is forced to yield.
And swords be sheathed on a reddened field;
“We have beaten you fair—Brave men are ye,
Go to your homes and henceforth be
          Children of the Queen.”

R. D. Meyers. [page 64]


The Empire’s drum is beating; its roll goes round the world,
To winds nor fair, nor fleeting, its banner stands unfurled.
The foeman, fierce and hating, behind his bastion stands,
In courage scarcely bating, the best of Britain’s bands.

The Empire’s hosts are mustering, on Afric’s burning veldts;
From the four winds are clustering, brave Anglo-Saxon Celts.
They come, free men, responding, to Britain’s martial call;
No craven hearts desponding, in dread of Britain’s fall.

Our forces face the foeman, repelled, they face him still;
They turn their back to no man, they stand with dogged will.
Though rocks and bullets stay them, they yet will gain the day,
No earthly power can bray them, they clench their teeth, they pray.

Old Britain’s heart is throbbing, with all the fire of youth;
Though crushed betimes, and sobbing, she fights for God and truth.
And truth will be prevailing; and God will speed the right;
The tyranny assailing, shall perish all despite.

Her power was never greater, she knows no panic fright;
She stands, though nations hate her, majestic in her might.
She calls. Her sons abounding, come over land and wave;
These are her walls surrounding, these will her honor save.

Rev. Andrew MacNab, Lucknow, Ont.


Throughout the long dull night the bivouac fires
   Gleam fitfully, while men in ambush creep
From rock to crevice, as the foe retires
   As stealthily beyond where sentries keep 
Their nightly vigil, and the long watch tires
   The weary eye forbidden now to sleep;
While the deep silence reigns, so soon to yield
To storm and tumult over camp and field. [page 65] 

And while in homes far off beyond the sea
   The mothers, wives, and sweethearts of the brave
Lift holy hands to Heaven imploringly,
   That He who notes the sparrow’s fall, may save
Each cherished one; yet Britons must be free,
   And freedom’sprice is havoc and the grave;—
And many a heart, with hope now beating fast,
Shall rot in foreign wilds when all is past!

Yet from that soil shall spring in after years
   A harvest of requital, such as brings
Joy to the reapers, when the mist of tears
   Has passed away for ever on the wings
Of fluttering darkness, and a day appears
   Of ceaseless progress, which imaginings 
Could never dream of, and which speaks release,
And boundless empire, and a world at peace.

Rev. J. R. Newell, Markdale, Ont.


The battle cry is sounding and forth to the war men go,
From comforts and peace surrounding, to danger, distress and woe,
To horrors of death appalling they march and we say “God-speed,”
For they answer their country’s calling, in the hour of her direst need.

They murmur not, nor daily, but volunteer over the world,
Around the standard they rally, to keep it aloft, unfurled,
For banner and Queen and nation, they fight for their country’s good,
Glory, promotion or station, for Britain as Britons should.

But what of the other story, the suffering, the dead, the loss,
Dark shadow of war’s great glory, her crown is the nation’s cross,
Sons, husbands, fathers and brothers, whom victory can ne’er restore,
The weeping of wives and mothers for those who return no more.

The love of country inspiring, for boundary of land, or fame,
Nations on nation firing, to slaughter, despoil or maim,
May God in His grace abounding, heal hearts that are sad and sore,
And the noise of the battle sounding, be heard in our land no more.

Miss Katherine Clarke, Toronto. [page 66]


          Southward are races set—
The stirring music of the marching feet,
That woke the nations with its rhythmic beat,
          Rings on the pavement yet.

          Across the earth and sea
A long line stretches—men and men and men;
We may not look upon the like again,
          Nor braver sight could be!

          Yonder among the guns,
The wine of life—and Britain knows its price—
Is poured out in a lavish sacrifice,
          Where fall her precious ones.

          This page of history—
Written in warriors’ blood and women’s tears;
Ending the mighty volume of the years,
          That make our century—

          Will be a tale sublime,
When the great empire-heart grows calm again;
Britannia’s eyes, through all this stress and pain,
          Look to that after-time.

Mrs. Effie I. Forster.


‘Tis Christmas Eve in Africa, and night holds silent sway.
The British troops are resting, after a long and weary day.
A soldier wrapt in slumber lay there dreaming of his home
In Canada’s far-off northern clime, across Atlantic’s foam.

* * * * * *

He once again is seated by his own endeared fireside,
Familiar forms surround him at this happy Christmas-tide.
The festooned room is gayly decked with wreaths of evergreen,
And holly boughs and mistletoe are deftly twined between. [page 67]

His dear old mother by the fire sits knitting in her chair;
Her loving features lighted by the pleasant ruddy glare.
And bending o’er the baby’s cot is his darling love and wife,
Whose winsome smiles have often smoothed the rugged path of life.

While gathered round their father’s chair, his chubby little boys
Can talk of naught but Santa Claus, and skates, and games, and toys.
When bed-time comes, they climb his knee, to kiss a fond “Good-Night,”
And hanging up their stockings, they retire in great delight.

Then how his heart is gladdened, as he decks to the Christmas tree,
And thinks of all the morrow’s joys, and the loud and childish glee.
While from without the merry peal of the joyous Christmas bells
Ring out anew “Good Will and Peace”; on the frosty air it dwells.

* * * * * *

He wakes; but hark, that sound is strife! And look, a rifle’s gleam!
Alas, the vision of his home was but a passing dream!
The bells were the boom of cannon, his couch the blood-stained veldt;

His roof is the vault of heaven, and war is the joy he felt,
But like a soldier and a man, he’ll proudly take his stand,
And fight, as true Canadians should, for Home and Motherland.

Thomas Whelan, Montreal.


Farewell, my highland hame,
          A long farewell,
May I return again,
          Oh! who can tell!
Oh! but my heart is wae;
Good-bye is hard to say,
But time brooks no delay,
          Farewell, farewell. [page 68] 

Hark! ‘tis the bugle’s trill,
          Loudly and clear,
And the wild war-pipes’ shrill,
          Falls on my ear;
On Afric’s distant shore,
Mid war’s wild din and roar;
Dear land, I’ll love thee more,
          Farewell, farewell.

But if kind fortune wills,
          I shall return,
To my loved heather hills,
          No more to mourn;
When war’s wild blasts blow by,
No more the heaving sigh,
          Farewell, farewell.

E. Bain, Montreal.


‘Tis the March! ‘tis the march! of the Highland Brigade,
     Caledonia’s sons of the kilt and the plaid,
Ay foremost in danger, right onward they go,
     They have but one object, and that is the foe,
The pipers are blowing wi’ might an’ wi’ main,
     The Gordons and Campbells are coming again,
The bayonets are fixed, mark the flash of the steel,
     See! see! how the foeman fall backward and reel.


Then forward the men of the Highland Brigade,
     Ay ready and willing, and never dismayed,
True sons of McGregor, Argyll and Lochiel,
     McKenzie, McDonald, McLean and McNeil.

Your auld mither Scotia remembers wi’ pride
     How your prowess and courage oft turned the tide,
When the issue was doubtful, and brave men did fear,
          How the Highland Brigade thundered up wi’ a cheer; [page 69] 
Then shoulder to shoulder, brave sons of old Gaul,
     Be ay true to your colours, whatever befall,
As ye march proudly forward sae gallant an’ true,
     Auld Scotland expects that your duty you’ll do.


So proudly ye march wi’ your colours before,
     Emblazoned wi’ actions and battles galore,
Corunna, Quebec and famed Waterloo,
     In Egypt, the Alma, and India too,
And the Boers of the Transvaal (tho’ bravely they fought),
     Had to yield to the charge of the conquering Scot,
Then keep bright your name, lads, and ne’er let it fade,
     And your country will honour the Highland Brigade.


E. Bain, Montreal.


A Lament for the Highlanders Slain in South Africa.

‘Twas gloamin’ I’ the Brackley wuds, and sweet the mavis sang,
As doon the jinkin’ burnie’s side I tentily did gang;
And there I spied a lanely lass, fair as the flow’rs o’ spring,
But unco awesome were the words I heard the lassie sing:—
“Hae dune, hae dune, ye bonnie birds, that lilt sae blythe a strain;
How can ye even hint o’ joy to ane whase joys are gane?
Nae voice, but that o’ dule, should ring amang the braes o’ Dee,
Sin’ cruel war has stown the pride o’ a’ the North Countree.”

I crap ahint a birken bush, and e’ed the dolefu’ maid,
The win’ had tirl’d her raven locks, the dew was on her plaid;
She cuist to heaven an eerie look wad cowed a heart o’ stane,
And aye she clash’d her lily loves, and aye she made her maen:—
“Yestreen the Glamour seiz’d my saul and lang entranc’d I lay;
I saw the deid-lichts burnin’ blue on bonnie Inveraye;
The jowin’ o’ an eldricht bell was soundin’ owre the Dee,
And plaided Shapes, wi’ never a sign, gade linkin’ doon Glenshee.” [page 70] 

By this I trow’d the lass was fey, and fain had slipt awa,
For death or madness was the doom where’er her glance micht fa’;
But wi’ a set and shilpit face, she heedless pass’d me by,
And far into the getherin’ mirk I heard her waefu’ cry:—
“O, hon a rie! O, hon a rie! they lie by ford and steep,
The wild beast o’ the desert howls abune their dreamless sleep;
And far frae Castle Gordon’s Craigs, and frae the braes o’ Dee,
The bluidy sands hae smoor’d the pride o’ a’ the North Countree!”

Robert Reid, Montreal.

Brackley, Glenshee, Inveraye, Castle Gordon, Deeside.—All names of places in the Gordon country, Scotland.

Out wailed the Pipes to the Strains of the “Flowers of the Forest.”

Oh, strangely, o’er the veldt, where winds the Modder River,
   Sounds the pibroch on the sultry tropic air,—
Sadly marched the broken remnant, while the bagpipes’ wailing quiver
   Wails the dead “Flower” of Scotland, lying there!
There’s a long, lonely graye near by the Modder water,
   Where the round hills rise purple towards the sky,
And the greening veldt is red with yestreen’s cruel slaughter,
   There, far from Bonny Scotland, they must lie!
Oh, there’s mourning, ‘mang the hills and on the heather,
   There’s sorrow supped in mony a strath and glen,
For the gallant hearts that sleep the long, last sleep together,
   For the lads who shall ne’er see home again!

“Dule and Wae,” the bagpipes moaned, “for the fatal night and order
   Sent the lads into the deadly ambushed line,”
But they fought and fell, unflinching, on the sun-baked Afric border,
   As their fathers did on Flodden field,—langsyne!
“Steady, men!” the leader shouted, as the storm of bullets, flying,
   Rained down, sudden, from the blazing mouth of hell; [page 71] 
Then, ‘mid the grassy hillocks, their brave General lay dying,
   With his men around him, fighting, as they fell!
   Oh,—there’s mourning, ‘mang the hills and on the heather,—
   There’s sorrow supped in mony a strath and glen,
For the gallant hearts that sleep the long last sleep together,—
   For the lads who shall ne’er see home again!

Bravely charged the “Light Brigade,” through Death’s valley, dark and gory,
   And there’s mony a British trophy of renown,
But there’s nane among them touched, with a more pathetic story
   Than the tartans that so gallantly went down!
Oh—faithful on to death—they guarded Britain’s flag and honour
   ‘Mid their ancient foemen, fighting, side by side,
Though far from Bonny Scotland, their last thought was upon her,
   Let them rest in peace together, where they died!
   Oh there’s mourning ‘mang the hills and on the heather,
   There’s sorrow supped in mony a strath and glen,—
For the gallant hearts that sleep the long last sleep together,—
   For those who shall ne’er see home again!

Miss Agnes Maule Machar, (Author of “Lays of the Truth North.”)


Hats off, and a cheer for the Highland Brigade,
That march’d to its fate like a corps on parade,
With plaids flung back, and the blue steel gleaming,
And shrill in the starlight the war-pipe screaming!
Would ye know how the records of heroes are made?
Come listen this tale of the Highland Brigade.

The General gazed with a troubled eye
On the scowling ramparts, grim and high;
‘The way will be rough, and the fighting hot,
I needs must call on the doughty Scot,’
And forth at the word, all undismay’d,
With a skirl o’ the pipes went the Highland Brigade. [page 72] 

Proud children of Albyn! 'twas ever the same,
Too well have yet paid for your matchless fame!
Must Death in his starked shape be defied?
Or a well nigh hopeless task be tried?
Whereon can the array's trust be stayed
Iif sat on the night of the Highland Brigade?
But this was a dead of daring do,
Two hopeless even for such as you!
For the mountain belch'd forth shot and shell,
And smok'd and flam'd like the mouth of Hell;
And caught in the numerous ambuscade
With their chief i' the midst, fell the Highland Brigade!
Weep not, and hearts on the Scottish shore,
That wait for the lads who will come no more;
Man dies but once,--and your dear ones fell
On the battlefield they arm'd so well;
True to the annals of name and clan,
As their sires have fall'n stance the world begun,
With their hand on the steel, and their face to the foe,
And the God of battles to see them go!
And long will their memory's dune be paid,
A cheer, and a leer, for the Highland Brigade!

Robert Reid, Montreal.

Sarstogs, 1777—Fraser.

The virgin hills are clad
In their primeval beauty,
No sons of toil and care
Had ever wooed and worn
The maiden earth

Of Sarstoga. [page 73]

Yet in her welling heart
Are bubbling springs
Of healing sympathy,
For all who come
In need of rest

To Saratoga.

The first of his white race,*
A wounded soldier,
Seeks rest; and in this place
Of quiet solitude,

In Saratoga.

The murmuring spring
Now low, sweet songs of comfort sing
And cools the fevered brow,
Of the first wooer

Of Saratoga.

Full two decades have passed,
The Indian trail is almost obsolete,
Peace reigns; war paint and hunting game
Are on the wane,
And peaceful farms now clothe the land,

Of Saratoga.

Once more the festering cry
Of war rings o nithe star;
And brother wars with brother
For their disputed rights

In Saratoga. [page 74]

The quick trained eye
Of the General scanned
The endangered troops
Of the central band;
Mounted on steed of gray,
Waiving all warning,
From right wing to centre
He spurred on his way,
Animating the troops
Firing round him

In Saratoga.

His manly form was soon outlined,
"A host in himself," General Arnold cried;
"That English General; he must die,
"Take post and do your duty"

In Saratoga.

The marksman aimed
From ambuscade,
And Fraser fell;
Doing his duty
Not wisely, but too well,

In Saratoga.

They buried him in his loved redoubt,
In front of the English camp, While the chaplain prayed,
The iron rained,
Dust cloud, like incense,
Rose from his grave,
At evening sacrifice,

In Saratoga.

The closing day, like a death pall, fell
On the open grave of him they loved well;
Each manly face a study,
The hostile batteries ceased,
While the minute guns
Caught up the refrain
In honour of Scotland's son
Who was slain [page 75]
A century--flown
On hundred winged years,
Of intermingled hues,
Of ever changing light and shade,
Like panoramic picture.
Such is our life,
The shade of strife recedes
And hearts well out
In healing streams of sympathy
O'er graves

In Saratoga.

Magersfontein, 1900–Wauchope.

In the hush of the night,
When the world was at rest,
Not a sound was heard
But the throbbing breast
And the stealthy step
Of the Highland Brigade;
Like lion crouching
Through tangled maze

At Magersfontein.

Our noble men were led blindly on,
But their heads were high,
And their hearts were strong,
Till the fatal rifle
The traitor played,
And at flash of the search light
Their brave faces paled--
Only a moment.

At Magersfontein.

"Steady, men! Steady"
Was Wauchop's shout,
While a thousand rifles
Crashed round about,
As the pride of the army lay dying,
The wounded chief with his falling breath
Died like a Scot cheering on to the death
In the valley

At Magersfontein. [page 76]

Onward to death
The Black Watch charged,
Like a bear of her whelps being cheated;
While Seaforths and Gordons
With ringing yell,
Shook the frowning hill,
Which no mortal will
Should dare ever encounter

At Magersfontein.

As the sun went down,
On the sleeping Laird,
Each Highland heart
In his grave was laid;
For to them "Lockaber's no more"

At Magersfontein.

His fifty men in the plaids
Of their clan,
Keep vigil as guards behind him,
As he led them in life,
He is foremost in death
With the enemy's camp
Frowning o'er him

At Magersfontein.

Softly the shade of twilight fell
On the funeral band
Of the silent men,
But each heart a vow had taken
By the red rampant lion,
Which floats o'er our land
We will soon be avenged
For the flower of our band
Who were slain

At Magersfontein.

A victory we've gained,
Not with swords stained in blood,
Of our armies, dying red
The green fields and brown wood,
And vulture swooping o'er them!
In friendship's light
Our hearts re-unite
O'er two graves

On Modder and Saratoga. [page 77]1

While the Union Flag
And Stars and stripes unite,
In the tender love of the dying,
And the soft fair hand
Of the sister band
Smoothes the pillows of sister nations.
May the perfume of love
Rise to heaven like the dove
From the altar of incense undying

In Saratoga and Magersfontein.

Mrs. Lelitia McCord, Temple Grove, Montreal.


   In the midst of smoke and thunder,
   From the hidden trenches under,
Comes a flashing and a crashing, then a smothered human groan;
   And the Scottish plaids are sinking,
   Sinking low, but never shrinking,
Though the air is thick with leaden death and dying moan.
   Now a voice rings 'Steady, Steady,'
   'Tis the General's ever ready,
Though he's bleeding still he's bleeding soldier-like his soldier's place,
   Now in gore he's prostrate lying,
   Now beave Wauchope's bravely dying,
Calmly dying, nobly set his manly placid face.
   Once again the volley hisses,
   Standing thick it seldom misses,
Though 'tis blinding, never minding, onward march the kilted brave,
   On they dash, the night concealing,
   Hidden trap; and staggering, reeling,
Down they sink in darkness to a soldier's bloody grave. [page 78]
   From the field of battled glory,
   Shall resound the fame-fraught story,
Gallant leader daring foll'wer, Scottish name and Scottish worth,
   Let us shrine their name in honor,.
While they rest in peaceful slumber,
Till the Judgment's clarion trump shall call the ransomed soldier forth.

Anon, Maple Creek,Anon.


'Tis past, the hour of parting's o'er,
   The troopship's on then main,
And some have looked on England's shore
   That ne'er shall look again;
The last adieus come faint and low,
   Borne on the wintry wind--
God's mercy on the men that go,
   And those they leave behind?
For them, the strife--for us, the fears
   That grow with hope's delay,
The daily dread, the nightly tears,
   For loved ones far away;
Yet O though lose be hard to bear
   And sense of threatening harm,
Let not the thought of private care
   Unnerve a nation's arm!
For sternly must the soldier fight
   Whose country stakes her all;
Now is the day when England's might
   Must conquer, or must fall;
Though Valor unrewarded die
   Nor every field be won,
We'll bate no jot of courage high
   Before our task be done. [page 79]
Souls of our best! whose bodies fill
   Their unforgotten grave
By Magersfontein's murderous hill
   Or dark Tugela's wave,
Nobly ye strove, ye gallant dead,
   For England's honor slain!
'Tis ours to prove the blood ye shed
   Has not been shed in vain!

A. D. Godley, The Spectator, London.


The following poem is by W. A. Fraser, the Author of “The Eye of a God,” “East Indian Stories” and stories of “The Canadian Northwest:”

We're Irish: they said we'd not fight
For the Queen. Was that right?
Ask for the names of the woman who cried
For the heroes who charged to the cannon and died,
   Go ask for the names of the dead.
Our brothers are dead in the Transvaal;
English and Scotchmen--and is that all
Who died that the whole world might know
That watered by blood the Empire would grow?
   Go ask for the names of the dead.
We've drunk to the Queen--God bless her!
We've fought with the Boers--who curs'd her!
And we're Britons! We're true to the flag!
When the fighting was on did one of us lag?
   Go ask for the names of the dead.
English and Scotchmen, and Irish--all Britons, yet;
When WE fall, there'll be rooms in the Empire to let;
We have wrongs! we are proof--God knows, but we'll wait;
Like Fustilers, not traitors, we'll fight against fate,
   Go look at the names of the dead. [page 80]
We'll pray for the names of the honored dead;
We'll drink to the Empire their dying has made;
It's their blood, and our blood, the banner has stained;
It's their land, and our land, the dying has gained
   Go pray for the souls of the dead.


In the night, and in the rain, in his life-blood lying,
Lonely, sad and weak with pain, a mother's boy is dying.
No one by to hold his hand, pillowed on a stone,
In the far-off Kaffir land, a hero dies alone.
Not a whispered word of love; not a tear is there;
Not a friend to point above, or repeat a prayer.
From his heart, the ruddy tide dyes the barren clod,
For him, too, was crucified the Spotless Son of God.

Ere the mists of death descend, ere his eyes grow dim,
Old, familiar face bend sadly over him.

Home and Mother fill his dream, lovingly caressed
By her gentle touch, he seem quietly to rest.

As his spirit takes its fight, soldiers of the Queen,
Planting on the conquered height Britain’s flag, are seen.

Chas. S. Edwards, Cumberland, Ont.


They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed,’
   The sin imposible to be forgiven—
Yet I can look beyond it at its worst,
   And still find blue in Heaven. [page 81] 

And as I note how nobly natures form
   Under the war’s red rain, I deem it true
That He who made the earthquake and the storm
   Perchance makes battles too!

The life He loves is not the life of span
   Abbreviated by each passing breath,
It is the true humanity of man,
   Victorious over death.

The long expectance of the upward gaze
   Sense ineradicable of things afar,
Fair hopes of finding after many days
   The Bright and Morning Star.

Methinks I see how spirits may be tried,
   Transfigured into beauty on war’s verge,
Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside
   The trampling of the surge.

And now, not only Englishmen at need,
   Have won a fiery and unequal fray,
—No infantry has ever done such deed
   Since Albuera’s day!

Those who live on amid our home to dwell
   Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,
—The gallant Private learns to practice well
   His heroism obscure.

His heart beats high as one for whom is made
   A mighty music solemnly, what time
The oratorio of the cannonade
   Rolls through the hills sublime.

Yet his the dangerous post that few can mark,
   The crimson death, the dread unerring aim,
The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark,
   The just-recorded name—

The faithful following of the flag all day,
   The duty done that brings no nation’s thanks,
The ‘Ama Nescirl’ of some grim and grey
   A Kempis of the ranks. [page 82] 

These are the things our commonweal to guard,
   The patient strength that is too proud to press,
The duty done for duty, not reward,
   The lofty littleness.

And they of greater state who never turned,
   Taking their path of duty high and higher,
What do we deem that they, too, may have learned
   In that baptismal fire?

Not that the only end beneath the sun
   Is to make every sea a trading lake,
And all our splendid English history one
   Voluminous mistake.

They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week
   Some of them, ere they reached the mountain’s crown,
The wind of battle breathing on their cheek
   Suddenly laid them down.

Like sleepers—not like those whose race is run—
   Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon’s roar,
Them no reveille and no morning gun
   Shall ever waken more.

And the boy-beauty passed from off the face
   Of those who lived, and into it instead
Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race,
   Sweet commune with the dead.

And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent,
   And manly tears made mist upon their eyes,
And to them came a great presentiment
   Of high self-sacrifice.

Thus as the heaven’s many-colored flames
   At sunset are but dust in rich disguise,
The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames
   God’s pictures in the skies.

William Armagh, Palace, Armagh, Ireland. [page 83]


Weep ye, O mothers of Britain,
   For children that were, but are not;
Weep ye, O mothers of Britain;
   With sorrow your portion is fraught;
For of these is an Empire builded—
   Of travail, and anguish and grief;
And the times of your weeping shall not be few,
   Nor the space of your mourning brief.

Weep ye, O mothers of Britain;
   Ye have wept full oft before.
Weep ye, O mothers of Britain;
   Full oft shall your hearts be sore;
For this the decree, the decree of a God,
   On the Empire’s natal morn—
“Ye shall bring of your fruitw in the time of her need,
   Ye shall bring her the cherished first born.”

Weep ye, O mothers of Britain;
   Yea, weep to an Empire’s gain,
Weep ye, O mothers of Britin;
   Yours be the burden of pin;
And the mirth shall go out of your hearts for aye,
   The light shall go out of your eyes;
And black will be your festal robes
   On the day of that sacrifice.

Alexander Martin.


Happy, thrice happy, are the brave, who, dying,
   Upheld our England’s honour in the South;
They, doing, daring, odds and death defying,
   Shall live from mouth to mouth.

Many a heart is heavy this December,
   Out on the Veldt, and in our Nothern Isle,
For it is hard to live and to remember,
   A last farewell and smile. [page 84] 

Many are gone. Ah, me, the well-loved faces
   Grow few and fewer with the dying year!
Others may come, but none will fill their places,
   No, none can be as dear.

John Jervis Beresford, London.


What do they win who fight for Britain’s glory
   In the wild lightning of a fearful night?
Is it for triumph sung in song or story,
   That “Sons of Britain” may be writ in light?

They win a soldier’s death—they die for Duty—
   Nor her alone, for Truth hath clasped her hand;
They seek not wealth to gain, nor fame, nor booty,
   But shed their blood for love of Motherland.

What is this death Britannia’s sons are dying?
   Is it vain striving for some bitter end?
The hearths forgot where wives and mothers crying
   With wildest prayers the height of heaven rend.

Nay! Nay! the end is glory for old Britain,
   Who—after God—in loyal hearts stands first;
And victory in every death is written
   To show each mother what her love hath nursed.

How hold they hope when other nations perish?
   God moves his hand, and storms and battles cease;
This is the calm in time of death they cherish,
   When, wars o’erpast, He smiles as God of Peace.

Amy Kingsland Pennington, Halifax.


Why is it that ye grieve, oh, weak in faith,
   Who turn towards High Heaven upbraiding eyes?
Think ye that God will count your children’s death
          Vain sacrifice? [page 85] 

Half mast your flags? Nay, fly them at the head!
   We reap the harvest where we sowed the corn;
See from the red graves of your gallant dead
          An Empire born.

Do ye not know, ye cannot cure a flaw,
   Unless the steel runs molten red again;
That mere men’s words cannot together draw
          Those who were twain?

Do ye not see the Anglo-Saxon breed
   Grow less than kin on every continent;
That brothers had forgotten in their greed
          What “brother” meant?

Do ye not hear from all the humming wires,
   Which bind the mother to each colony,
How He works surely for our best desires
          To weld the free—

With blood of freeman into one grand Whole,
   To open all the gates of all the Earth?
Do ye not see, your Greater Britain’s soul
          Has come to birth?

Do ye not hear above the shrieks—the song
   From all those outland hearts which peace kept dumb;
“There is no fight too fierce, no trail too long,
          When Love cries, Come.”

Can ye beat steel from iron in the sun;
   Or crown Earth’s master on a bloodless field?
As Abram offered to his God—his son,
          Our best we yield.

And God gives answer. In the battle smoke;
   Tried in war’s crucible, washed white in tears,
The Saxon heart of Greater Britain woke
          One for all years.

Lift up your eyes. Your glory is revealed,
   See through war’s clouds the rising of your Sun!
Hear ye God’s voice. Your testament is sealed,
          And be ye one.

Clive Phillipp Wolley, Victoria, B.C. [page 86]


Oh, glorious little Island, surrounded by the sea,
Our hearts are hot within us, and beating strong for thee,
The clarion sound of battle is ringing in our ears,
And all our blood is tingling, our throats are hoarse with cheers.

We’re on the eve, they tell us, of being taught “our place;”
The whole world is “agin” us, and we shall have to face
All nations’ jealous rancor, and mightily arrayed;
But, thank the God who made us, no Briton is afraid.

From every clime and country where the Union Jack floats high
Her sons will rally round her to gladly fight and die,
And falling with our faces turned towards our country’s foe,
We’ll pray for luck—the same old pluck will fill our place, we know.

The bulldog that is in us, though dormant many a year,
Has blood in his eye to do or die, and a heart that knows no fear.
Let Bruin growl and the Gaulois continue loud to crow;
They are smarting yet, for they can’t forget the bruise of a British blow!

We’ve been there before, both on sea and shore, a handful before a host,
And by God’s will, we are all here still, though not the sort to boast.
We are ready to fight for our country and our Queen,
For laud, and the Queen we revere, though to many never seen.

We are sons of the grandsons of sires, who left the Old Country long since,
But Time has not dimmed the devotion your colonies thirst to evince.
From the Arctic shores of the Yukon to the depth of the Torrid zone,
Wherever we are, however far, we are British! Fibre and bone.

And we’re all at one, all under the sun, if we’re worthy our name to bear—
To fight to the last, at the bugle’s blast; aye, ready to do and dare.
The weakest is hold to help uphold our Empire’s glorious name,
And tears may be shed for the valiant dead, but never a tear for shame. [page 87] 

We have lived at ease, and gone as we please, with our pruning hook and plough;
But let them beware, who rouse from his hair, the British Lion now.

E. L. K., Winnipeg, Man.

Oft the sons of the Empire as They Lay in Camp on the Veldt.

There’s one can tell of the grizzly bear,
   And one of the kangaroo,
Over the borders we’ve come with our orders,
   We know what we’re here to do;
For we all of us live in the same big house,
   Though each has his own little wing,
And when obstinate nations attack the foundations
   We all come together and sing:

For England, for England, the cradle of our line,
The lances ride and the rifles ring and the scattered sons combine;
For England, for England. We fling our strength between
The Empire and the Danger, for our England and the Queen.

There’s some that come from a Melbourne shop,
   Some that were bred in Quebec,
Some from a prairie, and some from a dairy,
   And some from the Terrible’s deck;
And some of us marched from the counter of Counts,
   And some from a constable’s beat,
But we’re all thrown together in khaki and leather—
   We sing the same song when we meet:

For England, for England, the cradle of our line,
The lances ride and the rifles ring and the scattered sons combine;
For England, for England. We fling our strength between
The Empire and the Danger, for our England and the Queen. [page 88] 

And when we’ve done what we’re here to do,
   And the ships go east and west,
Each with his story of hardships and glory—
   And little brown holes in his chest,
We shall think o’ the nights when we smoked our clays
   And lay on our backs in a ring,
Weary-worn after battle, but making a rattle
   With the song that was easy to sing:

For England, for England, the cradle of our line,
The lances ride and the rifles ring and the scattered sons combine;
For England, for England. We fling our strength between
The Empire and the Danger, for our England and the Queen.

Harold Bigbie.


From the oldest of our cities
   From her ramparts worn and gray,
Proudly we beheld a thousand
   Of our comrades sail away,
When they heard the voices calling
   Of their kinsmen o’er the sea,
“Lend a hand, O brother Britons,
   For a Briton’s liberty!”


Mother England we are going
   Where our comrades went before,
For we hear the bugles blowing,
   Hark! they summon thousands more,
Where the old red flag is flying
O’er the dead and o’er the dying—
Foes of freedom still defying
   As it did in days of yore!

At the rumour of disaster,
   At the tidings of retreat,
At the cry of fallen cities
   And the clamor of defeat. [page 89] 
Brief the prayer we made to Heaven
   For the heroes that were gone,
Then from sea to sea we answer’d
   “Send another legion on!”


Mother England if you need us
   That is all we care to know,
Onward into battle lead us
   Where the foremost bugles blow;
Onward where the shells are crashing,
Where the rifle fire is flashing,
And the bayonets are dashing
   O’er the trenches of the foe!

Let the skies above grow darker!
   Let them come a sterner fate!
Let the menace of the nations
   Break in flame of savage hate!
From the hearts of all our women,
   From the rifles of our men,
For the honor of the Empire
   Loud shall ring our answer then:


Mother England we are ready
   As our comrades were before,
We are true and we are steady,
   We are Britons to the core:
Give the signal and we’ll sally
Forth from every hill and valley
Round the old red flag to rally
   Full a hundred thousand more!

Hon. T. R. E. McInnes, Victoria, B.C.


The conflict on the Afric shore
   Has cast a wondrous light
Upon the Mother Land and sons,
   To make them well unite.
So land to land, and heart to heart
   The Empire stands supreme,
Presenting golden fact, instead
   Of but a splendid dream.

Antigua W.I.I. Standard. [page 90]


By the martial voice that calls us
   Far beyond the sea,
By the patriotic spirit
That pleads for unity;
Canada! we stand for thee.

By the loyal thoughts that bind us
   To our comrades o’er the sea,
By the cause that calls for freedom,
   Justice, right and liberty;
Canada! we stand for thee. 

By the ties of love that hold us
   To this land so free,
By the hearts that would be with us,
   In death and victory;
Canada! we stand for thee.

By the Empire’s great dominion
   Over land and sea,
By the throne we love and cherish,
   All hail! our loyalty;
Canada! we stand for thee.

For our Empire all united,
   Girt by many a sea,
Oh God of Battles hear our cry,
   Give us the victory;
Canada! we stand for thee.

T. W. R. Templeton, Quebec.


Dead, he is dead, but dead on the field,
   Dead with his face to the foe;
Nor pity, nor sorrow, full comfort to me,
   He died with his face to the foe. [page 91]

Loved arms that enfolded my life, till it lay
   And throbbed passion full on his breast;
Oh, husband, my soldier, who valiantly past,
   Through strife to a glorious rest.

This fear blanchen brow, these quivering lips,
   Mine, his, who forever is still;
Oh, husband, my soldier, oh, voice that no more,
   Shall all my weak woman heart thrill.

In the beauty of manhood, the strength of his grace,
   He went, I shall see him no more
Oh, husband, my heart is athirst for thy face,
   Life lies desert, ablazing before.

Dead, aye, but in battle, struck down on the field,
   Oh, weep not, or pity my pain;
Like a soldier he perished, and on me bestowed,
   A priceless inheritance then.

Where the roar of the battle, as thunder is loud,
   He perished, unshrinkingly brave;
Where the squadrons, war clamorous, maddeningly crowd,
   And the charge rushes on like the wave.

The wife of a soldier, and sprung from a line,
   Of soldiers, from son unto son,
Is it I? Is it I? that should weep and repine,
   That his rest he has valiantly won.

Aye, he is dead; but he died on the field,
   He is dead with his face to the foe;
Oh weep not, nor pity, full comfort to me,
   He died with his face to the foe.

T. Redcam, Kingston, Jamaica, W.I.I.

Written on the Occasion of the 1st Battalion Gordon Highlanders Leaving for the Transvaal.

Ho! Ho! for the Tartan,
   And the skirl o’ the Plob mhor!
The Gordons are off to the front, lads,
   To fight on a foreign shore. [page 92] 

The voice of our country calls us,
   And we go with a right good will,
For they need some bold cliff-climbers
   And the Gordon fills the bill!

So it’s Ho! Ho! for the tartan,
   And the skirl o’ the Plob mhor!
The Gordons are off to the front, lads,
   To tackle the crafty Beer!

Men from the braes of Huntly—
   Lads from the straths of Spey—
O dinna ye hear the slogan?
   It’s belt your plaids and away!
They tell us to doff the tartan,
   ‘Tis a mark for the foeman’s gun,
But we’ll wear it to show who’s coming,
   And they’ll know that the field’s half won!

So it’s Ho! Ho! for the tartan,
   And the skirl o’ the Plob mhor!
There’ll be fire in the Dutchman’s heather
   When the Gordon gets ashore!

There’s a dark hill nam’d Majuba
   Out there ‘neath the burning skies,
And many a kilted comrade
   On its arid kopje lies.
They peppered them from their coverts
   As they lay like fish in a creel,
And the poor lads couldn’t get at them
To give them the Highland steel!

So it’s Ho! Ho! for the tartan,
   And the skirl o’ the Plob mhor!
There’ll be wind in another quarter
   When the Gordon gets ashore!

For Donald has told young Flora
   As he left the weeping maid,
That he wants no lover’s kisses
   Till the clan’s just debts are paid. [page 93] 

And the trembling wives on Deeside
   May gaze till their eyes are sore,
For we’ll settle that old account, lads,
   Or they’ll see us back no more.

So it’s Ho! Ho! for the tartan,
   And the skirl o’ the Plob mhor!
We’ll settle that old account, lads,
   Or ever we leave their shore!

Robert Reid.


There is joy to-day in England—
   There’s rejoicing in England to-day—
And the hearts of the people are swelling with pride
   For the boys who have marched away;—
For the boys, the lion-hearted,
   Who feared nor death nor foe,
And who planted the banner of England’s might
   On the bloody heights of Glencoe. 

There’s sorrow to-day in England,
   There is weeping in England to-day,
And the hearts of the mothers are breaking with grief
   For the boys who have marched away;—
For the boys, the tender-hearted,
   Who feared nor death nor foe,
And who sleep where the banner of England waves
   On the bloody heights of Glencoe. 

There’s weeping to-day in England—
   There’s rejoicing in England to-day,
And the nation is thrilled with sound of the drum
   For the boys who are marching away;
For the boys, as lion-hearted—
   Who fear nor death nor foe—
As they who the banner of England placed
   On the bloody heights of Glencoe.

Anon. [page 94]

“One of the Royal Irish Fusiliers Who Fell at the Battle of Glencoe.”

They gave him a doublet of scarlet,
   And a rifle to hold in his hand,
And they bade to strike for his Sovereign,
   And fight for his loved, native land.

They came—and they listed my darling;
   And the Mother of Sorrows above
Can feel for the heart of a mother,
   For she knows how the Irish can love.

The challenge of England has summoned
   Her sister, the Emerald Isle,
And brothers-in-arms their children
   Now mustering file upon file.

They gave me the paper that told it,
   And read with my tear-dimmed sight,
While it spoke of the glory of battle
   And told me how the Irish can fight.

But the voice of the bugle that called him,
   And the song of the slumbering deep,
Have stilled the young heart in his bosom
   And hushed my poor darling to sleep. 

He is there—in the list of the slaughtered;
   But they tell me, that I musn’t cry,
For he fell, where the battle was thickest,
   To prove how the Irish can die.

Russell Gray, “Dublin Warder.” [page 95]

October 20th, 1899—May 15th, 1900.

“The first work of our officers on arriving at Dundas was to hoist the Union Jack over the grave of the late General Penn Symons.”

First of the fallen, unrestful hast thou lain,
   Still yearning southwards from thy captive bed;
Hear’st thou you shout?—‘tis England come again,
   To plant her flag, triumphant, o’er thy head.


Here’s to you Uncle Kruger! slainte! an’ slainte go leor!
You’re a dacint ould man begorra; never mind if you are a Boer!
So with heart an’ a half ma bouchal, we’ll drink to your health to-night;
For yourself an’ your farmer sojers gave us a d—— good fight.

I was dramin’ of Kitty Farrell away in the Gap o’ Dunioe,
When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin’ across Glencoe;
An’ once in a while a bullet came pattherin’ from above,
That tould us the big brown fellows were sendin’ us down their love.

‘Twas a kind of an invitation an’ written in such a han’
That a Chinaman couldn’t refuse it—not to spake of an Irishman;
So the pickets sent back an answer “We’re comin’ with right good will,”
Along what they call the kopje, tho’ to me it looked more like a hill.

“Fall in on the left,” sez the captain, “my men of the Fusiliers;
You’ll see a great fight this morning—like you haven’t beheld for years”
“Faith, Captain dear,” sez the sergeant, “you can bet your Majuba sword
If the Dutch is as willin’ as we are, you never spoke truer word!” [page 96]

So we scrambled among the bushes, the boulders an’ rocks an’ all,
Like the gauger’s men still—huntin’ in the mountans of Donegal;
We doubled an’ turned an’ twisted the same as a hunted hare,
While the big guns peppered each other over us in the air.

Like steam from the Divil’s kettle the kopje was billin’ hot;
For the breeze of the Dutchman’s bullets was the only breeze we got,
An’ many a fine boy stumbled, many a brave lad died,
When the Dutchman’s message caught him there on the mountain side.

Little Nelly O’Brien, God help her! Over there at ould Ballybay,
Will wait for a Transvaal letter till her face an’ her hair is gray
For I seen young Crohoore on a stretcher, an’ I knew the poor boy was gone,
When I spoke to the ambulance doctor, an’ he nodded an’ then passed on.

“Steady then!” cried the captain, “we must half for a moment here,”
An’ he spoke like a man in trainin’, full winded an’ strong an’ clear,
So we threw ourselves down on the kopje, weary an’ tired as death,
Waitin’ the Captain’s orders, waitin’ to get a breath.

It’s strange all the humours an’ fancies that come to a man like me;
But the smoke of the battle risin’, took me across the sea—
It’s the mist of a Benbow I’m seeing; an’ the rock that we’ll capture soon
Is the rock where I shot the eagle, when I was a small gossoon.

I close my eyes for a minute, an’ hear my poor mother say;
“Patrick, avick, my darlin’, you’re surely not goin’ away
To join the red coated sojers?”; but the blood in me was strong—
If your sire was a Connaught Ranger, aure where would his son belong?

Hark! whisht! do you hear the music comin’ up from the camp below?
An odd note or two when the Maxims take breath for a second or so,
Liftin’ itself on somehow, stealin’ its way up here,
Knowin’ there’s waitin’ to hear it, many an Irish ear. [page 97] 

Augh! Garryowen! you’re the jewel! an’ we charged on the Dutchman’s guns,
An’ covered the bloody kopje, like a Galway grey-hound runs,
At the top of the hill they met us, with faces all set and grim;
But they couldn’t take the bayonet—that’s the trouble with most of them!	

So, of course, they’ll be praisin’ the Royals, an’ the men of the Fusiliers,
An’ the newspapers help to dry up the widows an’ orphan’s tears,
An’ they’ll write a new name on the colours—that is if there’s room for more;
An’ we’ll follow them thro’ the battle, the same as we’ve done before!

But here’s to you Uncle Kruger! slainte! an’ slainte go leor!
After all you’re a dacint Christian, never mind if you are a Boer!
So with heart an’ half ma bouchal, we’ll drink to your health to-ight,
For yourself an’ your brown faced Dutchmen gave us a d—— good fight!

Dr. William Henry Drummond, Montreal.


The heavens resound with the thunder
   That rolls from a hundred guns,
And the earth is riven saunder
   By the missiles of Titan’s sons.
The walls are falling in patches,
   That hid this invisible foe,
And the bodies of Boers in batches
   Are laid on the green sward low.

Their cannon one after another,
   Cease to belch and bellow and roar,
And the shells that rend and smother
Come seldomer than before.
Each Briton his weapon clenches,
   He will hammer with all his might,
They have set them to clear the trenches
   Ere the sun goes down to-night. [page 98] 

Far down  by the side of the river,
   Our brave ones have gone at a run,
While our howisters crash and quiver,
   And bellows each naval gun,
They enter the brim of the water,
   And cross to the further side;
They fear not, nor swerve, nor falter,
   This death-dealing human tide.

But they have not escaped the foeman,
   The waters are tinged with blood
From a hundred wounds. Yet no man
   Is daunted—they dash through the flood,
Their numbers each moment increasing,
   They scatter, and creep, and crawl,
While the mauser’s “zip, zip,” is unceasing,
   And “boom” flies the cannon ball.

They are darting from shelter to shelter,
   Getting nearer and nearer the foe;
In the glare of the sun they swelter,
   All eager to strike the blow,
Each bayonet now outflashes,
   As they reach the foot of the height,
While a volley of bullets crashes
   Around, almost darkening sight.

With a fiend-like yelling and cheering,
   They charge up the heights at a run;
Grim men are they all and unfearing,
   They’ll finish what they have begun.
The voor trekkers dash from the wind,
   And fly as the chaff from the wind,
Nor dare they, for Golconda’s riches
   To look for a moment behind.

The cavalry dash in and rout them,
   They trample them down to the earth,
With sword and with lance lay about them;
   Of slaughter there is no dearth.
The victors now buoyant with gladness,
   Will rest from the bloody strife;
But their joy will be mingled with sadness,
   As they think of the cost in life. [page 99] 

The kopjes are strewn with the dying,
   Intermixed with the wounded and dead,
And the debris of war is lying
   On the heights all carnage-red.
And the piercing shrieks of the gory,
   As they lie in their blood and pain,
Shed a lurid light on the glory
   That battle has given again.

There are maidens that mourn their lovers,
   There are mothers that mourn their sons,
The spectre of hunger hovers
   O’er the widowed and orphan’d ones.
Not alone on the field of battle
   Is the torture and agony borne;
Far away from the cannon’s rattle,
   The hearts of the loving are torn.

May God speed the day of the ending
   Of war, with its clashing of arms;
May peace from the heavens down-bending
   Replace all its cruel alarms.
Speed the day, when hateful oppression
   Shall yield to the Breath from above,
When men shall give truest expression
   To themselves, in brotherly love.

Revd. Andrew MacNab, Walton, Ont.


Out rang the bugle loud and shrill,
Reverberating from the hil,
     That towered up bleak and bare;
Hurling defiance to the foe,
Who in the trenches lay full low,
     With unremitting care.
“To arms! to arms!” the cry went round,
And countless numbers at the sound,
     Their weapons seized and primed;
Disposed, themselves, each for the fray,
In all the forms of war’s array,
Glad that at last had come the day,
     With which their longings chimed. [page 100] 

The cannon, with their deep-tongued bay,
Begin the havoc of the day,
     And seldom miss the mark.
The maxims’ swift repeating crack,
A single moment do not slack,
     Whil creusots belch, and bark,
And here and there the volleys fly,
Rending the air, with zip, and sigh,
     And dealing wounds and death,
Hour after hour the battle raged,
In long extended lines engaged,
Nor were the carnage fiends assuaged,
     While one might draw his breath.

Still undecided is the fight,
While the foreshadowings of night
     Are hastening on apace.
Though worn with war’s grim, gory work,
No man of all his share will shirk;
     No slackening can you trace.
At length our horsemen, rank on rank,
Appear upon the foemen’s flank,
     Extended far and near,
They charge with heaven-rending yell,
As if from out the jaws of hell,
The foemen turn and flee pell mell,
     In panic-stricken fear.

The centre weakens. “Gordons charge,
As in the days of sword and targe,
     Resistless in your might.”
They charge. The centre breaks and flees,
Like chaff before a steady breeze,
     Or darkness before light.
The right, the left, the centre flee,
One long-extended wild melee,
     At every point hard pressed.
The darkness closes on the fray,
Hiding the carnage of the day,
The vanquished keeping on their way,
     To Northward and to West.

Revd. Andrew MacNab. [page 101]

How the English fought the Dutch at the Battle of Dundee.

On the mountain side the battle raged, there was no stop or stay;
Machin captured Private Burke and Ensign Michael Shea,
Fitzgerald got Fitzpatrick, Brannigan found O’Rourke;
Finnigan took a man named Fay—and a couple of lads from Cork.
Sudden they heard McManus shout: “Hands up or I’ll run you through.”
He thought he had a Yorkshire “Tyke,”—‘twas Corporal Donoghue!
McGarry took O’Leary, O’Brien got McNamee,
That’s how the “English fought the Dutch” at the Battle of Dundee.

Then someone brought in Casey, O’Connor took O’Neil;
Ripley captured Cavanagh, while trying to make a steal.
Hogan caught McFadden, Corrigan caught McBride,
And Brennan made a handsome touch when Kelly tried to slide.
Dicey took a lad named Welsh; Dooley got McGurk;
Gilligan turned in Fahey’s boy—for his father he used to work.
They had marched to fight the English—but Irish were all they could see—
That’s how the “English fought the Dutch” at the Battle of Dundee.



Two soldiers, lying as they fell upon the reddened clay—
In daytime foes; at night, in peace—breathing their lives away
Brave heart had stirred each manly breast; fate only made them foe,
And lying, dying, side by side, a softened feeling rose.

Our time is short, one faint voice said; to-day we’ve done our beat
On different sides. What matters now? To-morrow we’re at rest,
Life lies behind; I might not care for only my own sake,
But far away are other hearts that this day’s work will break. [page 102] 

Among old Hampshire’s pleasant fields there pray for me to-night
A woman and a little girl with hair like golden light’—
And at that thought broke forth at last the cry of anguish wild
That would no longer be repressed—‘Oh, God! my wife and child!’

‘And,’ said the other dying man, ‘across the sandy plain
There watch and wait for me loved ones I’ll never see again.
A little girl with dark, bright eyes each day waits at the door;
The father’s step, the father’s kiss, will never meet her more.’

‘To-day we sought each other’s lives; death levels all that now,
For soon before God’s mercy-seat together we shall bow.
Forgive each other while we may; life’s but a weary game,
And, right or wrong, the morning sun will find us dead, the same.’

The dying lips the pardon breathe, the dying hands entwine;
The last ray dies, and over all the stars from heaven shine.
The little girl with golden hair, and one with dark eyes bright,
On Hampshire’s fields and sandy plain were fatherless that night.

Lue Vernon, “Leslie’s Weekly.”


The British lines advanced towards the foe at the rising of the sun,
And forth at the front of the British host marched the brave boy-bugler Dunn.
They strove to curb his young folly, they sought to shield him from harm,
But he scornfully cast off the hands that would restrain his arm
No, no, he must march with the foremost, in the front of the cannon’s breath—
There was not a soul in the firing line that was less afraid of death.
And, could ye blame him, who, tho’ a boy, yet had in his youthful breast,
The heart of a man, as large, as brave, as the heart of the bravest and best;
And who felt in his veins a tide of valor as strongly burn, and flow,
As that which stirs the depths of a man when he clinches with his foe.
Still, onward in front of the host he kept, and still to his task was true, [page 103] 
For ever his bugle with pride and strength unbatingly he blew,
Till—what an honor!—a screeching shot from a sudden awakening hell,
Shattered the arm of the bugler-boy and down on his bugle he fell;
He fell—the first in that fearful fight, but his soul shrank not with the pain;
‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘I’ve still my left arm, I can hold my bugle again.’
Then up and away to the front he flew, blowing lustily as he sped,
Till he felt his strength fast melting away, and a fever binding his head,
And down, at last, on the sun-scorched sands, he sank, and swooned away,
And when he awoke—it seemed like a dream—behold, he calmly lay
Bed-bound in an English hospital, afar from the war-shaken land,
And Royalty  bending over his bed, and holding his slender hand:
‘Now speak, my brave boy, what would you have your Sovereign do for you?’
A sweet smile played on his pallid lips and lit up his eyes of blue:
‘I hope,’ he replied, in the strain that showed the true soul of his race,
‘That my Queen may send me back again to the front to take my place.’
Then silence fell on his lips for a space, but his mind was athrob fought;
A medal and three bars; Ha, ha! My father will have but two,
And, perhaps, I shall win a fourth, and a fifth, before this war shall be thro’!’
Oh, it was by strength of soul like this that our name and fame were won;
And by hearts like the heart which fills the breast of this brave boy-bugler Dunn.

J. C. M. Duncan.

Written After Spion Kop Disaster.

Lead on, thou glorious emblem of the free,
   Lift high thy dustless folds upon the morn,
The breezes seek companionship, with thee,
   As thou art free on their free wings art borne,
Where e’er the free-born blast of freedom blows,
   There, proud, thy mighty folds of freedom wave,
‘Mid Greenland’s night or Afric’s morning glows,
   All shattered are the irons of the slave. [page 106] 

Lead on, nor shall blood-stained Magersfontein,
   Nor yonder steel-swept hill-crest check the wave;
That line of steel up scales the bloody mountain
   To find a lurking foeman or a grave.
Lead on, we wait not for the trumpet’s peal,
   The lion’s whelps know but one bugle call,
Which brings them to the foe with claws of steel,
   The echoes dread of that terrific growl.

Lead on, against a foe invisible,
   And if we cannot find him we cannot die;
We follow thee with thrill unspeakable,
   Devotion flashing in each Briton’s eye;
Lead on, the Gospel Heralds say “Amen,”
   Colonial voices echo to a man;
Each enterprise for human rights again
   Proclaims, that mighty England leads the van.

Lead on, proud pennon, proof ‘gainst sword and ball,
   Thy texture wipes the tribesman’s tears away;
Beneath thy folds the slave can never fall,
   And where thou wavest is perennial day;
Beyond the Vaal the foul oppressor’s chain
   Stained by the blood and tears of brother men,
Calls loud for Britain’s mighty hand again,
   Again the sword is mightier than the pen.

Lead on, battalions surge where thou dost wave,
   And, dying, glance again and bless thy folds,
A shroud more glorious, nation never gave,
   The soldier still, in death, his glory holds;
Huge is the reservoir of British blood,
   Streams there inflow from empires far away,
Bid all the streams be rivers in their flood;
   Trampling the nations mustering for the fray.

Lead on, all glorious emblem of the free,
   While Britain bows to kiss the chastening rod,
Behind thy combined fleets upon the sea
   Grasp, as of yore, the mighty hand of God;
The burning language of thy guns is clear,
   A braver host, this planet, never trod.
Thy righteous sword the jealous nations fear.
   Great Britain; lean for greatness on thy God.

Revd. G. E. Ross. [page 107]


The carnage ceased, which fierce had raged all day,
   Thick shades stooped down to pall the hideous sight,
Some fifteen hundred dead or dying lay,
   And ceaseless cries of anguish rent the night.

A Red Cross lantern hoisted on the height,
   Guarding the only exit from the hill,
Glazed sickly as though staggered at the sight—
   And such dire need of mittigative skill.

Full many a one, shot in the trench at morn,
   Unstaunched his wounds, in heat of blistering sun,
Was to the Red Cross now by comrades borne,
   Life ebbing low—the last sands almost run.

In quick succession stretchers laden poured,
   The long procession blocked the narrow pass;
When tented space we could no more afford,
   In rows we ranged the wounded on the grass.

A vast Inferno, writing in deep pain,
   A slaughter house strewn deep with mangled dead,
A rank offence to Reason’s sceptred reign,
   A challenge seemed to God, the woes wide-spread.

When tardy dawn the eastern sky had flecked,
   It lit the face of many a fallen brave,   
Whose spirit from its prisoning clay had fled,
   Uncared, unkissed, to fill a nameless grave.

The dead we searched, but not for trashy gold,
   Their names, address, and rank we wished to trace,
The things we found some tender secret told,
   Of mother, sweetheart, wife, religion, race.

A Highland lad, there was, in face refined,
   Whose right hand clasped a tiny locket tight,
In whose recess an image lay enshrined;
   A sweet face set in spray of heather white.

A letter, crease-worn, soiled, and closely pressed,
   Lay next the manly heart, now stilled in death ,
A mother’s love indited and impressed;
   “Remember, son, fight the good fight of Faith.” [page 108]

With tearful eye the trinkets we removed,
   With tender care the tell-tale tokens took,
That maid might know her knight a hero proved,
   And mother cease for son’s return to look.

The grime and gore disfiguring the face,
   We washed away with all a mother’s care,
The wayward locks our hands smothered down in place,
   As maid might toy her lover’s tousled hair.

The comrade, hero, lover, son, we bore,
   With heavy heart, his head at rest we laid,
We buried him, our thoughts on yonder shore,
   Where fond maid hoped and anxious mother prayed.

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears
   Which strong men shed when battle’s work is done,
When comrades leal, the trusted friends of years,
   Are flagged to death—by treachery undone.

With heads laid bare, and round the grave still ranged,
   Each made a vow with imprecating breath,
“Witness, ye heavens, this deed shall be avenged,
   I swear, so help me God, in life or death.”

Each comrade rose, all thought of failure spurned,
   Renewed the conflict with resistless stroke;
It was not long ere victory returned,
   And British feats did world-wide praise evoke.

When Sacon prowess you define and praise,
   And Highland valor you extol and sing,
When Celtic courage is the theme you raise,
   Or launch the trio on triumphant wing 

Give not the glory to the armored fleet,
   Nor highest meed to armies’ measured tread
Your tribute lay at some lone maiden’s feet,
   Your laurels take to some poor widow’s shed.

The deed of valor or the height of fame,
   That lustrous loom and shall survive the sod,
Are forged and gilded in the cloven flame
   Of love for mother, wife, and trust in God.

Rev. P. M. McEachren, Waterdown, Ont. [page 109]


Drake in the North Sea grimly prowling,
     Treading his dear “Revenge’s” deck,
Watched, with the sea-dogs round him growling,
     Galleons drifting wreck by wreck.
     “Fetter and Faith for England’s neck,
   Faggot and Father, Saint and chain—
Yonder the Devil and all go bowling,
   Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!”
Drake at the last off Nombre lying,
     Knowing the night that toward him crept, 
Gave to the sea-dogs round him crying,
     This for a sign before he slept
     “Pride of the West! What Devon hath kept
   Devon shall keep on tide or main;
Call to the storm and drive them flying,
   Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!”
Valor of England gaunt and whitening,
     Far in a south land brought to bay,
Locked in a death-grip all day tightening,
     Waited the end in twilight grey.
     Battle and storm and the sea-dog’s way!
   Drake from his long rest turned again,
Victory lit thy steel with lightning,
   Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!

Henry Newman, Ladysmith, Natal.


The following is the story of the origin of Ladysmith:—

One curious incident in the siege of Badajos may be related. The day after the assault of two Spanish ladies, the younger a beautiful girl of fourteen, appealed for help to two officers of the Rifles, who were passing through one of the streets of the town. Their dress was torn, their ears, from which rings had been roughly snatched, were bleeding, and to escape outrage or death they cast themselves on the protection of the first British officers they met. One of the officers was Captain Harry Smith, of the Rifles. Two years later he married the girl he had saved in a scene so wild. Captain [page 110] Harry Smith, in after years served at the Cape as Sir Harry, and this Spanish girl, as Lady Smith, gave her name to the historic town which Sir George White defended with such stubborn valor. The two great sieges of Badajos and Ladysmith are separated from each other by nearly a century, but there exists this interesting human link between them.—We may also state that Harrysmith is a town in South Africa.

Privy Purse Office,
Buckingham Palace.

The Private Secretary is commanded by the Queen to thank the Rev. G. E. Ross for his letter of the 26th ult., and for the accompanying verses:—

12th April 1900,
Buckingham, Palace,


Hark the chiming of a million joyous bells,
Wreathed in glory is the tale their chiming tells;
Bleeding Ladysmith is free.
Let it echo o’er the sea,
While the heirs of liberty,
     Strike the bells.

From the lips of genius speeds the magic word,
Far and near, determined hands are on the sword;
Lo, a giant at the wheel,
See the foeman backward reel,
While ten thousand points of steel,
     Strike the bells.

Hark, the mighty measured tramp of desperate men,
See the lowering battle’s front—o’er hill and glen;
Look, they cross the death-swept plain,
Burst the adamantine chain,
Wiping out Majuba’s stain;
     Strike the bells. [page 111]

Hark the moaning of a thousand bleeding men,
There is blood and rags, yea, death upon the plain;
Britain’s sons, the foe withstood,
And cemented with their blood,
Mighty empires o’er the flood,
    Strike the bells.

Bleeding hearts list the chiming of the bells,
Wreathed in glory is the tale their chiming tells;
That no avalanche of fire,
Nor dark hell’s entangled wire,
Could one backward step inspire,
     Touch the bells.

See Dundonald o’er the bloody kopjes fly,
Leads the squadrons whose terrific battle cry
Rends the smoke cloud in the heaven,
From the prey the foe is driven,
When the mighty word is given,
     Ring the bells.

Gallant White, the British Flag is proud of thee,
And thou hast proved thy worth to keep it free;
Far around the warriors lie,
Faces fixed on Afric’s sky,
But the Old Flag flutters high,
     Hark the bells.

Hail Buller! Britain’s palm is surely thine,
‘Mid shot and shell thy form was in the line;
Hewing out the desperate way,
Pounding, blasting, night and day,
Thou has shared the bloody fray,
     Hark the bells.

Hark, the rescued city rings triumphant bells,
Hushed forever is the crash of bursting shells;
Death is cheated of his prize,
British hallelujahs rise,
To the Name that never dies,
     Strike the bells. [page 112] 

Hail! matchless Sovreiegn, list the chiming bells,
Of an Empire’s love to thee their chiming tells,
Bending low thy glorious head,
Weeping o’er the British dead,
Thou thy queenly tears hast shed,
     Strike the bells.

Rev. G. E. Ross, Shannonville, Ont.
Clandeboye, Ireland, March 8, 1900.

My Dear Mr. Newell,—Some kind friend has sent me the touching verses you have written in reference to the death of our poor boy and Lady Dufferin has begged me to express to you her deepest gratitude, which I do, both in her name and in my own, for having paid so tender and generous a tribute to his memory. Nor are we less sensible of the friendly spirit towards ourselves which breathes through your beautiful poem.

Believe me, yours sincerely,
Dufferin and Ava.


The man whose name stands highest in the esteem
   Of those o’er whom he ruled in days gone by,
Is not forgotten, now that death’s dark stream
   Hath quenched the hopes which once burnt proud and high.

Ah! who shall say how much the father thought—
   How oft the mother prayed, as days sped on,
And boyhood from that loftier manhood caught
   The fire Promethean passed from sire to son.

And when at length the cry “To arms!” was heard,
   And valiant deeds succeeded boasting words,
Brave Ava rushed to battle—did and dared
   The hero’s part against unequal hordes.

As now th’ illustrious father bows his head
   In manly grief beside that honored bier;
We, too, would sorrow for the noble dead,
   And mourn his loss with those who we revere,

Rev. J. R. Newell. [page 113]


The wave that breaks against a forward stroke,
Beats not the swimmer back, but thrills him through,
With joyous trust to win his way anew,
Through stronger seas than first upon him broke;
And triumph, England’s iron-tempered oak
Shrank not when Europe’s might against her grew
Full, and her sun drank up her foes like dew,
And lion-like from sleep her strength awoke.
As bold in fight as bold in breach of trust,
We find our foes and wonder not to find,
Nor grudge them praise, whom honour may not bind;
But loathing more intense then speaks disgust,
Heaves England’s heart when scorn is bound to greet
Hunters and hounds whose tongue would lick their feet.

On Their Departure for South Africa.

Farewell! brave soldiers of the British flag!
   —You’re off to fight for Empire and for Queen—
Farewell! May love to Canada ne’er lag,
   Though million miles of ocean lie between.

Yours is to stand for freedom’s heaven-born right;
   To uphold the cause of justice—man to man!
To hurl defiance at the despot’s seat,
   And in the thick of battle, lead the van!

Ours, is to wait, and watch, and help, and pray;
   To ask the God of battles, that this war,
—Waged in the cause of liberty—e’en may
   To happy issue come, in days not far.

Yours is to brave the weary midnight march;
   Perchance upon the battle-field to roam,
And hear some wounded comrade sadly call
   For loved ones absent and for “Home, Sweet Home.” [page 114] 

Ours is to comfort those you leave behind,
   —To cheer the downcast, and to wipe the tear,
When word shall come that brother, lover, son,
   Or husband fond, has filled a soldier’s bier!

For all, alas! we know, will not return,
   Some graves must hollowed be, on Afric’s strand!
Some bones must whiten ‘neath the broad palm-tree,
   Of those who dare to fight for mother-land.

An entrance may they find at Heaven’s gate,
   Full and abundant!—trusting him who died
To save the world from cruelty and hate,
   —The wrongs of the oppressor and his pride.

But some, we’ll welcome warmly home again!
   Though scarred, perchance, the dear brave boys may be,
We’ll love them better for the scars they bear,
   As through them, Queen and country we shall see.

Then loud shall sound our peans of applause!
   Prolonged our notes of welcome and our cheers,
As in remembrance fond, we’ll ever hold,
   Our brave Canadian boys—our volunteers!

Miss L. A. Edwards, Truro, N. S.


Leagues upon leagues away, over the ocean,
   Unshrinking to serve in an alien land,
Summoned by duty, inspired by devotion,
   Of ministering women behold a brave band!
Enlisted from every rank and condition,
   Marching as one, under Charity’s lead,
Their pass-word “Humanity!”—“Mercy” their mission,
   They speed them to nurture their brothers in need. [page 115] 

A truce to these wailings at woman’s position,
   To her claim as man’s equal his work to divide,
To her suit at life’s bar—in her jaundiced ambition—
   For what Nature must always against her decide;
In the storm and the stress—to the strong the survival!
   O’er the waves of the world, Man, the vessel must steer,
Let her stand by his side, but a helpmate—no rival,
   In sickness, to cherish—in adversity, cheer. 

See! you parlors of pain, where the souls fast are flying,
   Now the battle is over, the victory won,
Maimed, helpless and mute, there’s a soldier-boy lying!
   Oh, well their neil’s business the bullets have done!
He moans! to his rough hand soft fingers are creeping,
   And the drought in his throat, the cool draught seems to stay,
And he thinks, as he sinks to, maybe, his last sleeping,
   That an angel has surely been passing his way.

Sisters of succor! whom all now shall honour, 
   Bearing to-day in the conflict their part,
Each one gone forth with God’s blessing upon her,
   Man’s life in her hands—woman’s love in her heart.

Cotsford Dick, “London World.”


We sing of the soldier who’s gone to the war,
   His country’s battles to fight!
We publish his bravery and daring afar,
   And truly, well we might!
But what of the nurses who’ve gone to the front,
   To succor the wounded men?
We should like—in justice to all concerned—
   To hear a good word for them.

They have left the warmth of their own firesides,
   To rough it across the deep!
To spend—and be spent—for their country’s weal,
   While we on our couches sleep! [page 116]
The long, long vigils that fall to their lot,
   The numberless steps they take,
As they gently glide to the sufferer’s side,
   Should surely a record make!

When the ambulance train brings the wounded in,
   A terrible living freight!
Say, who are heroes to come and go,
   On the doctors’ bidding to wait?
Who soothes the man with the broken limb?
   Who wipes away the tear?
As thoughts of the loved ones far, will,
   Or the Border-land draws near!

Say, who are these figures that come and go?
   Are they men in the khaki clad?
They are, women—weak women—as sometimes styled,
   But they make the sick ones glad!
They’ve endurance that comes from some hidden source;
   They have gentleness, kindness and skill,
And the role that our noble nurses play
   Is no easy one to fill!

When the deep, dark Valley of Death must be faced!
   Not alone does the soldier die!
This faithful friend s there till the end,
   And closes the upturned eye!
A message—perchance—ere, the dear boy went,
   Was sent to the loved ones at home;
It is carefully stored in the precious hoard,
   To be kept for their ears alone.

Then a song for the nurses who’ve gone to the front,
   To succor the wounded men!
We should like—in justice to all concerned—
   To hear a good word for them!
They are working and wearing their lives away,
   In the service of Empire and Queen!
And as fully deserve their mood of praise,
   As the men in the khaki, I ween.

Miss L. A. Edwards, Truto, N. S. [page 117]


We have sung the songs by the sounding guns
   Away on the burning veldt,
We have mourned for the dead, who have fought and bled
   In the thick of the bullet’s pelt;
We have cheered for the men who have dropped the pen,
   But what of the women who wait!

Ah! what of the wife who has lent a life,
   And waits in the winter gloom—
And the sister’s fears and the mother’s tears,
   And the hush of the lonely room?
When the ‘lists’ are out, and the newsboys shout
   The ‘bill’ of their book of Fate,
Let us spare a thought, from the men who fought
   For the tortured women who wait!

The Cape Times.


There are sounds of fiercest conflict far away in Africa,
   And the hosts of Britain speed across the wave
While the sons of Australia and loyal Canada
   Have gone forth to join the banners of the brave.
There were plaints of dire oppression heard upon that distant shore,
   But the Anglo-Saxon cry is liberty!
And once more their cannons echo, and the hands are stained with gore,
   That the world may share the blessings of the free.


Press ye on, Britons brave! Press ye on, Britons true!
   Though a strong and fearless foeman bars the way,
There are future peace and blessing for that land across the blue,
   In the triumph of our banners, men, to-day. [page 118] 

Fight on, ye men of British blood, who never fought in vain,
   When the sacred cause of freedom claimed your aid!
Remember Queen and Country now, and break oppression’s chain!
   Of the hero’s death ye never were afraid;
But your country sall remember, and the heart of Britain bleeds
   For the brave who shall return to her no more,
While her trust is in His blessing, Who the cause of freedom speeds,
   And she knows that cause shall triumph as of yore.


Press ye on, Britons brave! Press ye on, Britons true!
   Though a strong and fearless foeman bars the way,
There are future peace and blessing for that land across the blue,
   In the triumph of our banners, men, to-day.

John Mortimer, Elora, Ont.


Kipling’s verse in honor of Lord Roberts were published in the ‘Pall Mall Gazette’ in 1893.

There’s a little red-faced man,
   Which is Bobs!
Rides the tallest ‘orse ‘e can—
   Our Bobs!
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
‘E can sit for twenty years,
With a smile round both ‘is ears—
   Can’t yer, Bobs?

Then ‘ere’s to Bobs Bahadur—
   Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
‘E’s our pukka Kandahader—
   Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
‘E’s the Dook of Aggy Chel,’
‘E’s the man that done us well,
An’ we’ll follow ‘im to ‘ell!
   Won’t we, Bobs?

Go ahead. [page 119]

If a limber’s slipped a trace,
   ‘Ook on Bobs;
If a marker’s lost ‘is place,
   Dress by Bobs.
For ‘e’s eyes all up ‘is coat,
An’ a bugle in ‘is throat,
An’ you will not play the goat
   Under Bobs.

‘E’s a little down on drink,
   Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer clink—
   Don’t it, Bobs?
So we will not complain,
Tho’ ‘e’s water on the brain,
If ‘e leads us straight again—
   Blue-light Bobs.

If you stood ‘im on ‘is ‘ead
   Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart o’ lead
   Outer Bobs.
‘E’s been at it thirty years,
   An’ amassin’ souveneers
In the way o’ slugs an’ spears—
   Ain’t yer, Bobs?

What ‘e does not know ‘o war,
   Gen’ral Bobs,
You can arst the shop next door—
   Can’t they, Bobs?
Oh, ‘e’s little, but he’s wise;
‘E’s a terror for ‘is size,
An’ ‘e—does—not—advertise—
   Do yer, Bobs?

Now they’ve made a bloomin’ Lord
   Outer Bobs,
Which was but ‘is fair reward—
   Weren’t it, Bobs?
An’ ‘ell wear a coronet
Where ‘is ‘elmet used to set;
But we know you won’t forget—
   Will yer, Bobs? [page 120] 

Then, ‘ere’s to Bobs Bahadur—
   Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
Pocket-Wellin’ton an’ arder—
   Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
This ain’t no bloomin’ ode,
But you’ve ‘elped the soldier’s load,
An’ for benefits bestowed,
   Bless yer, Bobs!

And a half.


Like all whose thoughts these perilous times engage,
I cast my eyes adown the printed page,
And, with a deepening thrill of pride, I read
How Robert’s planned, and how his legions bled,
How through the captured town brave Roberts rode,
Like some proud king his charger he bestrode,
Like Roman conqueror he, save that his way
Recalls no history of a tyrant’s sway.
No pale and gory captives round him kneel,
Nor dusty slaves faint at his chariot wheel;
The cheering thousands only in him scan
The wise and kindly Christian gentleman.
Far o’er the seas he knows the news will go,
The land he loves, the Queen he honors so,
Will share his triumph, and—more tender, dear
And cherished—others will the tidings hear
With pulsing hearts; yet, in a scene like this,
There is a form his craving eye will miss!
A lithe young form, well trained to warrior’s art,
That from a hero learned a hero’s part.
Ah, stricken sire! one shadow dims the ray
Of glory that now hovers o’er thy way;
Nor in Fame’s toxic cup can’st thou forget;
A bitter drop invades its sweetness yet.
How heavy in the scale ‘gainst honors won
Will weigh the passing of thine only son!
This to myself I told, (for well I know
That woe, though well sustained, is ever—woe),
And felt a kindred pang to that which smote
The father’s heart beneath the general’s coat.

M. J. Wells. [page 121]


When the youngster came to ‘elp,
          Son of Bobs,
We looked for a Lion’s whelp,
          Just like Bobs.
Oh, he was his “Father’s Son,”
And worse luck, the only one,
But I’ll tell you what was done,
          By young Bobs.

Just as usual, no foresight,
          Not like Bobs,
Sendin’ guns, as was too light,
          Not by Bobs,
Bullets, shrapnel, shot and shell,
Men were killed like flies, and fell.
Round the guns was like a ‘ell,
          And we’d no Bobs.

But the ‘old block’s’ chip was there
          Son to Bobs,
Blunder saw—tried to repair,
          Just like Bobs,
So—he dashed into that ‘ell
Limbered up, and rode out well,
Then went back and wounded fell,
          Poor young Bobs!

So he won “Victoria Cross”
          Just like Bobs,
But he died—who feels his loss?
          Like poor Bobs,
As comes with a broken heart,
To command, and do his part,
And we’ll avenge him when we start,
          Under Bobs.

J. B. H. [page 122]


Out on the red veldt, ‘mid Afric’s sand,
Where fierce tempests roar, by torrid winds fanned,
The men of an Empire stand fit for the fight,
With their eyes on the motto—“For God and the Right.”

And the whole of Old England throbs as one heart,
Knowing well how her brave sons are playing their part,
Though rejoicing at victory, she shivers with pain,
As, bowing her proud head, she weeps for the slain.

But cheer up, old England, who’s this comes in sight,
With their eye on the enemy, keen for the fight;
With hearts true as steel, yea! dauntless, and more?
Why, these are your grandsons, from Canada’s shore.

They have come from the home nest, the mart and the field,
At the feet of the Mother Queen, homage to yield;
They will rally around her in time of her need,
They will fight for her, die for her—boys of all creed.

Good boys, brave boys, boys of the Western sphere,
The God of battle be with you all, who know no shrinking fear;
Some of you must lay down your lives, where many a hero sleeps,
While Canada’s heart with pride doth swell, proud Canada also weeps.

Good boys, brave boys, boys of the Western Sphere,
The God of battle be with you all, who know no shrinking fear;
Proud Canada shouts from shore to shore, her cry comes far and near,
Unfurl your flags, and for “Our Boys” give cheer! cheer! cheer!

Mrs. Saunderson, Montreal.


Here’s to the lad in khaki clad
   From the Provinces down by the sea;
He shoulders his gun, not merely for fun,
   From the Provinces down by the sea. [page 123] 
      Here’s to Nova Scotia then,
          Down, down, drink it down!
      Prince Edward and New Brunswick men,
          Down, down, drink it down!

Here’s to them all who answered the call
   From the Province of Old Quebec;
French in his name, he is British the same,
   From the Province of old Quebec.
       Here’s to Old Quebec, my friends,
          Down, down, drink it down!
      And gallant habitants she sends,
          Down, down, drink it down!

Here’s to the strong, who came in a throng
   When Ontario went on the war-path;
They are the chaps who picked up their traps,
   When Ontario went on the war-path.
      Here’s to the Midland Province then,
          Down, down, drink it down!
      Her sons are all of them men among men,
          Down, down, drink it down!

Here’s to the squad, fearing but God,
   The Police of the plains of the West;
Their shooting’s to kill, and their fighting’s like hell,
   Those scouts of the Plains of the West.
      From Manitoba to the “Golden Coast,”
          Down, down, drink it down!
      They are Canada’s pride and Canada’s boast,
          Down, down, drink it down!

C. A. Botsford, Brigham, Que.


Here’s a song to our brothers who’ve gone to the war,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
For we cannot forget them although they’re afar,
          Hark to the fife and drum! [page 124] 
They have gone to the distant South African clime,
And they’re fighting with Kruger perhaps at this time,
So we’ll give them a little remembrance in rhyme.
          Hark to the fife and drum!


Britannia! Britannia!
True are the sons of Canada.
Britannia! Britannia!
March to the fife and drum.

Here’s a song to the officers gallant and brave,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
Here’s a song to the men who know how to behave,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
Here’s a song to the fighters who never will yield,
Who will suffer no manner of stain on their shield.
In the camp, on the march, or the perilous field.
          Hark to the fife and drum!

They were anxious to give their old Mother a band,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
So they gathered from every part of the land,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
They arose in the east and the centre with zest,
And they came from the limitless plains of the west,
And adown to the ship they went marching abreast,
          Hark to the fife and drum!

Not a moment was lost when they heard the alarm,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
They went out from the city, the village, the farm,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
And the merchant, the clerk, the mechanic, the swain,
Put the uniform on and sailed over the main
With a ‘God Save the Queen,’ and a ‘Vive la Reine!’
          Hark to the fife and drum!

Let us trust they’ll be happy—we knew they’ll be true,
          Hark to the fife and drum!
Let us wish them good fortune until they get through,
          Hark to the fife and drum! [page 125]
May they make Queen Victoria’s enemies run,
And come home again safe when the victory’s won,
And make Canada proud of the deeds they have done,
          Hark to the fife and drum!

W. M. M.


Brave British hearts, that in beleaguer’d holds
     With ceaseless toll,
Guard the old flag’s war-worn and blacken’d folds
     On Afric’s soil.

Where, back to back, amid the crimson’d sands,
     Weary with blows,
Whelps of the Lion! ye face the snarling bands
     Of wolfish foes.

That from their vantage volleying thunder and flame,
     Yet dread their prey,
As wary hunters dread the royal game
     They bring to bay;—

Right nobly have ye shown the sullen Boer,
     Whose brood ye be;
Sons of the Sea Queen! gather’d from each shore,
     And ev’ry sea.

There tolls the might of England; showing the scorn
     Their bosoms feel,
Who deem the peasant-foe, ignobly born,
     Scarce worth their steel.

There, gay and free, green Erin’s reckless boys,
     Inur’d to war,
Eager to taste the battle’s maddening joys,
     Range near and far.

And bonnie Scotland, too, my own lov’d land,
     Though last to name—
Witness the prowess of her kilted band—
     Not least in fame. [page 126] 

Nor lacks the tribute of the snowy North;
     The torrid zone;
Nor Australasia’s gift sent freely forth—
     Her blood and bone.

Link’d in a common cause, staunch comrades these—
     Steadfast of soul,—
Not to be mated from the seven seas,
     ‘Tween pole and pole.

Regard them well, their bearing bold and high,
     Their haughty stare;
The pride of Empire in each flashing eye,
     Each martial air.

Not these the men to lightly hold their trust,
     Or basely yield;
For many a savage foe will bite the dust
     On that far field.

Ere from its staff yon fluttering rag be rent,
     That yet shall wave
Triumphant o’er a conquer’d continent,
     Won by the brave.

Then, Heart! brave lads; the dark and stormful night
     Is near an end;
Already faintly on the glimmering height
     Dawn’s beams descend.

Soon must the spoiler turn him from the chase
     To guard his own;
And, overtaken in the headlong race,
     Be overthrown.

But not more warmly will we hail you then,
     Nor with more pride,
When through the foeman’s capital our men
     Victorious strife,—

Than now, hard press’d—‘gainst fearful odds—(a sight
     That dims each eye),
Ye show the admiring world how brave men fight,
     And, how they die!

Robert Reid, Montreal. [page 127]


Meet me to-night, Mavourneen!
   Tryst with me once again,
‘Tis my last night in Old Ireland,
   Before I cross the main.
Let me stand on the deck to-morrow,
   And think as I leave this shore,
That the last kind soul that spoke to me
   Was the colleen I adore.

Tell me once more, Mavourneen!
   Tell me the old sweet tale,
That has power to stir men’s bosoms
   When sterner voices fall;
And for many a night out yonder
   It will keep me real and true,
I could not be aught but loyal, love,
   To be worthy such as you.

And should I fall, Mavourneen!
   As many a brave lad falls,
For ours is the post of danger
   When duty’s trumpet calls;
God comfort your heart with the thought, dear,
   That I blest ye as I fell,
And spare one tear at the gloaming hour
   For the boy that lov’d ye well!

Robert Reid.


Gae bring me the gude claymore again,
   The kilt and the tartan plaid;
For a voice comes sounding over the main
   That I ken must be obeyed;
Thrice has it call’d frae the far-off clime,
   And thrice at the call I sprang,
And tho’ it should be for the hinmaist time
   As blythe as of yore I’ll gang. [page 128] 

‘Tis the voice of our noble Queen I hear,
   And she speaks in freedom’s cause,—
“Go summon my warriors far and near
   To guard my lands and laws;
For a freeman’s rights, while God me aids
   Each Briton shall command,
And woe to the reckless foe that raids
   On Britain’s bought—bought land!”

So it’s fare thee weel, thou auld grey toon,
   That sits ‘neath the dour grey skies,
In whose blythe neuks and the braes aroun’
   My pride and pleasure lies;
For a call like that, nae Scottish heart
   Has ever been deaf to hear,
Tho’ the listener kens that it bids him part
   Frae a’ that he holds maist dear.

The signal hath sped owre strath and hill,
   And the clans are gathering fast,
For ours is a race that could ne’er bide still,
   When the fiery cross fleets past;
And where could a man find darg sae dear
   As to fight for home and Queen,
Wi’ the skirl o’ the pipes to soothe his ear
   As he fa’s asleep at e’en?

But awa’ wi’ the thochts o’ death and dule,
   ‘Tis o’ war’s stern joys I’d sing;
Let them busk the streets in the garb of Yule
   And the bells o’ the Castle ring
Syne play us aboard wi’ a canty strain,
   And we’ll proudly put to sea;
Tho’ it’s like to be lang or ye look again,
   On my braw, braw lads, and me!

Robert Reid. [page 129]


The Canadians acted as escort for the refugees, and carried babies for the mothers, and kept everybody lively by singing as they marched pluckily along through the heavy sand.

The ‘Maple Leaf Forever,’ they sing,
And ‘Soldiers of the Queen,’
And the rescued women smile down on the lines,
From the crowded waggons, between
Grief, for the homes to be left to the foe,
Fears, of what the future may bring,
Are dispelled by the light-hearted lips of the lads,
Who carry the babies and sing.

There’s a soft little arm on the soldier’s neck,
And a warm little cheek near his own,
As he tramps through the grinding, sliding sand,
And sings in that cheery tone.
Ready, aye, ready, for work or watch,
Or march, or fight, as the bugles ring;
Just now it is duty, and pleasure for sure,
To carry the babies and sing.

‘Bless the boys,’ laugh the mothers at home,
While brushing the tears from their eyes,
And folding the story down in their hearts,
For children’s children to prize.
And the babes of the story may tell, perchance
—When little King David’s* a greybeard king—
How the fierce young fighters from far-away lands
Would carry the babies and sing.

Miss Sara E. Strigley, Britainville, Ont.

*Tiny Prince Edward of York is called “little King David” by his royal relations.


Out on a sun-scorched plain, away beyond the ocean wave,
On Afric’s far distant shore there is a soldier’s grave;
No weeping willows wave above, no drooping flowers grow,
But in that lone, unshaded spot a soldier’s form lies low. [page 130] 

Unvisited, untended, yet the one who’s sleeping there
Had used to know a sister’s love, a mother’s tender care,
A home where loving ones had learned to trust him as their stay;
That home is now left desolate, since he has gone away.

Throughout the land the war note rang, he heard his country’s call,
And boldly marched to face her foes, to fight and stand or fall;
A soldier fighting for his Queen, a hero in khaki,
Willing to sacrifice his life; the Empire must be free.

Without a murmur or complaint, war’s dread hardship’s he bore,
They only added honor to the uniform he wore.
But sometimes when the work was hard beneath the burning sun,
He thought of rest at home again—after the war was done.

And when on battle fields they charged, amidst a deadly hail
Of bullets from the enemy, his courage did not fail,
Though others of his regiment were falling at his side,
He still fought on without a wound, where soldier boys had died.

But shot at last! He strove to save a lad who near him fell,
‘Twas then the bullet did its work, and did it, but too well.
They buried him just where he lay, at setting of the sun,
His spirit passed away, before ‘twas known the field was won.

No more he’ll keep the midnight watch or march to meet the band;
Another bugle call he heard while in the stranger land,
The blood-stained veldt has closed above his noble Saxon breast,
And sounded now the last fierce charge—the soldier is at rest.

Miss Adeline Johnson, Collingwood, Ont.


Carefully bury our lads in the sand,
Africa’s diamonds less dear, than the hand
Now anchored in death’s long slumber.
Ah! who could picture the cherished thought
Despite the mission that each went forth
In charge of the nation’s honour,
And “meet again by our hearths and fires,”
Not less brave than our English sires. [page 131] 

Could we yield aught to our motherhood,
Offerings more dear than our children’s blood?
Not all the wealth in our western hills,
Tendered to England, she prefers it,
Imperial in heart, she prefers it,
Now in the pageant, now in the fray,
Great Britain to serve, is our glory to-day;
E’en while the tears in our homesteads are falling,
Nothing daunted, our brothers are pledged to their calling,
They have fought on the banks of the Modder, “At last.”

Mrs. Letitia M’Cord, Montreal.

Of Charles Carroll Wood, Lieutenant Royal North Lancaster Regiment.

A dark cloud over city heart; a household draped in black,
For one, who going forth to war, no welcome can win back,—
To meet, his gallant father’s clasp—his mother’s loving kiss,—
Or sweet home faces sad to-day for one they long must miss.

He sailed afar o’er troubled seas, to reach an alien land,
To lay a joyous youthfulness, prone neath a foeman’s hand,
To take his share in danger’s hour, until the seal of rest,
A death wound on a calm cool brow, its solemn signet press.

For Rights most precious; Justice pure and Love of kindred soil
He turned a bold glance dangerward; endured a soldier’s toil.
What led that willing warrior to butchery’s awful scene,
For his God and Queen and country, or what these rear words mean.

Now though his sleep is heavy, he has his own full share,
Of all nobility of soul all great ones do endure,
And if the nations firmer stand, the Lord of Hosts to praise,
He has bravely given all he had, that standard high to raise.

No white flag drooping mournfully, no red cross floating high;
Though for the triune meteor Fold, Canadian lads can die—
He has lifted up the banner that He glories in to-day
Though all Earth’s lofty pageantries for him have passed away. [page 132]

The iron badge of suffering, is changed to love supreme,
The darkness of a sore distress to Glory’s golden beam—
The tenderest ties of life are knit never to be united,
For God—and Queen—and all birth right, our soldier son has died.

The dead march and the requiem, may hush the crowded street,
The slow paced tread of armed men may mark their well trained feet;
But softly breathes Faith’s holy hymn, peril and strife are o’er—
For he has passed from well-fought fields to Peace for evermore.

Miss Cassie Fairbanks, Halifax, N.S.


Britain’s weeping, weeping, weeping, for the flower of youth and strength,
Women lonely vigil keeping till despair kills hope at length.

Many homes are dark and dreary, many hearts are sad and sore,
Tired eyes with watching weary for the loved, who come no more.

Fathers, husbands, sons and brothers lying cold, amid the slain,
Whom their daughters, wives and mothers hope ‘gainst hope, to see again.

And though victory soon shall gladden Britain, conqueror, still with pride,
Yet the memory long will sadden of her heroes who have died.

Miss Katherine A. Clarke.


Oh! the wild wind will moan o’er the veldt, where he sleeps,
And chill Death will console the forlorn one, who weeps
For the smile of her hero, that god that was torn
From the throne in her heart, with evanescent morn!

Not the cold wind of winter, nor soft breeze of spring,
Nor the wild storm of summer, when hoarse thunders wing
To roar in the skies, as fierce Levin flares nigh,
Will arouse thee, my loved one, departed for aye! [page 133] 

Ah! above thy low crest will the nodding grass wave,
For ye sleep the deep sleep that is slept in the grave.
Ever hence in a dark sweep must Time’s billows rolls,
Since thou’rt gone, noble darling, thou pride of my soul!

Through the shadow and sheen, as I drift to the sea,
My one thought, Oh! thou loved one, must ever be thee,
For oh! seared by a blast of the Dark One—alone,
Thou hast left me forever!—hast sought the unknown!

Ah! ne’er, ne’er, will the tears of my sorrow be dried,
Till this poor shattered bark is o’erwhelmed by the tide;
Then farewell, my brave soldier, God willed we should part,
Oh! farewell, loved but lost, shattered idol of heart!

W. A. Wanless, London, Ont.


From the land of the Golden West they come,
          The gallant Canadians!
They spring to their feet at the tap of the drum,
          The gallant Canadians!
And down in the South the lads from the West,
Meet the lads from the North and the East, breast to breast,
And grandly, oh, grandly, they pass through the test,
          The gallant Canadians!

‘Tis echoed in Britain fair Canada’s cry,
          My gallant Canadians!
For them we have cheered; for them we will sigh,
          My gallant Canadians!
Oh! Canada, Canada, grieve we with you
For your sons, for my sons, so gallant, so true,
For those who are sleeping ‘neath Africa’s dew,
          My gallant Canadians! [page 134] 

In that they were your sons; in that they were mine;
          My gallant Canadians!
On our hearts now engrave we their names for a sign,
          My gallant Canadians!
For a sign and a token hereafter to be
One indivisible, united, yet free,
Great Britain, Australia, South Africa, thee,
          My gallant Canadians!

J. T. Davies, London.


Message from the people of Canada to their Contingent in South Africa, after Paardeberg and the Relief of Mafeking.

Well done, brave sons! Your every move we’ve traced:
   With eager eyes—through tears—we’ve scanned the news;
   You are of us, and so we could not choose
But stand with you or fall at Fate’s behest.

We knew your valour. In your veins you bear
   The chivalry of France—the Briton’s pride—
   With names like “Daulac” or “Champlain” to guide
Or “Brant” or “Brock” to teach you how to dare.

But never did we dream that you might do
   Such deeds as late have set us wild with joy;
   Such fearless feats—fit boast for fabled Troy—
As give the palm of Paardeberg to you.

We wait, impatient till the war is o’er,
To do your honour on your proud home shore.

George Graham Currie.


We’re camping out on the veldt to-night,
   With the stars shining brightly above,
And my thoughts seem to wander to you, mother,
   To home, and all I love. [page 135]

There are two stars shining soft and clear,
   Right over my head as I lay,
And I can’t help thinking they’re like your eyes,
   Although you’re so far away.

I suppose the robins have come again,
   And the snow and frost are gone,
And you’re all as busy as bees, mother,
   Getting ready for summer to come.

Tell Dick to let me know the scores
   When lacrosse and baseball are through,
And if he goes camping he can have my things,
   The boat and fishing rods too.

Well, mother, I’ll tell you something now,
   I know you don’t think it sham,
Your dear, old, rackety, careless boy
   Has changed to a thoughtful man.

‘Twas Paardeberg did it, that fearful fight,
   When I saw our brave boys fall,
And heard the boom of shell and gun,
   And the wounded piteous call.

My heart stood still, my blood ran cold
   When I looked on the dead, spattered face
Of one of our company’s brightest boys,
   And, as I stepped to his place—

I said to myself, ‘Now, Jack, play the man,
   Just show what you can do;
Stand steady, keep calm, fire right away,
   And be sure your aim is true.’

We kept right at it all through the day,
   In spite of thirst and heat,
But the Canucks and the Gordons and Cornwalls’ hot fire
   At last made the Boers retreat.

Our dead all sleep in one grave, mother,
   We tenderly laid them to rest;
It just broke our hearts, the poor, dear lads,
   Canada’s bravest and best. [page 136]

They not only gave their lives, mother,
   But their deeds spread their country’s fame,
And those who scarce gave her a thought before,
   Respect now, and honor her name.

You know all the rest, how seeing all lost,
   General Cronje put up the white flag,
And surrendered with men, ammunition and arms,
   Which made all our camp very glad.

Of course there’ll be more fighting, I know,
   But whether it’s lost or won;
Be sure in the thickest, doing his best,
   Will be your dutiful son.

The stars are beginning to fade, mother,
   I can see faint streaks of light;
So, before I drop off to sleep, I will say,
   ‘Good morning,’ tho’ with you, it’s ‘Good night.’

“Belleville Sun.”


Last year he stood where lyric boughs
   And April spells had hold on him;
Last year he whispered lover’s vows—
   Now Afric clods lie cold on him.

A grateful country names his name,
   Brave words are writ in praise for him;
But one lone maid, unheeding fame,
   Doth sorrow all her days for him.

Emily McMnnus, “Canadian Magazine.”

The Canadians who fell in Africa.

All honor forever, to those who have died,
Where the shot and the shell were falling,
They fell as they fought with their face to the foe,
In the horrors of battle appalling. [page 137] 

Valiant young soldiers; they offered their lives
On the altar of war, without sighing;
Their names are engraved on earth’s tablet of fame,
In honor and glory undying.

Enshrined in the history of ages to come,
These heroes shall nevermore perish,
For Canada values the brave and the true,
And with love will their memory cherish.

Miss Katherine A. Clarke, Toronto.

Dedicated to Lord Strathcona.

O, I was thine, and thou wert mine, and ours the boundless plain,
Where the winds of the North, my gallant steed, ruffled thy tawny mane.
But the summons hath come with roll of drum, and bugles ringing shrill,
Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the hill.
‘Tis the voice of the Empire calling, and the children gather fast
From every land where the cross-bar floats out from the quivering mast;
So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle swinging free,
And thy hoof-beats shall answer the trumpets blowing across the sea!
Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,
For he who dares to stay our course, drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow!

Thy form hath pressed the meadow’s breast, where the sullen grey wolf hides,
The great Red River of the North hath cooled thy burning sides;
Together we’ve slept while the tempest swept the Rockies’ glittering chain;
And many a day the red Centaur hath galloped behind in vain!
But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and the shimmering summer streams
Must vanish forevermore, perchance, into the land of dreams:
For the strong North, hath sent us forth, to battlefields far away,
And the trail that ends where Empire trends, is the trail we ride to-day!
But proudly, toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,
For he who bars Strathcona’s Horse, drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow!

Dr. William Henry Drummond, Montreal. [page 145]


Sons of the West, ye come from far,
Roused by the bugle’s note of war,
Leaving your mountain, vale and plain!
Welcome are ye, to our southern main.

Sons of our Queen at whose just call
Ready, aye ready, to stand or fall,
Proudly then charge, Strathcona Knights
For freedom demands the freeman’s rights.

Sons of our land, our kith and kin
Honours from all are yours to win.
Bring then the laurels of deeds well done
Back to the plains of the setting sun.

Sons of the West, so strong to dare
Facing the far off battle’s glare,
Wrong not the right but right the wrong
So shall your fame be heard in song.

Sons from the mountain’s rocky dome,
Sons from the golden streamlet’s home,
Sons from the forests, plains and hills
Yours be the noble deed that thrills.

Guardian of nations, hear our prayer,
Give to our sons Thy tenderest care,
Guide them in danger, living or dead,
Glory of victory over them shed.

Rev. H. Kittson, Ottawa.


O, England, mother of seas and lands,
   Your strong men rule afar;
Where north seas hum to their glacial sands
   At your utmost harbor bar,
They till and slay and they slay and till,
   And they keep your Empire there—
No slaves are they of the mint and mill
   But the sword as the plough they bear—
          They are bone of your bone, O England! [page 146] 

They have wrestled their thews with the Arctic bear,
   With tireless moose they’ve trod;
They have drained heel-deep of a fighting air,
   And bellyed the winds of God.
They have made their beds in the hummocked snow,
   They have set their teeth to the Pole;
With death they have gained it, throw for throw,
   And drunk with him bowl for bowl!—
          They are all for thee, O, England!

In their birch canoes they have run cloud-high,
   On the crest of engulfing storm;
They have soaked the sea, and have drunk the sky,
   And laughed at the Conqueror Worm.
They reck not beast, and they fear no man;
   They have trailed where the panther glides;
On the edge of a mountain barbican
   They have tracked where the reindeer hides—
          They are all for thee, O, England!

They have freed your Flag where the white Pole-Star
   Hangs out its auroral flame;
Where the bones of your Franklin’s heroes are,
   They have honored your lofty name,
And, iron in blood and sturdy in girth,
   They have stood for your title-deed
Of the infinite North—and your lordly worth
   And your pride and your ancient creed!
          And for love of thee, O, England!

Gilbert Parker, London, Eng.


Let the winds of the western prairies,
   Deep laden with frost and snow,
Shiver sharp, on the hard car windows,
   With their swirl and bluster and blow;
Let them shriek round curves and corners,
   And beat on the engine’s head,
Sweeping the sparks like a banner proud,
   O’er the heads of the Boys in Red. [page 147] 

Let the eager throb of the engine
   And the soldiers’ hearts keep time;
Let the steadfat stroke of the piston,
   Be the stroke of our boys at the line;
Let the hissing steam, as it struggles
   To break from the fettering bar,
Foretell the might in battle
   Of our Boys ‘neath the Northern Star.

Let the cheers of a nation of brothers
   Make strong the hearts of our brave;
Let the kiss of a nation of sisters,
   Smooth the pathway toward the grave.
Let the tears and prayers of mothers
   Keep tender the hearts of sons;
And their fathers’ strength, and their fathers’ pride,
   Hold them steadfast beneath the guns.

Good bye, Old Boys, God bless you,
   The hearts of a nation cry;
May the Union Jack float o’er you,
   Whether you live or die.
In life, stand fast for the Homeland,
   Far over the ocean’s wave,
In death, wrapped close in Canada’s flag,
   Rest sweet in your unmarked grave.

Asa Ferry, Brandon, Man.


A bright sunbeam to me, is the theme of “Strathcona’s Horse,”
All nations admire the noble Sire of “Strathcona’s Horse,”
We’ll sing his praise around the world,
Where e’er the British Flag’s unfurl’d,
But, pity therefore, when ‘gainst them are hurl’d, “Strathcona’s Horse.”


Then hurrah for “Strathcona’s Horse,”
That grand irresistible force,
No power on Land, can ever withstand
The “charge,” of Strathcona’s Horse.” [page 148]

The great Northwest gave freely her best to “Strathcona’s Horse.”
Her boundless plain could a million train, for “Strathcona’s Horse,”
We long’d to prove Fair Canada’s worth.
To the greatest Empire on this Earth,
So our cup of joy ran o’er at the birth of “Strathcona’s Horse.”


Our “grand Old Man’s” the Chief of the clan of “Strathcona’s Horse”
That Patriot’s fire doth fully inspire “Strathcona’s Horse,”
Their Colonel too’s a doughty “Chiel”
One never yet scared by man or dell,
While five hundred hearts are all true as Steel (e) in “Strathcona’s Horse.”


Our Bob did smile as he welcom’d the while, “Strathcona’s Horse,”
While Kruger and Steyn wish’d back again, “Strathcona’s Horse.”
Canadian Boys had hit them sore,
So they ground their teeth, when they heard of more,
Such Lads as made them tremble before, in “Strathcona’s Horse.”

Drum Major Boyd, 5th Royal Scots.


Conquering nations all come from the north,
Fighters and lovers they ever go forth.
On land or on ocean of them it is said—
Odin and Thor are not sleeping or dead.
Give them a welcome befitting the brave—
Sons of the Empire from over the wave.
          Blue-eyed, tawny-bearded, broad-shoulders and tall,
          Here come the Northmen to answer the call.
                    Who can deny them?
                    Who dare defy them?
Men of the North! You are welcome to all. [page 149] 

With strong engine stroke and white sails outspread,
Over the ocean in khaki and red,
From ends of the earth they come, as of yore,
Strong as their fathers they spring to the shore,
Warriors welcome from over the sea
Sons of the Empire, peerless and free.
          Blue-eyed, tawny-bearded, broad-shouldered and tall,
          Here come the Northmen to answer the call.
                    Who can deny them?
                    Who dare defy them?
Men of the North! You are welcome to all.

Not in defiance, because they are strong—
For freedom and justice, right over wrong:
To show in the face of an envious world
That Britons are one, when their flag is unfurled.
They come not for conquest, but boldly to save,
Canadian Northmen from over the wave.
          Blue-eyed, tawny-bearded, broad-shouldered and tall,
          Here come the Northmen to answer the call.
                    Who can deny them?
                    Who dare defy them?
Men of the North! You are welcome to all.

Carroll Ryan, Montreal.


What is the blue on our flag, boys?
   The waves of the boundless sea,
Where our vessels ride in their tameless pride
   And the feet of the winds are free;
From the sun and smiles of the coral isles
   To the ice of the South and North,
With dauntless tread through tempests dread
   The guardian ships go forth.

What is the white on our flag, boys?
   The honour of our land,
Which burns in our sight like a beacon light,
   And stands while the hills shall stand;
Yea, dearer than fame is our land’s great name,
   And we fight wherever we be,
For the mothers and wives that pray for the lives
   Of the brave hearts over the sea. [page 150] 

What is the red on our flag, boys?
   The blood of our heroes slain
On the burning sands in the wild waste lands
   And the froth of the purple main;
And it cries to God from the crimsoned sod
   And the crest of the waves outrolled
That He send us men to fight again
   As our fathers fought of old.

We’ll stand by the dear old flag, boys,
   Whatever be said or done,
Though the shots come fast, as we face the blast,
   And the foe be ten to one;—
Though our only reward be the thrust of a sword
   And a bullet in heart or brain,
What matters one gone, if the flag float on
   And Britain be Lord of the main?

Revd. Frederick George Scott, Quebec.


The trumpet note is uttered, the Union Jack unfurled;
Britannia’ sons are marching from all corners of the world;
From mart of far Australia, from India’s mystic shrines,
From New Zealand’s distant islands, from Yukon’s golden mines.

For far o’er wind swept prairies, and canon of the West,
A call has rung that shakes the world, and fires an Empire’s breast.
The western world has heard it, from gulch, and ranch, they come,
Strathcona’s Horse has sprung to arms, at roll of British drum.

The Eastern world has heard it, beneath its burning skies,
And native warriors startled, up from languorous sleep, arise;
The Rajahs of the Indies, chiefs of their dusky hordes,
Lay at the feet of Empire’s seat, the homage of their swords.

From Arctic snows to Tropics, the call rings far and wide,
Nought can resist its mighty spell, nothing our race divide.
Through every vein of manhood, the Imperial impulse passed,
And sent men rushing to the front, like leaves before the blast. [page 151] 

What is the thought behind the call, that thrills each nation’s soul;
That welds our lands in east and west, into this wondrous whole;
That sacrifices home and self, and hearts without a sigh,
And sends our bravest and our best, to conquer or to die?

Is it the lust of power supreme, or greed of lands, and gold,
To keep ourselves, what others need, and seize what others hold?
Can thoughts like these, an Empire build, and Kingdom such as ours?
Would it not crumble where it stood, and fall when battle lowers?

Nay, rather where our Maxims roar, with lightning flash of steel,
The clouds of long oppression rend, and Liberty reveal.
For Queen and Empire—grace and strength, and help to souls oppressed,
For these we give, without a sigh, our bravest and our best.

Give peace within our time, O Lord, but never let it be
Peace, where oppression, lust, and crime, reign with impunity,
O rather raise our Empire’s arch, on Freedom’s noble span,
On a higher life in woman, and a nobler growth in man.

G. M. M.


This Arch was erected in honor of the Strathcona Horse when they arrived in Montreal, on their way to South Africa.

Scarce had the chimes of midnight
In echoes died away,
Where in the wintry starlight,
A snow white city lay.
When the moon looked down and marvelled,
As she paused in her stately march,
To see a wondrous work begun,
The building of the arch.

From Canadian forests deep and dark,
Of maple, birch and larch,
Great lordly pines their strong arms brought,
For the building of the arch.
To rear and span it straight and true,
The ax and mallet plied,
And deftly built and fashioned it,
With flanking turrets wide. [page 152] 

The snow flakes from the hill side,
Like elfin masons wrought,
Transforming it to marble white,
From crystal quarries brought.
Over it all like jewels,
Clear water showered and gleam,
‘Till underneath the dark, blue sky,
A fairy arch it seemed.

It rose in the morning sunlight,
With cross-barred flag unfurled;
The flag whose streaming pennant,
Circles the round, wide world,
From Arctic fields of midnight sun,
O’er Indian jungles deep,
To isles of spice in Southern seas,
Its folds for freedom speak.

When wearied on the sun-dried veldt,
In the heat of the dusty march,
The thought will come of the pine and snow,
That fashioned the farewell arch.
And of eyes that look toward the “Southern Cross,”
Thro’ the firelit, frost rimed pane,
Under the gleam of the cold, “North Star,”
To welcome them back again;

When after the war is fought and won,
For Empire, flag and Queen,
They will homeward march thro’ another arch,
Of laurel and evergreen.

Mrs. Mary W. Alloway, Montreal.


My sons go forth into the wilderness;
   Prompt at the call, each bright-eyed wand’rer came,
Deeming his home-life and its labors less
   Than this brave chance to strike in Freedom’s name. [page 153] 

For this Canadian forests stand unhewn;
   Australian flocks without a shepherd stray;
And India’s strand, with myriad gems bestrewn,
   Glitters unwatch’d throughout the burning day.

Think ye, I feel no pride in love like this?
   Or that my sober pulse leaps not again
To taste at last the Mother’s crowning bliss,—
   A grateful brood, of such heroic strain?

My Gallant Boys, in whose imperious eyes
   Dreams of the noblest manhood proudly shine,
Where’er ye go, the night of Slavry flies,
   And Freedom’s morning streams athwart the brine!

You have I borne beneath my happy heart,
   Fed from my breast in varying hope and fear;
For you have bled, for you endur’d the smart,
   Yea, toil’d and pray’d through many an anxious year.

Now, am I honor’d in the Nation’s eyes;
   For by your actions may all true men see.
The gift I gave, your manly bosoms prize,
   And fain would share what they have drawn from me.

Be with them, Lord! until the end is won:
   Shield them from peril, succor them in pain:
And, when the work, Thou gavest them is done,
   Return them safely to their homes again!

Robert Reid.


One word of this weary war
All our hearts are waiting for,
Of the hero England bore,
    Kind and gay;
The soul so calm, whate’er befalls t
For no peril yet appals it,
And his ceaseless toil, he calls it,
     Holiday. [page 154]

Half an endless year ago,
He was left amidst the foe,
With some thousand men or so,
     As their chief.
For his country’s arms miscarried,
And across the desert arid,
Many a tedious noonday tarried
     The relief.

But he knew his masters well;
And not fortune, nor Pall Mall,
That is paven smooth as Hell,
     No man’s word.
Trusted he, but God who made him,
And the soldiers that obeyed him
     Like his sword.

“Lo, what pigmy band, at bay
On its ant-hill, bars our way?
These our guns shall sweep away
     In a trice.”
So the scornful Dutchmen vaunted;
But their braggart humour scanted,
When that gallant troop, undaunted
     Foiled him thrice.

Came and went the Christmas feast,
Yet the fight nor stayed nor ceased,
Still the swarming foe increased;
     Help delayed.
And the great siege guns came shelling
Spitfire fort and harmless dwelling,
Young and old at random felling,
     Man and maid.

See our English Greatheart then
How he moved among his men,
Gave each soul the strength of ten,
     Cheered and fired!
Till the famine-stricken, meagre
Captives of that iron leaguer,
     Hope-inspired. [page 155]

So, all hearts are longing for
Tidings from the weary war,
Of the hero England bore,
     Kind, and gay;
The soul so calm whate’er befalls it;
For no peril yet appals it,
In his country’s cause he calls it,

Howard Sydney Tylee, “London Spectator.”

Siege begun, October 12, 1899. Relieved, May 17, 1900.

Through weary months of hopes and fears
   The dreary cannon’s steady knell
Has toll’d its summons in their ears,
   Or pealed its clamorings of hell;
But spite of famine, blood and pain,
   A spot of scarlet, ‘gainst the blue,
Serene above the iron rain,
   The flag of Britain flew.

From every sheltering bush and tree
   The deadly rifles ringed them round;
And far as level eye could see
   The hostile trenches scarred the ground;
And close and closer still they drew,
   Foe facing foe—eye watching eye,
But ever o’er the combat flew
   The British flag on high.

The burghers watched it day by day,
   Alone above the leaguered town;
The badge of England far away,
   And trained their guns to beat it down.
In vain the shrapnel shook the air;
   As day by day the dawning shone,
Its tattered folds renewed with care,
   The British flag flew on. [page 156] 

The flame leaped from the shell’s red stroke,
   The blazing dwellings lit the sky,
The town was veiled in rolling smoke,
   Which blotted out the sun on high.
“Look!” cried the foe, “the flagstaff falls.”
   The cannon’s triumph shook the air;
That instant o’er the blackened walls
   The flag again was there.

Then hunger joined her with the foe,
   And fever stretched her bony hand
To shake their strength with burnings slow
   And sap their resolution grand.
Each dawn they showed more gaunt and thin;
   But courage shone in every eye—
A courage resolute to win
   And keep the flag on high.

“Now!” cried the burghers, “to the storm!
   The plague-struck town is won at length;
How lean and bent each soldier form;
   The Briton’s arms have lost their strength!”
And on they rushed with triumph-shout
   And scaled the outworks—but to die—
And rolling back in broken rout
   Saw—still the flag on high.

Oh, heart grown sick with hope delayed!
   Oh, men of Britain, not in vain.
Ye still have battled undismayed
   And held like steel beneath the strain!
Wounds, danger, fever, watching, fast,
   Despair and death—ye suffered all,
And kept, till rescue came at last,
   The flag above the wall.

Bertrand Shadwell, “Chicago Record.”


We get a word of Buller, and little snips from French,
We hear of shells that bust a fort and rake a bloomin’ trench;
But the man we want to hear of, what we’ve got to hear of, too
Is a little bloke called Plumer—Colonel Plumer—which is you. [page 157] 
I couldn’t tell you why it is, but for the likes o’ me
There’s a kind o’ fancy feelin’ for the chap they call B. P.,
And the only man in Africa to help him put it thro’
Is a little bloke called Plumer—Colonel Plumer—which is you.

So hustle, Mister Plumer, lace your boot and pack your grub,
It’s a hundred days and over that he’s kep’ the Boers outside;
So be sharp and move your bones, march away from Gaberones,
Put your foot into the stirrup, shake your charger’s veins, and ride.

You’ve got a chance you’ll never beat, however old you grow,
A chance to ride in glory, but don’t you ride too slow,
For the man you’ve got to get at, is a man as mus’nt fall,
He’s a man what’s fighting desperate with his back against the wall;
But it ain’t the joke that makes a man feel burstin’ full of larf;
There is a something in his spirit which is different from the rest.
An’ it’s no use my explainin’, but we likes ole Baden best.

So hustle, Mister Plumer, stir your stumps, sir, make a move,
It’s a hundred days and over that he’s had to sit and wait;
Oh! you may have foes in front and a lot o’ things to shunt,
But you’ve got to watch it careful, that you don’t arrive too late.

London Morning Post.


The smallest and the farthest,—it is well
At last the proudest record thou shouldst bear.
Seven months besieged,—how when the long moons wear
By their delay, thy staunchness we may tell.
From England’s throat the endless shoutings swell,
Such dawn has risen on her night of care
Such joy when with glad voice she may declare
Of her three leaguered strongholds not one fell.

Oh, Mafeking, from the wind-swept north-west
To that “last, loveliest” island far apart,
We watched and prayed for thee, we looked to thee.
This lifts our pride up to its topmost crest,
This was the thing lay closest to our heart.
We fling our love to thee across the sea.

Elizabeth Carter, Clinton, N. Y. [page 158]

Dublin Fusileers—An Acrostic.

Her Majesty has been graciously pleased to order that on this and succeeding St. Patrick’s Days, her Irish soldiers shall wear the Shamrock as a mark of the signal courage they have displayed in South Africa, and that on her approaching visit to Ireland she will accept a Battalion of Irish Guards.

Dear trefoil of Erin, growing close to thy breast,
Uplift thy sweet head to the strains we love best.
Brave sons of thy soil on their true hearts are pinning,
Loved leaf of thine isle at the Sovereign’s last bidding.
In combat they bled for their Queen in South Afric’;
Now honoured are they with the badge of St. Patrick.

Forth from the castle, forth from the cot;
Ulster flash signals to Kerry and Cork!
South Arran to Dublin; speed, speed on the news!
Ireland’s ag’d Sovereign her favour renews.
Let a regiment of guards from Erin be chosen.”
England and Scotland have guarded her throne;
Erin, when trusted, as faithful has shown!
Ring out St. Paul’s on the morn of the meeting;
Shandon’s sweet chimes will respond to the greeting.

Mrs. Letitia McCord, Montreal.


There is nothing too good for the Irish these days,
When war is the pastime and all the world’s gaze
Is turned on the men who are winning the praise—
   There is nothing too good for the Irish.

From the boys of the city of Dublin to those
Who have gone to the war in less elegant clothes,
They are all of a piece, and the story still goes,
   That there’s nothing too good for the Irih.

And the Queen (Heaven bless her!), reviewing the war,
Has seen, though the English have garter and star,
That the Irish, untitled, fight better by far,
   And are always and everywhere Irish! [page 159] 
So the Shamrock, the emblem of Erin, of old,
More loved than the badges of silver and gold,
Is worn on the breast of the warrior bold,
   For there’s nothing too good for the Irish.

And the green flag again from the mast-head shall fly,
And wave as of old, in its own native sky,
And the right to be Irish we’ll win by-and-bye,
   For there’s nothing too good for the Irish.

Rev. J. R. Newell, Markdale, Ont.

(New Version).

Oh, Patrick dear, and did you hear,
     The news that’s going round?
The Shamrock is no more forbid
     To grow on Irish ground.
But raised with honor and renown,
     By order of the Queen,
The army and the navy now,
     Are wearing of the green.

I met with General Buller,
     And he took me by the hand,
Saying—How are these for heroes bold,
     Who come from Erin’s land.
A telegram was handed me
     This morning from the Queen—
She says—“They’ve won my heart and made,
     Me proud to wear the green.

And ever on St. Patrick’s Day,
     Wherever to the skies,
Triumphantly for liberty,
     The flag of Britain flies,
There shall the harp and shamrock fly,—
     By all the nations seen—
To Irish valor Britain owes
     The wearing of the green. [page 160]

Not only did they beat the Dutch,
     Upon the wild Karoo,
But they have conquered English hearts
     With courage high and true.
Then ever more when British men
     Shall sing “God Save the Queen,”
They’ll not forget Old Ireland and
     The wearing of the green.

Carroll Ryan, Montreal.
St. Patrick’s Day, 1900.


          All hushed and still is now the battle’s roar;
          Spent shot and shell lie rusting on the ground;
          Done is the weary march, the Sentry’s round;
No fiery horsemen strew with slain the hoof-torn soil;
The filched gold no more true British steel can foil,
And Dagon falls, God’s ark of liberty before.

          The sullen Boer returns to “Whence he came”;
          No more Majuba wears a cypress crown—
          The “Black man’s burdens” press no longer down—
The Southern Cross now twinkles o’er a land, unriven
By wrong and tyranny, while “Satan falls from heaven,”
And Freedom’s Sons and Daughters curse a Kruger’s name.

          Go! with the mark, upon thy soul, of Cain—
          Go! as a vagabond aye doomed to roam—
          Go! as a felon shorn of hearth and home.
The Despot’s Isle in thee has missed its lawful prey,
Yet women’s tears, and ghosts of slain shall haunt thy way,
Yet what reck’st thou, if still thy bars of gold remain?

          Blow gentle winds that fan soft Southland climes,
          To speed your parting guests to Northern shores,
          Where tho’ stern winter reigns—the blizzard roars,
Warm hearts and hands are waiting there, and belching guns
Acclaim the noble prowess of our warrior sons,
And countless belfries ring triumphal golden chimes. [page 161]

          Welcome! brave boys, who faced the battle-sheen;
          Welcome! from lands for which your blood was shed;
          Welcome! to laurels wove for every head.
Now “Home Sweet Home,” for you uncounted thousands sing—
Flags proudly float o’er hill and dale, and paeans ring,
To greet our bronzed and faithful “Soldiers of the Queen.”

          Ah! yes; full well we know that tears flow down
          O’er wan and saddened cheeks for those we miss;
          For them no more awaits the raptured kiss.
Alas! that “Paths of glory lead but to the grave”;
Still we, on bended knee, submissive hearts may crave,
And joy that Maple leaves adorn Britannia’s crown—.

Rev. Duncan Anderson, Monymusk, Que.


The seal set on our nationhood, are these
   Strong men returning victors from the war;
   Up to the battle’s very front they bore
Our country’s honour, till with every breeze
Fame sang their valour round the seven seas.
   For us, they braved death in the cannon’s roar,
   For us, their comrades died and nevermore
Will see the loved home ‘neath our maple trees.
Throw wide thy gates, O Canada, throw wide
   The portals of thy gratitude; these men
Have roused the God in us. Now cast aside
      All littleness of aim. With courage high
   And loftier purpose, to thy tasks again,
      And carve thine own illustrious destiny.

Rev. F. G. Scott, Quebec.


Ring out, ring out ye bells of peace!
The war is done—the battles cease.
The flashing sword is sheathed once more,
Nor longer now shall cannon roar;
But fields are drenched with human gore.
Ring out, ring out, ye bells of peace. [page 162] 

Rejoice, rejoice, our kin are free,
On Afric’s veldts across the sea.
Not longer shall they make their moan,
And plead, and beg to obtain their own
To hearts that hate—the hearts of stone.
Rejoice, rejoice, our kin are free.

Ring out, ring out, ye joyous bells,
Till ev’ry wind with your music swells,
Peal out the word from sea to sea,
“The Lion’s brood shall e’er be free
Nor e’er shall bend the craven’s knee.”
Ring out ye bells, ye joyous bells.

Ring out ye bells in undertone,
With joy is mingled mourner’s moan;
For some of our brothers far away
Are stark and stiff as clod of clay,
Their blood is the price of peace we pay.
Ring out ye bells in an understone.

Ring out ye bells, and herald the day,
When hate, and strife shall pass away,
May friend and foe now future face,
Knit each to other, one strong race
A common destiny bravely trace.
Ring out ye bells, and herald the day.

Rev. Andrew MacNab.


Back from war’s clanging and thunder and battle,
   Come our Sons of the Empire—welcome them proudly!
Back they are come, scarred and hardy from battle,
   True Whelps of the Lion—cheer for them loudly!
Blow, buglers, blow, as ye ne’er blew before!
   Sound, buglers, sound, till the welkin is cracking,
For brothers who fight as the knights fought of yore.

Three cheers for young Canada’s sons!
Cheers for three young Canada’s guns;
Her soldiers bold, her hearts of gold,
Three cheers for young Canada’s sons! [page 163]

On the long, weary marches, nor tardy, nor laggard,
   ‘Neath a deadly hot sky have they labored and slaved;
Nor murmured, but trudged on though fainting and haggard,
   Ever onwards they tramped, and the wild torrents braved.
For the leaf of the Maple, their emblem held dear—
   The North blood is strong; they went Beserk in battle—
In marching, in charging ne’er blenched in the rear.

Three cheers for young Canada’s dead,
Cheers three for the brave lads who bled,
Her hearts of gold in mould that’s cold,
Three cheers for young Canada’s dead!

Loosen your war dogs, your four-decimal-sevens,
   From ocean to ocean let joy-shots resound!
Stream out your banners to float in the heavens
   For sons of an Empire that girds the world round!
Paardeberg knew them, and Mafeking’s sons,
   Bravest of men since the days of Dulac,
Thanked their God, for the succor of Canada’s guns.

Three cheers for the Pride of our Land,
Cheers three for our warrior band,
Our soldiers bold, our hearts of gold,
Three cheers for the Pride of our Land!

C. A. Botsford, Brigham, Que.


When the ship that brings our soldiers home, slips by the harbor bar,
And the roar of peaceful cannon welcomes heroes from the war,
Many thousand joyous voices shall uplift the thrilling strain,
Of a nation’s mighty welcome, when the boys come home again.

Mothers’ hearts will beat with gladness, mothers’ eyes will fill with tears,
As they see their children’s glory, as they hear the nation’s cheers.
For a voice from either ocean, sweeping city, hill and plain,
Shall make the heavens tremble, when the boys come home again. [page 164] 

Wives will sing a glad re-union, sweeter than the nation’s praise,
When once more the loved ones gather round the home fire’s cheerful blaze;
And the hearts that in the battle, feared not death nor mortal pain
Shall praise God, by His mercy, they are safely home again.

Lips so sweet, and eyes so tender, hearts as true as Heaven above,
Welcome home the soldier lovers, who have fought for land and love.
Warm hand-clasps, stolen kisses, voices joined in love’s refrain,
Shall swell the nation’s welcome, when the boys come home again.

But amid the song triumphant, sobs a note of direst woe,
In the lulls of loud rejoicing, sorrow sighing, sighing low,
In this throng so gay and gallant, somber veil or mourning train,
Will tell of one who stayed behind, when the boys come home again.

In the mansions, in the cottage, still there stands the vacant chair;
In the heart of wife or mother, only loads of grief and care;
For upon the field of battle, in the trenches of the slain,
Some are left who reap their glory, e’er the boys come home again.

So some mothers will be weeping, when the nation cheers her brave,
Hearts of wives and maidens breaking, in some lone forgotten grave;
So a note of mortal sadness sobs within the glorious strain
Of a nation’s mighty welcome, when the boys come home again.

* * * * *

We have helped thee Mother England, we have given thee our sons,
And have left some dear ones lying dead with thine before the guns;
But we still have other children, from the mountain and the plain
Who would serve thee, dear old England, though they ne’er came back again.

Asa Ferry, Brandon, Man.


Oh, the song that now comes ringing
From the Northland—broad and free,
And its lilt comes down to me;
It is “Canada, My Country,”—
How the homesick fancies turn
Where the Elm Tree flashes golden,
And the crimson Maples burn. [page 165] 
Hear the tossing Pine-trees whisper
In the land Canadians love,
Where the soil is free beneath us,
And the skies are blue above;
And it’s “Canada, My Country!”—
I am coming home to Thee,
Though the half of Earth divide us,
And the weary leagues of sea.

Where Atlantic surges shiver,
Where Pacific billows swirl,
She is set on Earth’s gold circlet,
She—the Jewel—She—the Pearl,
And the Arctic Ocean guards her,
And the crashing icebergs frown,
And she steps upon her prairies
With the Northlights for a crown.
We can work—for You have taught us;
We can live Life with the best,
For your calm, deep strength is in us—
We can die—at your behest;
And it’s “Canada, My Country!”
Though afar thy sons may roam,
There is not a heart but pulses
With the love of Thee—their Home.

Here—she holds the inland sea-depths
In the hollow of her hand.
There—the rustling corn is waving
O’er her rolling Western land.
Here the mountain heights are gleaming
With a glacier-armored breast,
And the valley lights are shining
Where the Homesteads lie at rest!
I am weary for your green woods—
I am thirsty for your streams—
For the cool air of the Northland
I am heartsick in my dreams;
Oh, it’s “Canada, My Country!”—
I am coming home to Thee,
And my heart goes on before me
Over Earth and over Sea. [page 166] 

Bow a thousand noble rivers
Through her open portals sweep,
With a foaming, living thunder
Of “Deep calling unto Deep!”
Hear the voices of the Forest—
On the sturdy Northern sod,
How a mighty, rushing murmur
Answers back the Winds of God!
They are calling me—My Country,
And it warms my blood like wine,
For the life you nursed—is in me,
And the strength you gave—is mine;
And it’s “Canada, My Country!”
Oh, Beloved! Great! and Free!
As the Son comes to the Mother—
I am coming home to Thee.

For the Gold that fills her mountains,
For the Gold that clothes her sod,
For the truer Gold of Honor—
Let us raise the Hymn to God!
For the Loyal Hearts that guide her
On the pathway that aspires—
For a Country that is worthy
Of the banner of her Sires.
Oh the Song that now is ringing
From the Northland, broad and free,
Is a bonny one for singing,
And its lilt comes down to me;
It is—“Canada, My Country!”—
How the full tones swell and grow,
For our heart’s deep love is in them,
And the World shall hear and know.

M. H. B., Sherbrooke, Que. [page 167]


The following heartfelt poem in the Cockney dialect appeared in a Liverpool, Eng., newspaper, at the time of the sailing of some 100 of our invalided soldiers for their Canadian home:

“I’d have you know I’m proud of you
I like the bloomin’ crowd of you,”
          Says Mr. Bull.
“You’re lean and sick and sore and sad;
It was a toughish job you had;
You tackled it to suit your dad,”
          Says Mr. Bull.

“’Ere’s just a fi-pun note apiece,
To keep the wheels in axle grease,”
          Says Mr. Bull.
“’Tis but a trifle, meant to tell
You bullies that I like you well,
You stood so staunch, so brave you fell!”
          Says Mr. Bull.

“A few of you is left behind,
I ‘ope you don’t take that unkind,”
          Says Mr. Bull.
“I lost some others just as good,
By Mauser ball and poisoned food—
Forgive it? Yes, I thought you would!”
          Says Mr. Bull.

“We thought we ‘ad the record name
Before you young colonials came,”
          Says Mr. Bull.
“But I’ll allow, when fightin’s ‘ot,
And men are racin’ to get shot,
By old St. George! you bet the lot!”
          Says Mr. Bull.

“You’ve won my thanks and warmed my ‘eart,
We’ll nevermore be quite apart,”
          Says Mr. Bull.
“My bloomin’ eyes is dim with tears,
Oh, ‘ang it all! Let’s give three cheers
For our Canadian volunteers!” [page 168] 


Mother, shall I close the shutters? for the soldier-lads draw nigh;
Think of how I love you, mother, while the marching feet go by.
Are they trampling o’er your heart, dear? Mother, mother, do not cry!

Hide your face here on my shoulder, till the music dies away;
(Just a year ago he left us, and it seems but yesterday).
With what cheers the people greet them! Mother, try, oh try to pray!

Do not sob so wildly, dearest, or your heart will surely break.
He has stayed to keep the country that his valor helped to take,
With him is a mighty army that remains for England’s sake.

Ah! the angels hear your weeping, e’en above the ringing cheers.
And I think a wondrous rainbow up in heaven to-day appears—
‘Tis God’s look of pity shining on bereaved women’s tears.

You and I are glad, dear mother, for the soldier’s safe return,
Glad for all the happy hearthstones where the fires of welcome burn.
Let us join the great rejoicing, and God’s benediction earn.

Will that music play for ever, wit his comrades marching by?
Oh, our darling! how we loved him, how we loved him, you and I!
Put your arms around me, mother, I must weep or I will die.

Mrs. Effie I. Forster, Toronto.


God-speed, my bonnie lads and brave,
To your glad homes across the wave,
An Empire’s plaudits in your ears—
The echoes of a million cheers!

We know the gallant work you’ve done,
The bloody battles you have won
Against a stealthy, stubborn foe,
Who plotted Britain’s overthrow. [page 169] 

You’re freemen from a great free land;
None better know or understand
The precious worth of equal laws,
And how to shield a noble cause.

God-speed you then with fav’ring gales
To bright Canadian hills and vales,
Where “See the conquering heroes come”
Will be your glorious welcome home!

P. Byrne, “Liverpool Daily Post.”


Canadian heroes hailing home,
   War-worn and tempest smitten,
Who circled leagues of rolling foam,
   To hold the earth for Britain;

Who faced her foes in battle’s might,
   Each man a British hero;
And helped to hurl from greed’s grim height,
   Earth’s freedom’s latest Nero;

When rose War’s red and angry wraith
   Duty and death before you;
Our pledge to Empire of our faith,
   You went and boldly bore you.

When late October, loath to die,
   His wintry strain had sung us;
You kissed fond lips, and dauntlessly,
   Went marching from among us.

You got your chance, in letters large,
   You retold Britain’s story;
At Paardeberg’s immorial charge,
   You wrote our name in glory.

Till round the world the message ran,
   To earth and all her Neros;
That Saxon, Celt, Canadian,
   Old Britain’s sons were heroes. [page 170] 

When sad November’s grief doth throw
   His autumn weird upon us,
You come returning with the glow
   Of all the fame you’ve won us.

We hear old Britain praise your name,
   The voice of Empire calling;
And glory leaps up as the flame,
   Of red leaves lately falling;

Red as that banner ‘neath whose folds,
   Far-famed in song and story,
You bore the brunt ‘mid earth’s strongholds.
   Old Britain’s pride and glory.

Far flies its flame on myriad seas,
   The wide world’s awe and wonder,
This flag of Britain’s victories,
   Whose folds our dead died under.

Yea, bear it proudly in your van,
   For in its folds it gathers
The mighty memories, man to man,
   Of all your mighty fathers.

Yea, guard it in your keeping close
   Our Empire’s “no surrender”;
‘Tis dyed with hero blood of those
   Who battled to defend her.

But oh! the ones whose breasts are stilled,
   Past all our strife and yearning;
Whose hero hearts in earth are hilled,
   For whom is no returning;

For whom no morrow hath its birth,
   Or chapter of life’s story;
Who sleep far off in alien earth,
   Who died for Britain’s glory.

Who heard the call and bravely rushed,
   Where shot and shell were flaming;
We think of them, and hearts are hushed,
   Amid the wild acclaiming; [page 171] 

We think of them, those voiceless ones,
   Whose absence speaks more loudly
Than all these gleaming ranks of guns
   Of victors marching proudly.

We think of them, and up along
   The miles of shouting madness,
The wild, glad surging jubilant throng,
   A silence goes of sadness.

Yea, sadness, but exultantly;
   For though in earth beneath us,
In far off alien graves they lie,
   Our dead go marching with us.

Far, far in London’s mighty heart,
   Where life goes blindly thronging,
Leagues from the homes they loved, apart,
   The land of all their longing.

In marbled columns, side by side,
   Britain—the glory-giver,
With all her mighty dead who died,
   Will write their names forever;

Great, with the great of victories won
   From Waterloo’s red lava,
To that famed line that thundered on
   To death at Balaclava.

But here, in their own loving north
   Where maple leaves are falling,
And all the nation’s heart goes forth
   Unto her great dead calling;

Her noble, and her gallant sons,
   Beyond our mad to-morrow,
Will wait the last great matin guns,
   Enshrined in our high sorrow.

Higher than storied shaft above,
   Than gilded pomp’s acclaiming,
Ennobled in a people’s love,
   Past all heroic naming.

W. Wilfrid Campbell, Ottawa. [page 172]


Soldiers of the Queen, thrice welcome,
Conquerors o’er Britain’s foe,
With your deeds will future pages
Of Canadian History glow;

Heroes brave, your peril’s over,
Strife and land and ocean foam
No more separate us sadly,
Welcome soldiers, welcome home.

We illuminate our buildings,
Ring out loud our city bells,
Glad triumphant notes of welcome
Every swinging cadence tells,

Public welcome is their message,
But the tender minor strain
Strikes the keynote of rejoicing,
Each home has its own again.

Peal ye forth, ye bells of welcome,
But let softer music tell
Of the absent, who have perished
In the cause they loved so well;

Lonely graves of comrades, scattered ‘neath
The tropic’s burning sun,
Gently cover them with garlands
Made of laurels they have won.

Welcome home, thrice welcome soldiers,
Saved from dangers in the war,
Right again triumphant, may hear
The call to arms no more;

Brotherhood be universal,
Noise of war and tumult cease,
And the flag that led to battle
Long float over us in peace.

Katherine A. Clark, Toronto. [page 173]


Of what might have been, have ye ever thought,
   Ye penurious caviling ones?
Have ye thought of the work with their blood they wrought,
   Our own brave Canadian sons—
How, many a boy, once a fond mother’s joy,
His blood ebbing fast, lies gasping his last
   On his face on the veldt e’en to-day?

Had our lads been broken—thank God, they are whole—
   Our sorrow’d been long and been deep.
Would ye’ve dared scoff and mock at the grief of our soul,
   And say, “There’s no cause thus to weep.”
If one of our own—ye bone of our bone,
His sightless dear eyes upturned to the skies,
   Lay dead in the trenches to-day.

God, by His Mercy, doth bid us rejoice,
   For soon they’ll be with us again.
When they left us, ‘tis true, they were only two boys,
   Since then they’ve been men among men.
‘Mid the shot and the shell, when the earth turned to hell,
In the thick of the fight, they proved they’d a right
   To the title of “Hero” to-day.

C. A. Botsford, Brigham, Que.


What honours shall I to thee give, Lord Roberts,
An earldom and coronet bright?
I have no son, gracious Lady
He sleeps in the Travsvaal to-night!

What honours shall I to thee give, Lord Roberts,
A castle and fair broad lands?
I have no need for such Queenly deed,
I have only obeyed thy commands!

What honours shall I to thee give, Lord Roberts,
A sword set with jewels bright?
I have no more need of a warrior’s blade
For shadows lengthen in evening shade! [page 174] 

What honours shall I to thee give, Lord Roberts?
My court you may grace to-night.
My gracious Queen, I prefer to remain,
In my island home in your vast domain!

What honours wilt thou accept, Lord Roberts?
It’s the due of a warrior knight.
My reward is to know that thy scepter bright,
Illumes the dark plains of the Transvaal to-night.
I have humbly striven with the aid of heaven,
To lead willing men to that cherished haven
To loose the chains of despotic rule,
And lay them in tribute at thy foot-stool!

Mrs. Letitia McCord, Montreal.


When the bells their joy are pealing;
   When the air is rent with cheers;
When the burst of martial feeling
   Welcomes home the volunteers;
When the minute-guns, replying,
   Echoes, million-voiced, command;
When the glory-rag is flying;
   And the colors drape the land;
When the rockets, skywards ringing,
   Vein the blue of Heaven’s dome;
And the martial music, changing,
   Beats the time of ‘Home Sweet home’;
When is heard the thrilling story,
   Tale of valor, past belief;
How they kept, undimmed, the glory,
   Of the dear old Maple Leaf;
When the thoughtless throng is making
   Loud rejoicing, with one mind;
Think of those, whose hearts are breaking
   For the loved ones left behind.

Chas. S. Edwards, Cumberland. [page 175]


   I paused at my unfinished task,
Myself this question grave to ask;—
Shall Shefford’s Latimer pass hence,
Without so poor a recompense,
As just a rhyming line or two,
Expressing sorrow, praises due?
I know our people’s hearts are sore,
Grieving for him who comes no more;
And though the task for me is great,
No longer can I silent wait,
For abier bards, whom I’d prefer,
Would sing the praise of Latimer.

   A youth of pleasing form and face,
Destined to fill a soldier’s place;—
To represent his “Battery,” he
Attended the “Queen’s Jubilee,”
And when the call for gunners came,
He quickly handed in his name,
Although he knew the dangers great,
From marksmen good, in savage state;
From fever’s life destroying power.
From grievous accidents each hour,
He sailed away, without a fear,
Upon his martial, brief career.

   Sudden, and fierce the night attack,
The “Boers” were quickly driven back;
And there at “Fabre’s farm” they tell,
How Latimer, bravely fighting, fell.
Alas! alas! So young and brave,
To find a lonely foreign grave,
Seven thousand miles, doth intervene,
The friend and that lone grave between.

* * * * *

Sweeps in airy circles high,
The Vulture, with the piercing eye,
The scavenger of Afric’s plain.
But well he see’s ‘twould be in vain
To strive to rend that manly breast,
That weeping comrades laid at rest; [page 176]
For guarded well, with piled-up stones.
Are Latimer’s heroic bones,
But, mourn we sadly, his demise,
So far away ‘neath tropic skies;
His youthful zeal now quenched for aye,
His memory, bright with us shall stay.
His parents, in the better land,
Await to take him by the hand,
And welcome him to deathless life,
Where comes not sorrow, pain, or strife.
While his last letters, plainly show,
He heard a “call,” knew he must go,
But spent no time in vain regret,
And every dangerous duty met.

   Now prowls the desert lion near,
That mound of earth, holds him so dear;
The ostrich courses o’er the plain,
Near him, we shall not see again;
Now skips the spring-bock o’er his grave,
The resting place of Shefford’s brave.
But ever shall that name appear,
High on the list, of those held dear.

W. H. Cox, Granby, Que.


Victorious from afar they come—
   Their country’s hope; the nation’s shield,—
The sons of Canada come home
   From bivouac and battlefield.

And while the Empire’s annals tell
   Of Roberts and of Wellington,
The fame our heroes won so well
   Shall still live on,—shall still live on.

And for the dead the cypress waves
   Her somber boughs in memory
Of those who sleep in nameless graves—
   A glorious band—beyond the sea. [page 177] 

But where they fell that tyranny
   Might yield to right or banishment,
A nation’s progress hence shall be
   Their everlasting monument!

Rev. J. R. Newell, Markdale, Ont.


Welcome to you, boys in red,
Welcome, noble lads, who bled
On that far off Afric shore,
Welcome to your homes again,
From the battle, thirst and pain;
Welcome gallant hearts once more.

You have fought for Liberty;
Struggled that an Empire free,
Might give freedom to its own.
Generations after you,
‘Neath the red, the white, the blue,
They shall reap what you have sown

For the missing ones who rest,
Asleep on Afric’s broad breast,
We have naught but tears to give,
They have fought, and they have died
And their blood flowed like the tide,
Ebbing forth that we might live.

Welcome gallant hearts and true,
We are more than proud of you,
You have made an Empire strong;
For the blood stained steps you trod,
For your country and your God,
Saved the right and crushed the wrong.

J. Hollister Wilson.


Brave heroes of a true and loyal race,
   Canadians, rightful to the ‘manor born,’
We never can from memory efface
   Your deeds, for they will history adorn. [page 178] 

Adorn its pages with a signal tale
   Of how you fought that justice might prevail
Within the realm of Britain’s empire form
   And make her bulwarks proof ‘gainst every storm.

All Europe looked askance at Britain’s plight;
Some would have gloried in her fallen might;
Some spoke of Africa as Britain’s grave
Surged out of sight as if by tidal wave.
Then looked the colonies towards the Isles,
Surrounded by the ocean’s thousand smiles,
And flashed with lightning speed beneath the wave,
‘We’ll help the Empire and our Queen we’ll save’;
And scarce the ‘toscin’ tolled the war alarm
When Britian felt the help of your strong arm.
Of how you fought, with what devotion pure,
For our loved Queen, that you might thus ensure,
Continuance of a bright and glorious reign—
A parallel to which we’d seek in vain—
Is noted in the book of Time.

Now with a thousand welcomes do we greet
Your present coming home, for this ‘tis meet,
That Victory’s laurels should bedeck your brow
And let us flaunt our flags from stern to prow
Upon our vessels, and let cannon roar
And let the peal of bells above that soar,
For in their silver melody of tone
Some strains that wander higher all alone
Sing requiem for those never to return—
Brave boys! who sought their country’s cause to earn,
For these tears have been shed with many a sigh
That they in far-off Africa should die.
But let the cannon boom, and fill the air
With joyous songs, nor stint nor try to spare,
But with a lavish and a generous hand
Say, ‘Welcome to your own—your native land.’

Rt. Cowan, Montreal. [page 179]


Truro’s Tribute to the Welcome-Home of First Canadain Contingent from South Africa, October, 1900.
“This patriotic Poem is one of the best that has come from the pen of the talented Miss L. A. Edwards, of this town, and is a handsome Welcome indeed, to our returning heroes.
The little booklet containing the Poem of six stanzas, has a frontispiece, the “Lover’s Bridge,” of Victoria Park, Truro; is emblazoned with the town arms, and is surrounded with a border neatly printed in red, white and blue.”—“Daily News.”
It was presented to each officer and man on their arrival in Truro.

A song for the First Contingent!
   —Our heroes from the war—;
Whose daring deeds of valour
   Have sounded near and far!
No second bidding did they need,
   When the Empire needed men;
But at once they went,
   —On duty bent—
Well might we honor them!

A song for the First Contingent!
   Who roughed it all the way,
But with heart intent,
   As brave they went
To the thickest of the fray!
   Nor scorned the spade to dig the trench,
But wielded it like men.
   Hurrah! for the First Contingent,
—Well might we honor them.

A cheer for the First Contingent!
   Who brought old Cronje down
From the height of his presumption
   To the foot of the British throne!
Whether with sword or bayonet,
   Whether with shovel or pick;
In dreadful silence on they went
   While the enemy’s shots fell thick!
Down on their faces flat they fall
   In obedience to command.
O Soldiers of our Canada,
   You have honored your native land! [page 180] 

A sigh for the First Contingent!
   —For the wounded in the fight—;
For those who ne’er may walk again
   With form erect and light;
Whose sight is dimmed, perchance for aye,
   Though they have reached again,
The loved shores of their Canada,
   Its mountains, stream and glen!
A sigh for those whose health is gone
   —That heritage of God—!
But bravely try to hush the sigh,
   And bow beneath the rod!

A tear for the First Contingent!
   For those who fighting, fell;
Who yielded life in that awful strife
   With weapons—forged by hell;
Oh! sadly, sadly do we mourn
   The loss of the brave boys gone;
Their young life fled, the echo dead
   Comes back to the heart alone!
A tear for the eye whose light has paled;
   For the step that will never return!
At their country’s voice—such a sacrifice,
   Makes our hearts within us burn!

No flowers to wave o’er their lonely grave,
   On Africa’s kopje’s height.
No mother’s tear to drop on the bier
   As her boy was borne from sight!
But his country grieves, as the blank he leaves
   Tells the tale of duty done;
For each life, gone out
   Mid that dreadful rout
Is the crown of a hero won!

Then Welcome! Brave Contingent!
   Your welcome home again
Resounds throughout all Canada
   From forest, lake and plain!
To you, no skies were half so fair
   As your Canadian skies!
Nor maiden’s orbs one half so bright [page 181] 
   As were Canadian eyes!
We know your hearts are true and leal
   As when you went away;
And now, our joy at your return,
   Is that you’ve come to stay!

Miss L. A. Edwards, Truro, N. S.



Take them back, Canada;
Proudly receive them!
Each gallant son of thine,
Bearing on head of him,
Wearing in heart of him
Britain’s deep gratitude;
Heart’s benediction
Of people and Queen.
Honor them mightily—
They who have honored you.
Honored the empire.
Honored our breed!
Fine decorum disdain,
Give your impulse the rein,
Fete them, and feast them,
And hero-wreaths weave them
Of oak leaves and maple leaves
Lovingly blended:
For by valor of theirs
Was Majuba jibe ended:
My blessing goes with them
Over the ocean;
Honor them splendidly,
Bate no emotion;
Honor them, Canada,
Fighters so splendid! [page 182] 


Welcome them, Canada,
From battle triumphant,
From service unstinted
On kopje and veldt;
Faces brown-tinted
With the African sun,
And the toil and the strain
Of duty well done;
Peers of my chivalrous,
Famous old veterans
In soldierly valor,
Marching and skirmishing,
Scouting and charging,
Working the gun;
Take them back, Canada,
Hero each one;
On their khaki no stain;
Clasp their hands, comrades,
Receive them, compatriots,
Haggard, but glorious,
Over the sea to the home-hearth again!


Keep their names, Canada,
Bright in your annals;
Through all our great empire
They’re spoken right proudly,
And all the bright future
Shall know them and cherish them,
And progeny distant
Shall boast of the blood
Of the gallant contingents,
Of the men true and valliant
Who, first in all history,
Crossed the wide flood
For honor and liberty,
Order and right,
Beside their world-kindred
To labor and fight;
And in victory to stand
Beneath the old flag
For the old motherland! [page 183] 


Hail, Britannia,
Generous and brave;
Mother of freedom,
Greeting we give to thee
Over the wave;
The true sons we lent to thee,
Fighters we sent to thee,
Here, now, tumultuous
We, welcome again.


Look thee, Britannia,
Mark how we welcome them;
Rank upon rank of us,
Mile upon mile;
Joyfully, proudly, 
Tearfully, cheerfully,
Gently and loudly.
Hark! the drums rattling
Tell us they’re coming;
Hushed now all prattling,
Something is clutching
The hearts in our bosoms;
Something is choking us;
Faces are paling;
A thrill runs abroad—
Our souls are swept on
In the tempest of music,
Our hearts beat the time
To the rhythm of the marching;
Eyes fill and lips falter—
They come! They are here!
A strange, creeping thrill
Holds us silent and awed;
Eyes that are dimmed
See the bronzed, passing forms,
And lips that are tremulous
Whisper, thank God! [page 184] 
They are pasing, are passing—
With strife swift and even,
And a swing multitudinous
Heel matched to heel,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Steel glinting to steel.
Then the spell ceases,
And the cheering and shouting
And tumult uproarious
Gives tongue to our feelings.
Hark! dim in the distance,
A mile down the multitude,
It rises; it grows to a thunderous roar,
Like a tidal-wave breaking
And rolling and shaking
On an echoing shore!


But this, my Britannia,
Is more than mere pageant
Passing and vanishing;
This is historical.
Deep in our tablets,
High in our citadels,
The names of these heroes
We’ll keep ‘yond forgetting;
We’ll hang in our temples
The colors they carried,
The banner of Britain,
With the wreath-circled beaver
In the glowing red field;
And upon it the blazon
Of names now immortal—
“Royal Canadian,”
“Dominion Artillery,”
“Strathcona Horse,”
“Paardeburg,” “Mafeking”;
Time in its course.
As the ages unfold,
Will dim not their splendor,
Nor tarnish their gold! [page 185] 


With thee, Britannia,
Mourn we the absent ones,
Fallen in battle,
Or slain by the fevers;
These honor we tearfully
And proudly remember;
Nobly they fought for thee,
Nobly they died for thee;
We will remember them—
We will remember!


Now that God’s Providence,
Ruling and guiding,
Has given thee victory,
Giv’n thee dominion
O’er alien peoples—
Now thou hast conquered,
O, valiant Britannia,
Canada pleads with thee,
Sword laid aside,
That bountiful clemency,
Generous leniency
(The victor’s best pride)
May henceforth be shown
To the burghers o’erthrown.

J. W. Bengough, Toronto.


There’s a hearty old party lives beyond the northern sea,
About as rough—about as tough—as a party well can be;
Strong nerved, well preserved, handy with his hands;
With music for a tussle to enforce what he commands;
He’s big and bold, and a trigle old, and his habit’s somewhat full;
Recording fame describes his name as Old John Bull.

   Rough John, tough John, bluff John Bull.
   With both feet getting there, and both hands full;
   His heart is full of kindness with never a drop of gall;
   And Old John Bull is the Daddy of them all. [page 186] 

There’s many a lad to call him dad, and take the old man’s part,
To share his fight and swell his might, and cheer his loving heart—
To bear his flag from cliff to crag, when the echoing bugles blow—
Ten thousand sons to man his guns, and thunder on the foe
From many a land from many a strand, they come to the father’s call,
For Old John Bull is the Daddy of them all.

   Rough John, tough John, bluff John Bull.
   With a heap of human nature underneath his scanty wool—
   The cheeriest, bravest, stoutest carl upon this earthly ball.
   For Old John Bull is the Daddy of them all.

The waves that roll from pole to pole still carry him on his way,
From the purple gleam of morning’s beams to the golden close of day;
The heaving seas, the freshening breeze bear on his friendly ships.
The roar that fills the startled hills leaps from his cannon’s lips;
The flags that fly to the bending sky are with his glory full—
They bear the name and tell the fame of glorious Old John Bull.

   Rough John, tough John, bluff John Bull.
   The man that carries his burden and the man that has a pull.
   The march of empire thunders, where his martial footsteps fall,
   For Old John Bull is the Daddy of them all.

Boston Sunday Journal.


Under the above title Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate of England, contributes these verses to the “Independent:”


No, not that they were weak, and we are strong,
   Nor to avenge imaginary slight
   To England’s lofty majesty and might,
Hymned round the world in many a sounding song,
From farm and forge she mustered martial throng,
   And sped her war shares through the waters white;
   No, but to vindicate offended Right;
And bring to end insufferable wrong;
That on remotest shore where her renown
   Wakes sluggish souls to strenuous discontent.
   On her fair Flag should be nor stain nor rent,
No man to no man kneel nor grovel down,
But, all men wearing Freedom’s kingly crown,
   Hope still might dawn on Darkest Continent. [page 187]


So to us the Lord of the embattled host,
   Not unto us, praise and thanksgiving be,
   Who made this Isle viceregent of the sea,
And spread its empery from coast to coast,
Empire whose sole and not unworthy boast
   Is to proclaim the fettered must be free,
   And firm as Fate enforcing that decree,
Is least avenging when victorious most.
Therefore, since now wrong and rebellion cease,
   Let wimpled Mercy heal the wounds of war,
   Solace the heart and cicatrice the scar;
Let race with race commingle and increase,
   And Concord’s portals henceforth stand ajar.
Guarded by Justice, Liberty and Peace.


Queen of the Thames, fair child of Norman blood,
Thy birthright’s from the Conqueror,
Through wars of roses, white and red,
Whose wearers slumber with the dead—
To hold within thy keep,
Britannic peace
O’er land and deep.

What varied tales of glory won
By duty done;
Fair heritage whose mantle fell
O’er Boreal, Orient, Austral,
Coronet of colonies,
Germs of that English race
Proclaiming to the world their privilege
Beneath the flag to claim their place,
Then who shall dare to wrest it
From that three-fold strong embrace?

When spring’s soft breath woos flowers and birds,
And twittering matins fill the woods,
The maples soft unfold their blushing buds;
The first with loving grace,
To welcome spring’s sweet face;
Than trembling tassels over head! [page 188] 

As maple leaf in autumn scene,
When frost brings out the crimson sheen,
And rainbow tints in evening skies
On nature’s pallet blended,
Illumines the world, then dies;
When flowers droop
And birds sing vesper melodies.

So fallen comrades cast a light most holy
On heroes now returned with scar and glory,
And Windsor’s towers resound,
The nation’s anthem swells around,
Our Queen;
Then something on her lids is trembling seen,
And England’s purest rose now veiled in dew-drops bright,
Takes to her heart our leaf,
Whose color they enhance
At Paardeberg by sword and lance.

Returning through St. George’s Gate
Whose legend they on battlefield translate.
“Impale despotic wrong and hate
“And tramp oppression out of home and state.”

Farewell to England
And to English cheer;
They wend their way
To homes most dear,
Where York’s fair rose is not more white
Than our penciled pines on snowy night.

Mrs. Letitia M’Cord, Montreal.


On his noble work of Christian love at Paardeberg.
(By an Aunt of one of the Paardeberg heroes).

‘Twas in the trenches Lewis fell,
   Let veterans tell the story,
How he with his brave comrades,
   Marched straight to endless glory.

S. W. [page 189]


The last sad rites at the grave of that fallen hero, Zachary R. E. Lewis, son of the late Dr. R. P. Lewis, of Ottawa, and nephew of Archbishop Lewis, who gloriously fell in battle at Paardeberg, February 18th, 1900, aged 27 years.
N.B.—No Anglican clergyman being available at the time, Rev. Father O’Leary, with that noble charity which has always characterized his life, took the “Book of Common Prayer,” from the hand of Captain Rogers, and from it read the beautiful Burial Service for the Dead.

Never was holier requiem chanted,
   Never sublimer oration,
Than those beautiful prayers beside that lone grave,
   From our hero, the pride of the nation.

What thinks he of creeds, whose creed is Christ’s love,
   And vast as the Empire he’s serving;
While true to his Master, he’s true to all men,
   And ever to duty unswerving.

The hero above, and the hero laid low,
   God sees them both there in their glory,
And knows why the sadness and gladness unite
   And why there are battlefields gory.

But sad are the hearts for the loved one there slain
   As o’er the dear form they are bending,
But his glorious young life, for his country he gave,
   Then stepped into glory unending.

O warrior, rest, though they loved ones may weep,
   God’s angels, His soldiers, will guard thee
And when from thy rest they shall call thee to wake,
   Their Maker, and thine shall reward thee.

But bigots on both sides, view with reverence the scene;
   Rub the rust from old creeds, long so dreary, 
That has tarnished your lives, but never once touched,
   The pure gold of good, Father O’Leary.

Miss S. Williamson, Grenville, Que. [page 190]


Brave Father O’Leary, so bold an’ so tender,
   We welcome you, Sogarth, wid laughter and tears,
Safe back to your country, an’ proudly we tender
   To you a full share iv the honors an’ cheers.

On the voyage or march no voice was so cheery,
   In camp your warm heart made you Tommy’s best friend;
Sure, the wit and the wisdom iv Father O’Leary
   Was the theme iv all tongues from beginnin’ to end.

Whin Lord Roberts gives praise to the iligint forces
   We sint out to help him, he reckons not least
In our gallant contingent iv men, guns an’ horses,
   The power we supplied in our true-hearted priest.

No hero thi war to our history has given—
   Tho’ many a name it has written in light—
Surpasses yourself, humble servant iv heaven,
   In the deeds, that make hero-names glorious an’ bright.

‘Twas theirs to storm kopjes, or hould out in sieges,
   An’ prove British valor the thing we all knew;
But ‘tis wid the loving emotions iv lieges,
   Dear Father O’Leary, Canadians greet you.

‘Twas yours not to fight, tho’ in many a battle
   Your khaki-clad form wid the fighters was seen;
No weapons you bore ‘mid the muskets’ wild rattle,
   Tho’ no soldier more noble served country an’ Queen.

‘Twas yours to kneel down by the poor fellows dyin’—
   A father and mother in one, so you were—
An’ wid lips that wud trimble because you were cryin’
   Say o’er thim the words iv the Catholic prayer.

But your heart was too big in its pity an’ kindness
   To know in such moments the limits iv creed;
You were equally ready, in charity’s blindness,
   The Protestant prayer o’er an Orangeman to read.

An’ ‘twas yours by the hospital cots to stand daily
   An’ cheer the pale lads that were wounded an’ sick;
This you did wid your humor, so wisely an’ gaily,
   That your face there was better nor sunshine, avick! [page 191]

Then welcome your riverince, safe back from your labors,
   God grant you a long life iv comfort an’ peace;
May your name unite Catholic and Protestant neighbors
   In a mutual respect that will never more cease.

J. W. Bengough, Toronto.


Out of the night, all silently she came,
And far above, the moon, a pure, pale flame,
Lighted her pathway, on the pathless sea;
While low upon the mast hung silently
The symbol of some sorrow. Far beneath
The waiting women watched with bated breath,
And in that awful moment anguish poured
On each white soul, and voiced itself to God:
“Not mine! Not mine! Let it not be my own.”
Wild, while they waited came the sad sea’s moan,
And then the name was whispered, and one life
Lay widowed of all love, and joy and light,
And one gay heart took up grief’s lasting cross;
But every woman’s soul had suffered loss.

May Austin Low, Montreal.


Halifax, N.S., January 9, 1901.

(With Lieutenant Sutton and Sergeant-Trumpeter Inglis; both died on the passage).

The sky is draped in mourning,
But the watchers could not tell
Why the dark, low clouds seemed weeping
Floating to the wind’s low knell.
They could not see through the darkened glass
The ensign as pall on the bier,
But they thought of the guns that were saved at Belfast,
And that gallop out from Beir. [page 192] 
Lifted is now the somber veil,
A tender face revealed;
‘Tis the gentle moon
Shedding soft light down
On signal staff and citadel,
And hearts that are throbbing
Like oceans swell.

The harbor gained,
The anchor dropped,
Now loving hands are interlocked,
Some cheer, some pray;
For joy some weep,
That they should hear the voice
Which might to them again have never been,
More than a dream.

But what of her, whose only hope,
Like fragile boat is tempest torn,
Wrecked on the rocks—forlorn.
And what of him? Though on his breast
Victoria Cross may never rest,
Still this fond hope has she
That now the victor’s crown
On that loved brow will be
Through all eternity.

Another comrade—
Committed to the deep,—
The wind-like trumpet
Calling waves to weep
O’er him who often blew
The trumpet, ere the fight renew,
May he at the last trumpet call
Enter the rest prepared for all!

Mrs. Letita LeCord, Montreal. [page 193]

To Lords Mount-Stephen and Strathcona.

True Knights are Canada’s Noble Lords,—
   Though not upon tented fields
Were won, the honor environments
   That martial prowess wields.
Not on the fields, where the wine of life
   Is freely poured on the sod,
Where in passion of strife at fever heat,
   Men’s souls go forth to God.
Theirs—was the conflict of wide forecast—
   Of burden-weighted brains—
Of well poised heroes of ready resource,
   As they counted their gathering gains.
Held by firm resolve, mind struggling with mind.
   With weariness, ceaseless unrest
Of hands of strength, of hopes deferred;
   Cares that the day infest.
Like rapid tide on rock-bound beach
   The waves of wealth flowed free;
The golden ore, like sunlight shone,
   In rays of prosperity,—
Then did these Thinkers of generous thoughts,
   Seek loftier work to do;
That weaker brethren, feeble in fight,
   Might share in the victory, too—
They quarreled the stone, uprearing Towers
   Where the ‘Great Physician’s’ name
Is the Holy pivot where Science and Love
   Revolve in their purest flame.
To Gratitude—with humid eyes,
   Hymns blessings—nor chaunts in vain—
Inscribe o’er the Gateway—that all may see—
   Built—for solace of human pain,—
Oh! broad is the burr of the Scottish tongue
   As it laudeth Sir Donald’s name—
Not ‘Scots, wha hae’ strikes a prouder chord,
   Though high is its deathless fame—
Men of to-morrow, our Boys of to-day,
   Will hail ‘Strathcona’ with pride—
But the auld Sir Donald! will linger still,
   On our bonnie country’s side. [page 194] 
They’ll remember the calling, brave Lads from the West,
   Saddling and bridling their steeds,—
Chivalrously aiding the national cause,
   In urgence of Empire needs,—
Oh! what are the cheers that in utterance die,
   To the high-souled esteem of a race
The coronets sparkling—the lifted accost—
   To this citizen ‘record of grace;’
The liberal devising of liberal things—
   Is sealed in our Captain’s decree,—
That messenger’s riding with energy’s spur—
   ‘Ride forth on a mission for Me.’—
How luminous then—will be the joy of the eye,
   How rapturous—thrill of the heart—
When the halt is called by the Master’s voice—
   To those choosing His better part—
The task was stern that ye wrought my sons—
   Yet by steadfast persistence won,
Now measure extent in ripened results
   For greatness of what ye have done.

Miss Cassie Fairbanks, Halifax, N. S.

Inscription to be placed on the Monument to be erected in Quebec in honour of the Quebecers who fought in South Africa:

Not by the power of Commerce, Art, or Pen,
   Shall our great Empire stand; nor has it stood;
But by the noble deeds of noble men,
   Heroic lives, and Heroes’ outpoured blood.

Rev. Frederick George Scott.

The Shamrock to the Memory of the Queen.

“Quis Separabit.”

Scarce yet a year
Since you smiled on my face,
And I nestled so close in thy tender embrace,
Where I felt the pulsation of love
Growing stronger and longer— [page 195] 
Till it burst from its prison fair,
Floating in webs of love in the air
Which enfolde each form,
Which inspired each heart,
And the cry of her people
Roiled on till it thundered
In anthem—and sobbed out in prayer.
For they knew that her evening of life drew near!
The notes of the trumpets grew softer and sweeter
Because of the love in the air,
While each child voice re-echoed the prayer
God spare her, God spare her for many a year.

For did she not for me forego
The peerless blue of soft Italian skies,
Which light dark eyes,
The olive and the vine,
The shore where ever changing ceaseless wavelet vies
To chase the blue to green, the green to blue,
To beds of gold,
And then in rippling laughter lies
Languishing to be caught up to skies
In rays, tentacies of fierce sun of southern days.
But the weeping skies and the kindly eyes
And the gentler rays of my northern clime
Had wooed my lady to Erin’s Isle,
For she longed to honour my home of green
Ere the thread was spent in the spinning wheel.

But the summer has past,
And the cold wintry blast
Is crooning its tale
To the Banshee’s wall,
For a loved one lost.
And that breast under bridal lace
Is strangely silent,
As we look into space.
Her smile is hid from my face,
But the fragrance still floats on the air.
My only wish is to place me where
I may grow near her grave,
So her spirit on me may smile
As it hovers in night’s cool shade, [page 196] 
And ere the sun closes the starlit gates
And her spirit retreats,
It may be from me a leaf it will gather
To show our good Saint
That our hearts are still true
To his emblem Triune,
While they bow to the Father and Son
And worship the Holy One,—
Three in One.

“Quis ergo nos separabit a chariate Christi.”
Mrs. Letitia McCord.


Mother of Mothers, Queen of Queens,
   Ruler of Rulers, Lord of Lords;
War harvests but the Reaper gleans
   A richer prize than Swords.

God help our England, for we stand
   Orphaned of Her who made us one;
The Honour of the Fatherland,
   Her Hope, Her Trust, Her Sun.

Afar, where Summers burn and glow,
   The subject Peoples of our race
Shall see their stricken master go
   With tears upon his face.

The Nation, at her dying, born,
   Shall weep beneath the Southern Cross,
And with her Mother-Country mourn
   Irreparable loss.

The scattered Islands of Her Realm
   Shall droop the emblem of Her sway
Who through the long years grasped the helm—
   Through the laborious day.

And flashing lights shall signal far
   Their tidings to the passing ships,
To tell the sinking of Her Star,
   Her sorrowful eclipse. [page 197]

Oh Mother Queen! God’s honoured guest,
   Who greatly welcomes those who bring
Thy great credentials; thine His rest!
   Amen! God Save the King.

London Times.


(Isle of Wight, 6:30PM, January 22nd, 1901.)

Was ever silved cord
So tenderly unloosed by angel touch?
Or broken golden bowl,
Whose fragments lie in dust?
Yet the fountain of her love will flow
Though the pitcher may be broken,
Or the wheel refuge to go.

The doors are shut and sound is low,
The heart of the nation is bowed in woe;
Strong men tremble,
And the sun is low,
Yet the sunlight of her love will shine
From the darkned room
In that lonely isle.

Mrs. Letiti McCord.


Dead lies the mother of the British nation;
   That noble woman, whom we called our Queen!
Words are too weak to offer a laudation
   Of one, whose life with golden deeds, did teem.

   Her’s was no dreaming out a fair existence,
   Encircled by a canopy of state;
But, to each wrong, she offered strong resistance
   Reaping, indifferently, or love, or hate. [page 198]

Where do we find on the royal escutcheon,
   Who so ful filled the duties of this life?
Whether as daughter, or as tender mother
   Eclipsed by naught—save by her role as wife!

Surely God’s earth could ne’er produce a traitor
   To one beloved in every clime and tongue;
Vicoria, what plaudtis could be greater
   Than that to worlds unborn, thy praise be sung.

“Dead” did we say? She is not dead but sleepeth!
   O glorious rising on the resurrection day!
Of all who,— like our Queen—are looking Christ-ward,
   And from the heart, can “Abba Father” say,

Miss Lydia A. Edwards, Truro.


The nation’s sorrow in an Empire’s woe,
   A people mourn a queen by death laid low—
A Queen supreme in every gracious act,
   In life’s true grandeur power and gentle tact—
Britannia’s pride, respected of each foe,
   With universal grief her praises flow.

Time’s noblest offspring, Liberty’s bright star
   Whose mem’ry cheer’d in gloom the British tar,
While soldiers conquered upon fields of blood
   For her whose life resolve: “I will be good,”
She was a ruler such as ages never saw,
   God was her guide, and Liberty her law.

Victoria’s dead, as true nobility ere dies
   Confin’d by dust, to-day, to-morrow flies,
To cheer the noble and direct the wise,
   So from her grave a thousand virtues rise,
Like glorious phoenix on wings of flame,
   While world wide Empire echoes to her name.

J. A. M. D., Baddeck, N. B. [page 199]


We must not weep while heads are bowed
In prayer around her royal shroud.
   We must not weep though hearts are sure
   That we shall see her face no more.

A nation proud is listening, still
To bear the world’s o’erwhelming will
   In praise of her, who though unseen
   Yet reigns in love, a deathless Queen.

For in the humble cottage home
As ‘neath the lofty palace dome
   Her spirit holds its loving sway,
   And sorrow’s night is changed to-day.

Ring out, sweet bells, your clearest notes,
Your message o’er our sorrow floats
   No gloommust shroud her royal flame,
   No weeping dim Victoria’s name.

Sing, Morning Star, thy songs of praise,
Flash through the world thy living rays
   O Day that hath no dying sun,
   Our Queen a fadeless crown hath won.

Now on thy fair and royal pall,
O Mother Queen, no tears must fall,
   But at thy feet we humble place
   Sweet memories wreathed in forms of grace.

Anon. [page 200]


A life complete, in years, in might, in love;
As pure as life as human frailty
Allows to Adam’s seed; a power for good,
Silent, unceasing, strong; a copy set
Full in the public gaze, to show the strength
Our fallen, sin-stained nature may attain,
If we but hold our weak hands to receive
What God longs to bestow—this is the gift
God in His love gave England. Few e’er thought
How great the force that bound our inmost hearts
With golden links of truest loyalty
First to our noble Queen, and then through her
Unto the King of Kings, from whom she drew
The secret power that spread from rank to rank
Of all her subjects, widening out its rings
Of gracious influence, until foreign lands
Felt its benign effect, and all the world
Was calmer, purer, better, for her life.
Nor is the gift withdrawn; God’s angel, Death,
Has only raised her to a higher sphere
Beyond detracting tongues and party rage,
Above the darkening mists of earth and time,
To make her bright example clearer still.

Mary M. Smith.


This poem, by Edwin Markham, Author of “The Man With The Hoe,” was written on the announcement of the death of Queen Victoria.

Hommage and hush of heart belongs to death,
When at the door the drad one entereth,
The courteous departure of the soul
To seek it’s high imperishable goal,
The still withdrawal of that inward thing
That gives the shapen clay the aureole,
Sends on all hearts the ancient wondering. [page 201]

And so a stillness falls across the day,
Now that the queen has pushed aside the crown,
And, with no heralds telling her renown,
Has gone the august unattended way—
Gone down the way where all of earth recedes,
Leaving behind a fragrance of good deeds,
A wreath of memories forever green
Above her name, Mother and Friend and Queen.

Whatever fortune comes to shape events,
She tarried in her heart the good intent,
And surely, too, since that far fragrant hour
When first the boughs of Eden broke no flower
Nothing has shined more kingly than good deeds.
Lo, out of these the golden Heaven proceeds,
The memory of good deeds will ever stay
A lamp to light us on the darkened way,
A music to the ear on clamoring street,
A cooling well amid the noonday heat,
A scent of green boughs blown through narrow walls
A feel of rest when quiet evening falls.

Greater than any king with wolfish hordes
That ever climbed the pathway of the swords,
Was this Queen-mother, gracious, gentle, good,
A white fair flower of Christian womanhood.
Her banners felt the wind of every sea,
And yet she held a wider realm in fee,
The pure high kingdom of the womanly;
Peace to her spirit as the years increase—
Peace, for her last great passion was for peace.

O God of nations, on the dark of things
Send down the white fire of the King of Kings,
Until all rulers shall be lifted up
To drink with common man the equal cup.
Send wisdom upon nations and send down
On kings the deeper meaning of the crown.
Come, God of Kings and Peoples, breathe on men
Till love’s heroic ages flower again. [page 202]

Albert Memorial Chapel.

Eve of the internment at Frogmore. Only the Royal family were present. The monuments were literally covered with flowers. Albanai stood among a cluster of palms. “If ever singing came straight from my heart it did then.”

Softly the dim light falls
On each bowed head
Within the chapel walls,
And on each heart
The shadow of the cross is shed,
And Britain’s uncrowned King is grave,
While Germany’s imperial head
A crown of tenderness has won,
For he on filial wings
Sped to the chamber, where
The spirit in the lamp was burning low
Yet clear,
Before the unseen Hand
Had claimed it for the better land,
And Princes’ tears express the common lot of man,
The hidden springs which sorrow finds and
To the surface brings
The wells of tender sympathy.

Thus Royal lives when pure,
And happily such is England’s dower,
Draw from the hearts of men
That loyalty, that power,
Stronger than fleet,
Mightier than tower,

Its monuments as if by magic wand
Unsealed, yield up the sleeping dead
Transformed to mounds
Of flowers, fair offsprings of the ground,
Trophies of love from o’er the ocean’s foam
And home, which Flora with 
Her perfumed fingers strings
Binding each heart
Though far apart [page 203] 

Softly the slivr tome
Floats trembling like the rapids
Beside the singer’s home
And floods the sacred nave
With wave of praise
Poured forth from Canada’s fair heart,
Blending each note like flashing light,
Running the gamut to the zenith’s height
Like northern light
Unfolding phantom robes, bright
Nabtkes wgucg tge abgeks bring
To wrap the saints presented to their King.

Softly the singer pleads
“Come unto Me and I will give you rest,”
Your labours cease, your load lay down,
Your sorrows now become a crown.
For has He not her soul redeemed,
Leaving the frame a prey to greed.
A jewel in  worthier setting sealed,
Whose eyes behold the Lamb of God revealed.
While we are mourning here
O’er casket made of clay
Which worms destroy
And mould decay.

While love’s redeeming song
Flowed on, each heart drank of the Living On,
Then falling soft like downy snow,
On each bowed head,
And on each heart
A calm refreshing cool was shed,
The clustering palms 
With victors’ arms
Place a wreath on the singer’s head.

The threnody has ceased
And a still small voice
Breathes PEACE.

Mrs. Letitia. McCord. [page 204]

The Queen’s Burial.

(On the Festival of the Presentation in the Temple, February 2, 1901.)

She brings with trembling hands the fluttering doves,
Unconscious that their blood,
Is type of Him Who is and Was,
Will purify the Mother of their God, as man’s and hers.

Pure birds, cooing their last songs of love
To lull the Child that is to be
The sacrifice for sin upon the tree.

She brings her slumbering Babe,
A holy light reflected on her face,
Presents Him to the Lord,
Strange thought, her Lord, our Lord,
The Lord of Temple and of Universe,
Presented to Himself, the Lord,
The Great High Priest and Lord.

Led by the Spirit to the Temple came
Devout and just, a record more desired than fame,
He, who for Israel’s consolation waited,
Then to his bosom, Christ he presses,
Sweet Consolation, in his arms he blesses,
His eyes Salvation see,
Israel is glorified.
His light doth make the Gentiles free.

Daughter of Asher’s tribe, nourished on
Bread, rich with the fatted corn
Of lands that royal dainties yields.
Her heritage great age and purity,
Fed in the Temple of the God of Purity, [page 205] 

Daughter of England—Queen!
Great and purity were also thine.
Daughter of England—Queen!
The century’s guiding star,
Whose ray lit our highways,
Proceeding from thy throne,
On Israel’s pillowed stone,
By ways of cities’ din,

By humble cottage homes of laboring men,
Guiding o’er tumbling waves
The noble prows that rule the seas,
On a dark field, Nyanza’s argent shield
Reflects thy name, Victoria,
By Benares’ mystic lore,
By Aystralasia’s golden door,
By lotus bearing Nile, realm
Out of which the Child Christ came,
He filled thy soul, He filled thy heart,
A Temple meet,
For thou dids’t choose the better part.

And now on this pure day
When Mary to the Temple on me with Christ to pray,
We leave thee in His arms—and may,
“Lettest now thy servant depart in peace,”
And weeping turn away,

Mrs. Letitia McCord.


The Hon. W. P. Reeves, agent-general for New Zealand, recently received from the Maori inhabitants of his colony a “tangi,” or “lament,” on the death of the queen, with the request that it might, if possible, be laid before King Edward. Mr. Reeves accodingly forwarded to Sir Dighton Probyn the request and the “weeping” of wich the following is a translation:
“Hark, hark! There is the sound of weeping in the Maori pabs (villages), aged women beat their breasts, strong men stand by with heaving chests and clouded brows, young women lift their streaming eyes to heaven, even the children join their wailing to [page 206] the lamentation of their parents, for the Maoris are mourning the death of the ‘Great White Mother.’ The Maori nation has learned to love the great Queen-Empress, whose rule brought friendship and peace to their tribes and nations, who had spilled each other’s blood in useless warfare, and the civilization and friendship or the white races. Very few of the Maoris have even seen the great Queen, but they have been told of her goodness, and those of the young braves who attended the Diamond Jubilee bear witness to the greatness and beneficence of Victoria, therefore the Maoria, whose proudest boast is their loyalty towards the limpire and its great ruler, are bowed down with sorrow at the death of her whom they have looked upon, revered, and loved as their ‘White Mother.’ The heart of the Maori is full of sadness for the death of his Queen, nature seems to have lost her beauty and he thinks sorrowfully that the story of the magnificent welcome he proposed to give her royal grandson can never gladden the heart of the dead monarch. No more for ever can the Maori sing, ‘God save the Queen,’ it was his love for his ‘White Mother’ that cause him to give to his utmost to probide men and horses to fight the battles of Queen and Empire, and, had it been permitted, a thousand Maori warriors, the bravest of the brave, were ready to fight and die in England’s quarrel. But the Maori must not weep always, his ‘White Mother,’ who perhaps still sees him, would not have it so. The Queen is dead—long live the King, and though the memory of the ‘White Mother’ will long remain enshrined in the heart of these her loving subjects, though the Maori mothers will tell their children of the greatest woman and the truest heart the world has ever seen, the Maori knows that the best tribute he can pay to the memory of his beloved Sovereign is to transfer his unswerving loyalty and never-dying affection to her son and successor King Edward VII. With tears scarcely dried, with a heart still full of woe for the less of the ‘White Mother,’ the Maori tenders his allegiance to his new sovereign and prays ‘God save the King’—Ma Te Atue a Tiaki te Kingl.”
In forwarding this lament Mr. Reeves stated that “it was expressive of the feelings of the native race of New Zealand.”
Sir Dighton Probyn has written to Mr. Reeves, “that he is commanded to convey the expression of His Majesty’s thanks for the sympathetic and loyal feelings expressed by the Maoris on the occasion of the death of her late Majesty Queen Victoria.” [page 207]


‘Tis of our unbelief we call her dead,
   As Christ called Lazarus dead who only slept;
From human eyes is hid her gentle head—
   Yet surely we may weep—for Jesus wept!

In very truth a Ruler great was she;
   And Briton’s heart she held within her hand;
Till all her People saw in ecstasy
   Their country strengthen ‘neath her strong command!

Of every heart she was the Mother-Queen—
   Here was the perfect influence for good,
Which still shall be, as it has ever been,
   Until the world one vst brotherhood!

And if she seem all answerless to lie
   When some deep question stirs the mind of State,
Within her life shall be a sure reply
   From her who, taught of God, was good and great!
   From her who, taught of God, was good and great!

Miss Amy Kingsland, Pennington, Halifax.

Queen Victoria.

Queen Victoria! Beloved, by high and low,
United, one and all, we grieve for thee;
Endowed with virtues, as thy people know,
Even now, though cruel Death hath set thee free
Nations will sigh—and all thy children weep for thee.

Victoria is thine—Life’s battle fought and won;
In happy youth beloved—as Queen and Wife
Clouds came too soon and shadowed, thy sweet life.
Thy gentle heart was broken—still thou liv’dst on,
On, to rule thy people by thy love, not fear,
Regina loved! Could there be one more dear
In live as Queen! though dead00though speakest still,
Although thy Son is loved—He ne’er hy place can fill.

Mrs. Emma L. Borthwick, (Richey), Montreal. [page 208]

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America to England 17
A New Power in the World 32
A Pledge 40
Africa 41
A Prayer During Battle 47
A Woman’s Thought 54
A Soldier’s Treasure 55
A Tale of Two Centuries 73
A Song in Camp 88
A Soldier’s Wife 91
A Tribute to General Symons 96
After the Battle of Spion Kop 108
At Health My Lads 123
At Bay 126
At Modder River 137
After Paardeberg 138
A Tribute to Father O’Leary 190
Albani 203
A Maori Lament on the Death of Queen Victoria 206
Acrostic—Queen Victoria 208
Bound Yet Free 23
Britannia’s Piccaninny 61
Britannia Militans 65
Bugler Dunn 103
Bobs 119
Britain’s Lost Sons 133
Baden-Powell 154
Baden-Powell & Col. Plumer 157
Canadian Sons of Our Great Empire 28
Canada’s Gift 31
Canada’s Sons are Thy Sons 35
Canada to the Empire 41
Comfort 49
Cry o’ the Broken Hearted 56
Canada to Dufferin 113
Camping on “The Veldt” 135
Canada Ho! 161
Canada My Country 165
[page 210]
Death Song at the Boer 9
Defiance to the Foe 30
Dead by the Modder 140
England 8
England at War 79
For Honour 26
Friendly Voice from Norway 30
From Canada 34
Farewell 49
From the Trenches 141
Farewell at the Train 147
Father O’Leary’s Return 132
Good Bye 53
Gordons to the Front 92
Glencoe 94
Glencoe 96
General Lord Roberts 121
Inflexible as Fate 26
Invocation 46
In War Time 67
Is War the Only Thing that has no Good in It? 81
In Memoriam 132
In Memoriam 137
John Bull’s “Bon Voyage” 168
Lines on the War 65
Ladysmith 110
La Reine est Morte 197
McDonald’s Sword 13
Mother England 15
Miles Reginae 81
Men of the North 149
Maternal Musings 153
Mafeking 156
Mafeking 158
Mingle Wine with Tears 175
[page 211]
On Being Styled “Pro Boer” 10
Ode to Britannia 19
Our Bit of “The Thin Red Line” 36
Our Lads 39
Our Contingent 44
Our Testament 85
Our Sisters of Succuor 115
Our Nurses in South Africa 116
Our Boys 123
Our First Dead 131
Our Dead 140
On the Return of Our Troops 162
Our Soldiers’ Return 177
On Victoria’s Death 199
Our Queen 200
Press Ye on  Britons Brave 118
Paardeberg—South Africa 134
Queen Victoria 198
Return of the Troops 170
Roses and Maples 189
Regina est Mortua 198
Spartan Mothers 20
Sunt Lacrymae Rerum 84
Sons of Britain 85
Song of the Canadian Legion 89
Sonnet by Swineburne 114
Son of Bobs 122
Strathcona’s Horse 145
Sons of the West 146
S.S. Roslyn Castle 192
St. Patrick’s Day 195
The Union Jack 7
The British Empire 8
The Rally 10
The Briton 11
Trekking 12
The Emblems of 1900 21
The Voices 22
The Old Colours 25
[page 212]
The Situation 27
The Volunteer 29
This Canada of Ours 31
The Canadian (a Toast) 34
Transvaal Ho! 38
To the Canadian Contingent 43
To Arms—To Arms 45
The Empire’s Battle Hymn 48
The Grey Mother 50
The Children of the Blood 52
The Voice of the Women of England 53
The British Wall 59
The Lion’s Whelps 62
The Island Queen 63
The Soldier’s Xmas Dream 67
The Highland Soldier’s Farewell 68
The March of the Highland Brigade 69
The Braes O’Dee 70
The Dirge of the Highland Brigade 71
The Highland Brigade at Magersfontein 72
The Names of the Dead 78
The Link of Sympathy 80
The War’s Results 87
The Contingent’s Farewell 90
The Battle of Glencoe 91
The Battle 95
The Victory 98
‘Twas an Irish Fight 100
The Flag Unfurled 102
The Old Flag 104
The Relief of Ladysmith 106
To the Soldiers of the First Contingent 111
The Women Who Wait 114
The Canadian Volunteers for South Africa 118
The Irish Trooper’s Farewell 124
The Return from Douglas 128
The Soldier’s Death 130
The Lost Hero 133
To the Canadian Dead at Modder River 139
The Riders of the Plain 144
The Men of the North 146
The Charge of Strathcona’s Horse 148
The Colours of the Flag 150
[page 213]
The Voice of the Empire 151
The Arch of Farewell 152
The Order of the Shamrock 159
There’s Nothing too Good for the Irish 159
The Wearing of the Green 160
The Home Coming 169
The Queen to Lord Roberts 174
The Late Sergeant Latimer 176
The Welcome 178
The First Contingent 180
The Return of the Contingent 182
The Daddy of them All 187
The Mercy of the Mightiful 188
The Coming of the Roslyn Castle 192
True Nobility 194
The Birth of the “Nunc Dimittis” 205
Undisheartened 18
Vive nos Camarades 163
Victoria Regnat 201
Victoria the Good 201
Victoria, Our Beloved 208
Waiting 16
Who’s That Calling 24
War 33
While Our Soldiers are Dreaming of Home 38
What We Have We’ll Hold 50
Whispers of War 57
War 66
Weep Ye O Mothers of Britain 84
Waggon Hill 110
Wauchope’s Farewell to Edinburgh 128
Well Done 135
When the Boys Come Home Again 164
Welcome Home 173
Why Give Them Welcome 174
Welcome 178
Ye Bells of Peace 162
[page 214]


In finishing my labours (and let those who doubt so, do the same work as I have done) I must again thank all my contributors for their valuable assistance in their peritting me by letter or by interview to insert their poems or songs in this anthology, and every one of them wishing me success in the enterprise.
Many of the poems and songs have already been set to music, and the world-wide reputation of many of the contributors is a sufficient guarantee that the work (unique in its conents) will be extensively purchased throughout the Dominion and elsehere.
Surely, when a volume contains contributions from such a galaxy of foreign and domestic writes, it must prove a success, for all give vent to the one and only universal theme. The Old Flag, God Save the Queen, God Save the King.
Once more thanking all, both contributors and subscribers for their generous support, I make my Editorial Bow, and subscribe myself.

Theirs Truly,
REV. J. Douglas Borthwick, L.L. D.,

May 15th, 1901. [page 215]

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