O menscheyt bloß, O marter gros,
O wunden tiff, O blutis craft,
O todis bitterkeyt, O du clare gotheit,
Hulff vns zcu der Ewigen seligkeyt! Amen.

Randy he is, all wire
where he walks on springs
of his ding toes, eagle-shouldering,
mincing up to a mark
(for the start of a spar or a sprint)
that stays just ahead of him.

One-man-parade and darling
of the regiment is Mister
Doodle (so-called since children
found he cries cock-a-doodle
instead of -a-doodle-do.)
He holds all ranks in a squadron

of three—two hens and him—
and is color sergeant,
most decorated veteran,
colonel, cornet and trumpeter,
bivouac and supply chief
and battalion boxing champion.

Reveille's 5 a.m.

Plain as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resigned;
Unflawed and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul.—
But, O, what symbol may avail to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear
By which thine urn, Euphemia , claims the tear!
Yet taught by thy meek sufferance to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,

The whitebait looks as if
The soul (colour) of the water moves.

Sounds from an unforgotten shore
And well remembered seas,
Wail of the waves that break and roar
Around the Hebrides!
Come with your low and solemn tread
And long, unmeasured roll,
Breathe for a dirge above the dead
The music of his soul!

Murmurs of that old Gaelic speech
From islands far away,
With your last echoes rise and reach
His parting soul to-day!
Dead hero! on whose brow appears,
In green immortal youth,
The laurel of a hundred years
Of constancy and truth!

Oh! the bills, Christmas bills!
What a world of misery
Their memory instills!
As the merchants with their quills
Stuck behind their “ears polite,”
So caressingly invite
Your kind and prompt attention
To their bills!
How they dun, dun, dun,
As they kindly urge upon
Your earliest attention their blessed little bills,
Little bills!

With a power of perforation,
And a maw that never fills,
What a sad dissimulation
To call them little bills!
While all the tin that tinkles
In your pocket only sprinkles
A little liquidation on the

In yonder mill I rested,
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer,
And on the flowing brook.

As in a dream before me,
The saw, with restless play,
Was cleaving through a fire-tree
Its long and steady way.

The tree through all its fibres
With living motion stirred,
And, in a dirge-like murmur,
These solemn words I heard:

Oh, thou who wanderest hither,
A timely guest thou art!
For thee, this cruel engine
Is passing through my heart.

When soon, in earth's still bosom,
Thy hours of rest begin,

Swallow from beyond the sea!
That, with every dawn again,
Sitting on the balcony,
Utterest that plaintive strain!
What is that thou tellest me?
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Haply thou, for him who went
From thee, and forgot his mate,
Dost lament to my lament,
Widowed, lonely, desolate.
Ever, then, lament with me,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Happier yet art thou than I.
Thee thy trusty wings may bear,
Over lake and cliff to fly,
Filling with thy cries the air,
Calling him continually,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

'Tis eve—and o'er the face of parting day
Quick smiles of summer lightning flit and play;
In pulses of brond light, less seen than felt,
They mix in heaven, and on the mountains melt;
Their silent transport fills the exulting air—
'Tis eve, and where is evening half so fair?
Oh! deeply, softly sobs the Indian sea
O'er thy dark sands, majestic Dharavee,
When, from each purple hill and polished lake,
The answering voices of the night awake
The fitful note of many a brilliant bird,—
The lizard's plunge, o'er distant waters heard,—

Dream of the West! the moor was wild
Its glens the blue Guadima ploughed
An August sunset rich & mild
Over the heath in amber glowed

Dream of the West! two thousand miles
Between me and the Gambia spread
Land of the sun! transcendant smiles
Like thine, his orb departing shed

Birth-place of gods! thy forests proud
Hung in the air their sea-green piles
Eden of earth!, the sunset cloud
Pourtrayed thee, in its golden isles

Now what shall tell the scene the sound
I wrought from eye's voluptuous gale