(Dargai, October 20Th, 1897)

Who's for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) The bravest of the brave are at dead-lock there, (Highlanders! march! by the right!) There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air; There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare; But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare When they hear the pipers playing!

The happiest English heart to-day (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may (Steady there! steady on the right!) He sees his work and he sees the way, He knows his time and the word to say, And he's thinking of the tune that the Gordons play When he sets the pipers playing!

Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide, (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) They're up through the fire-zone, not to be denied; (Bayonets! and charge! by the right!)

Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide, And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside; But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride, To the skirl of the pipers' playing.

He Fell Among Thieves

"Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" "Blood for our blood," they said.

He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." "You shall die at dawn," said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hide the loved and honoured dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard her passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white: He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." A sword swept.

Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Ionicus

I live--I am old--I return to the ground-- Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound. WILLIAM CORY.

With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, His mood a joy that nought could mar, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before Quebec He watched with Wolfe till the morning star; At noon he saw from Victory's deck The sweep and splendour of England's war.

Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island Race. He passed: his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was high to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war.

The Non-Combatant

Among a race high-handed, strong of heart, Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste, He had his birth; a nature too complete, Eager and doubtful, no man's soldier sworn And no man's chosen captain; born to fail, A name without an echo: yet he too Within the cloister of his narrow days Fulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept alive The eternal fire; it may be, not in vain; For out of those who dropped a downward glance Upon the weakling huddled at his prayers, Perchance some looked beyond him, and then first Beheld the glory, and what shrine it filled, And to what Spirit sacred: or perchance Some heard him chanting, though but to himself, The old heroic names: and went their way: And hummed his music on the march to death.

Sacramentum Supremum