The Sunday Oregonian., August 05, 1917, SECTION FIVE, Page 8, Image 68

TIIE SUNDAY OREGONIAX, PORTLAND, AUGUST 5, 1917.
SEVEN REQUESTS FOR POEMS AND SONGS HERE PRESENTED
'The British Heroes,,, Written on "the Other Side" During the War of 1812, May Have Interest.
8
CCORDINQ to our announcement
A of last week, -we will print each
week for a time requests for
poems that have been received and on
file with us for a long: time, and we
request our readers to co-operate with
us in contributing: the dej'red verses.
It will not be possible for tin to re
ceive and attend to any new requests
for poems until we nave Iiandled those
we have on hand.
Amr-ng these requests Is one from
Eva K Poeman. of Milwaukee, for the
"Battle of Waterloo," which begins:
" 'Twai in the time when Bonaparte held
alt the world In fear,
.When trumpet blasts and calls to arms re
sounded far and near '
"The- Milwaukee Fire'' is requested
fcy Mrs. C. H. Larson.
The song- "Nellie Ely" is wanted by
Mrs. Hall, of this city, and Mrs. S. E.
Heisenbtein requests a song entitled:
"Most Anything:."
Another reader and contributor asks
for "The White Rose of Miami."
O. H. Warner, of Boardman, want
song-, "The British Heroes," which
may have Interest as a curiosity, inas
much as it is written on "the other
side" in the war of 1S12. It begins:
"Come all you British heroes, I'll have you
lend your ears.
And draw up all your forces and then your
volunteers;
For we're going: to fleht the Yankee boys
by water and by land "
C. Wilke, of White Salmon, requested
months ago a song beginning:
"I'll ne'er forget the days when I was young;.
And it isn't so very long ago."
Wo are Indebted to the following
readers for copies of "The Blind Girl's
Request." which was asked for some
time ago: Mrs. Trella Bullock, of Bux
ton; Mary Bets worth, of Ioty, Wash.:
Mrs. Tessle Kanacos, of Mabel. Or.;
Mrs. Edna Clarke, of Onalaska, Wash.;
Miss Fay Shaw, of Coquille; Mrs. H. U.
Welch, of Portland; "M. L. S.," Golden
dale. Wash.; Mrs. E. L. Turney, of
Portland, and Mrs. E. E. Ingalls.
We reprint it herewith:
THE BLIND GIRL.
They say, dear father, that tonight,
you'll wed another bride.
That you will clasp her in your arms
where my dear mother died.
That she will lean her graceful head
upon your loving breast.
Where she who now lies low in death,
in her last hours did rest.
They say her name is Mary, too, the
name my mother bore,
But father, is she good and true, like
her you loved before?
And are her steps so soft and low, her
voice so meek and mild?
And father, will she love me, too, your
blind and helpless child?
Please, father, do not bid me come, to
greet your new-made bride,
I could not greet her in the room where
my dear mother died.
Her picture's hanging on the wall, her
books are lying near
And there's the harp her fingers
touched, and there's her vacant
chair.
The chair whereby I -used to kneel, to
say my evening prayer
Dear father, it would break my heart, I
could not greet her there.
And as I cry myself to sleep, as now I
often do.
Then softly to my champer creep, my
new mamma and you;
Then bid her gently press a kiss upon
my throbbing brow.
Just as my dear mamma did; papa,
you're weeping now.
I know 1 love you, papa dear, but how
I long to go.
Where God is light, and I am sure
there'll be no blind ones there.
Now let me kneel down by your side
and to our dear Savior pray.
That God's right hand may lead you
both up life's long, weary way."
The- prayer was offered, and a song,
"I'm weary now," she said.
Her father raised her in his arms and
laid her on the bed.
And as he turned to leave the room,
one joyful cry was given.
He turned and caught the last, sweet
smile his blind child was In
heaven.
They buried her by her mother's side,
and raised a marble fair.
On It inscribed these simple words,
"There'll Be No Blind Ones
. : There."
THE FLIGHT OF TIME.
Written by J. W. Wood.
Tis to the young that time moves slow.
And years seem laggards as they go.
Time stands between them and their
goal.
'And anxious waiting chafes the soul.
1Ike those who wait a coming train
All freighted, down with richest gain,
"With eager gaze they scan the way
And chide at what they call delay.
A distant line of smoke they see,
"Which floats In dim uncertainty,
Jt seems to come, it seems to go.
But laggard like. It moves eo slow.
The train meanwhile with ringing
tread
Is coursinjr o'er Its Iron bed.
Its panting engine cleaves the air
With rapid stroke snd vivid glare.
Its Iron muscles never tire.
As nerved with steel and thrllledi with
fire
Jt dashes down the track, elate.
With all the certainty of fate,
Tts distant echoes none could hear
But yet. on schedule time 'tis here.
3t rushes past with clash and roar
And silence follows as before.
Fo 'tis with those who wait for time"
To bring its victories sublime.
The rushing train moves all too slow.
To meet their bounding pulses' glow.
To those of us whose locks are gray,
The train may bear our hopes away,
But still, we try to grasp the prize -Which
vanishes before our eyes.
The triumphs which we hoped to gain
When May flowers brightened all the
plain,
Feem distant still, when Autumn's leaf
Has cooled the zeal of young belief.
"ur eyes grow dim. our forces fall.
The cry of wrong swells every gale.
Then let the young rise in their might
And press the foe, while hopes are
bright.
To strive for wealth or place or fame
Is commonplace, and leaves no name
That lives on high: and brings to none
Christ's welcome plaudit of "Well
done "
A. B. Wood, of Cottage Grove, con
tributor. .To the Editor Below Is a poem I
FPoke in a little schoolhouse in Illinois
over SO years ago. J. W. CLANCY.
OfR COUNTRY.
Our country stands with outstretched
hands. "
Arpealing to her boys.
From them must flow her weal or woe.
Her anguish or her joys.
A ship she rides on human tides.
Which rise and sink anon.
Each rolling wave may prove her grave
Or bear her nobly on. "
'A friend of right, with armor bright,
A valiant Christian band.
Through God our aid may yet be made
A blessing to our land.
A GEORGIA VOLOTEER,
Mary Ashley Townsend.
Far up the lonely mountain side
My wandering footsteps led;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet.
The -pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort
Lay In the forest nave.
And in the shadow near my path
I saw a soldier's grave.
The bramble wrestled with the weed
Upon the lowly mound:
The simple headboard, rudely writ.
Had rotted to the ground;
I raised It with a reverent hand.
From dust Its words to clear.
But time had blotted all but these
"A Georgia Volunteer!"
I saw the toad and scaly snake
From tangled covert start
And hide themselves among the weeds
Above the dead man's heart:
But undisturbed. In sleep profound.
Unheeding, there he lay,
His coffin but the mountain soil.
His shroud Confederate gray.
I heard the Shenandoah roll
Along the vale below;
I saw the Alleghenies rise
Toward the realms of snow.
The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind
Its leader s name and then -
I knew the Bleeper had been one
Of Stonewall Jackson s men.
Tet whence he came, what lip shall
say
Whose tongue will ever tell
What desolated hearths and hearts
Have been because he fell?
What sad-eyed maiden braid her hair.
Her hair which he held dear?
One lock of which perchance lies with
The Georgia Volunteer!
What mother, with long-watching eyes
And white lips, cold and dumb.
Waits with appalling patience for
Her darling boy to come?
Her boy! whose mountain grave swells
up
But one of many a scar.
Cut on the face of our fair land
By gory-handed war. -
What fights he fought, what wounds
he wore.
Are all unknown to fame;
Remember, on his lonely grave
There is not e'en a name!
That he fought well and bravely, too.
And held his country dear.
We know, else he had never been
A Georgia Volunteer. ,-
He sleeps what need to question
If he were wrong or right?
He knows ere this whose cause was
just
In God the Father's sight.
He wields no warlike weapons now.
Returns no foeman's thrust
Who but a coward would revile
An honest soldier's dust?
Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll
Adown thy rocky glen;
Above thee lies the grave of one
Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
Beneath the cedar and the pine.
In solitude austere.
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies
A. Georgia Volunteer.
Alice B. Russell, Contributor.
THE OWL-CRITIC. . -
By James Thomas Fields.
"Who stuffed that white owl?"
No
one spoke in the shop.
The barber was busy, and he couldn't
stop;
The customers, waiting their turns.
were all reading
The "Daily." the "Herald," the "Post,
little heeding
The young man who blurted out such
a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a
suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Don't you see, Mr. "Brown."
Cried the youth, with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is.
How preposterous each wing is.
How flattened the head is. how jammed
down the neck is
In short, the whole owl, what an Ig
norant wreck 'tis!
I make no apology;
I've learned owl-eology.
I've passed days and nights In a hun
dred collections.
And cannot be blinded to any deflec
tions Arising from unskilful fingers that fall
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to
his tall.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
Do take that bird down.
Or you'll soon be the laugh-stock all
over town!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"I've studied owls.
And other night fowls.
And I tell you
What I know to be true; ,
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world.
Ever had his claws curled.
Ever had his legs- slanted.
Ever had his bill canted.
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He can't do it. because
'Tis against all bird-laws.
Anatomy teaches
Ornithology preaches
An owl has a toe
That can't turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for
years.
And to see such a job almost moves
me to tears!
Mister Brown. I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
"As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To look at that owl really brings on a
dizziness:
The - man who stuffed him don't half
know his business!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Examine those eyes.
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down!
Have him stuffed again. Brown!
And the barber kept on shaving.
"With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that,
I could make an old hat
Look more like-an owl
Than that horrid fowl
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of
coarse leather.
In fact, about him there's not one nat
ural feather."
Just then, with a wink and a sly normal
lurch.
The owl very gravely got down from
his perch.
Walked around and regarded his fault
finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a
glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as If he should
say:
"Your learning's at fault this time any
way; Don't waste it again on a live
- bird, I pray:
I'm an owl; you're another.
Sir Critic, good day."
And the barber kept on shaving.
Alice B. Russell, Contributor. ,
tHO
CL;
uAuyiu Aft
. Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
. Bode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
. -Some one had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
into the valley of Death
Bode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell.
Boldly they rode and well:
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Bode the six hundred.
TIRED OF PLAY. -
Tired of play, tired of play.
What hast thou done this livelong day!
The birds are silent and so is the bee.
The sun Is creeping up steeple and tree.
The doves have fown to the sheltering
eaves
And the nests are dark with drooping
leaves.
Twilight gathers, and" day Is done.
How hast thou spent it, restless one?
Playing, but what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to a playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied and whom for
given? How, with thy faults, has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill.
By greenwood paths, and by singing
rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day
That will find thee tired, but not of
play.
And thou wilt lean as thou leanest now,
With drooping lids and aching brow.
And wish the shadows would faster
creep
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were It then that thine aching
brow
Were as free from sin and shame as
now.
Well for thee if thy Hps could tell
A tale like this of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved dis
tress. If thy pity hath sprung to wretched
ness. If thou hast forgiven a sore offense.
And humbled thy heart to penitence.
If nature's voices have spoken with thee
With her holy meanings, eloquently.
If every creature hath won thy love.
From the creeping worm to the brood
ing dove.
If never a sad. low-spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart un
heard, .
Then" when the night steals on as now
It will bring relief to thine aching
brow.
And with Joy and peace at the thought
of rest.
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's
breast.
Contributor, Clara C. Munson.
GREATER AMERICA.
By B. F. Cochran.
Yes. great America shall be
In greatness like a stately tree.
In It shall troubled nations find
The highest virtues of mankind.
It Ehall not gain by spoil or loot
The equal reach of limb and root:
What nature gives from earth and air.
What God bestows, shall be its share.
Deep-rooted, high and growing higher,
Its lusty life shall e'er aspire
To build its green, broad shelter strong,
'Gainst Inward rot and outward wrong.
Its mighty arms of goodly power
Shall hide themselves with leaf and
flower;
Rich balm Its coursing eap shall make.
And fruit glad million shall partake.
Its breath of perfume home afar.
Shall calm the fevered thought of war.
While distant shores shall pass along
The echoes of "sweet freedom's song."
The blossom shall not treat with scorn
The lowly root of which 'twas born.
Nor rootlet suffer pain and grief
From envy toward the chining leaf.
The upward current full and free
Shall bear the earth-food merrily.
And down shall flow the sunshine's gold
To faithful fibers n the mold.
The people by their wise consent
Shall fix the bounds of government.
And selfishness and greed ehall feel
A firm restraint of common weal.
Sent by Minerva Kennedy, j
M
USr Left of six hundred. ydm MMt 7 '
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd- in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder 'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Beel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade? -O,
the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
"I'LL HANG MY HARP OX A WILLOW
TREE." -I'll
hang my harp on a willow tree,
And I'll off to the wars again.
My peaceful home has no Joy for me.
The battlefield no pain; .
or the lady I love will soon be a
bride
With a diadem on her brow,
O, why did she flatter my boyish pride!
She is going to leave me now!
She took me away from my warlike
lord.
She gave me a silken suit.
I thought no more of my roaster's
sword
As I played on my mistress' flute.
She seemed to think me a boy above
Her pages of low degree.
O had I but loved with a. boyish love
It would have been better for me!
Then I'll hide in my breast every selfish
care:
I'll flush my pale cheeks with wine;
When smiles await the bridal pair
I'll hasten to give them mine.
I'll laugh and I'll sing though -my
heart may bleed:
I'll walk in the festive train:
And if I survive it I'll mount my steed
And 1 11 off to the wars again.
One sunny tress of her hair I'll twine
Mid the helmet's sable plume;
And then to the fields of Palestine,
I'll seek an early doom.
And If by the hand of Saracen I fall,
'Mid the noble and the brave.
One tear from the lady I love is all
I'll ask for a warrior's grave.
A. G. Wallace. Contributor.
SORRY.
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
There Is much that makes me sorry as
I journey down life's way.
And I seem to see more pathos in poor
human lives each day.
I'm sorry for the strong, brave men
who shield the weak from harm.
But who. In their own troubled hours,
find no protecting arm.
I'm sorry ior the victors, who have
reached success, to .stand
As targets for the arrbws shot by
envious .aiiums hand,
I'm sorry for the generous . who
freely shared tneir wine.
But drink alone the gall of tears in
fortune's drear decline.
-I'm sorry for the souls who build their
own fame's funeral -pyre.
Derided by the scornful throng like Ice
deriding tire.
I'm sorry for the conquering ones, who
know npt Bin's defeat.
But daily tread fierce desire 'neath
scorched and bleelir.g feet.
I'm sorry for the anguished nearts that
break with passion's strain.
But I'm sorrier for the poor, starved
souls that never knew love's pain.
Who hunger oj through ' arren years,
not tasting joys they crave,
Fjr sadder far is such a lot than
weeping o'er a grave.
I'm sorry for the souls that come un-
welcomed into birth.
I'm sorry for the unloved old who
cumber up the earth,
I'm sorry for the suffering poor In
life's great maelstrom hurled;
In' truth i m sorry for them all who
would make this aching world.
But underneath whatever seems sad
and is not understood.
I know there lies, hid from our sight,
a mighty germ of good.
And this belief stands firm by me, my
sermon, m6tto, text
The sorriest things in this life will
seem grandest in the next.
Contributor A. B. Wood, of Cottage
Grove.
3. MtM
A SEA FIGHT.
Walt Whitman.
vv ould you bear of an old-time sea
fight?
Would you learn who won by the light
of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's
lather, the sailor, told- it to me.
"Our foe was no skulk In his ship,
tell you (said he).
His was the surly English pluck, and
there is no tougher or truer, and
never was, and never will be:
Along the lowered eve he came hor
ribly raking us.
"We closed with him, the yards en
tangled, the cannon touched.
May captain lashed fast with his own
hands.
"We had received pome eighteen-pound
shots under the water,
On our lower gun-deck two large
pieces had burst at the first fire,
killing all around and blowing
up overhead.
"Fighting at sundown, fighting at
dark.
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well
up, our 'leaks on the gain, and
five feet of water reported.
The master-at-arms loosing the pris
oners confined in the afterhold to
give them a chance to them
selves.
"The transit to and from the magazine
is now stopt by the sentinels.
They see so many strange faces they
do not know whom to trust.
"Our frigate takes fire.
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fight
ing done?
"Now I laugh content, for I hear the
voice of my little captain.
'We have not struck!" he composedly
cries, we have just begun our
part of the fighting.'
"Only three guns are In use.
One i3 directed by the Captain himself
against the enemy s mainmast.
Two, well served with grape and can
ister, silence his musketry and
clear his decks.
The tops alone second the fire of this
little battery, especially the
maintop:
They hold out bravely during the whole
of the action.
"Not a moment's cease.
The leak gains fast on the pumps, the
fire eats toward the powder
magazine.
One of the pumps has been shot away;
it is generally thought we are
sinking.
Serene stands the little Captain:
He is not hurried, his voice is neither
high nor low.
His eyes give more light to us" than
our battle lanterns.
Toward twelve, there In the beams of
the moon, they surrender to us."
Contributed In a collection of naval
poems by "C. F.," of Roseburg.
SO MANY.
Frank L. Stanton In the Atlanta Con
stitution.
So many stars in the infinite space
So many worlds In the light of God's
face. v
So many storms-ere the thunders shall
cease
So many paths to the portals of Peace.
So many years, so many tears
Sighs and sorrows and pangs and
prayers.
So many ships In the desolate night
So many harbors,, and only one Light.
So many creeds like the weeds In the
sod
So many temples, and only one God-.
A. s. wooa, contributor.
THE REVENGE.
A Ballad -f the Fleet.
Lord Tennyson.
At Flores, in the Azores, Sir Richard
Grenvllle lay.
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird,
came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! We have
sighted fifty-three!" .
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard:
"'Fore God, I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here,
ships are out of gear.
And the half my men are sick.
for my
I must
fly, but follow quick.
We jare six ships of the line. Can we
fight with fifty-three T'
Then spake Sir Richard Grenvllle: "I
know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight
with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that- are
lying eIcr. ashore.
I should count myself a coward if I
left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the
devildoms of Spain."
So Lord Howard passed away with five
ships of war that day.
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent
Summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his
sick men. from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Ben of Biddeford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down
below.
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain that
they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for
the glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen to work
. the ship and fight.
And" he .sailed away from Flores till
the Spaniards came in sight.
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon
the weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now.
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time
this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said -again: ."We be
all good Englishmen.
Let us bang those dogs of Seville, the
children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don
or devil yet."
Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and
we roared a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer Into
the heart of the foe.
With her hundred fighters on deck, and
her ninety sick below;
For half their fleet to the right and
half to the left were seen.
And the little Revenge ran on through
the long sea-lane between.
Thousands - of their soldiers looked
looked down, from their decks
and laughed:
Thousands of their seamen made mock
at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delayed
By their mountain-like San Philip that
of fifteen hundred tons.
And up-shadowing high above us with
her yawning tiers of guns.
Took the breath from our sails, and
we stayed.
And while now the great San Philip
hung above us like . cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud.
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day.
And two upon the larboard and two
upon the starboard lay.
And the battle thunder broke from
them all.
But anon the great San Philip, she be
thought herself and went.
Having that within her womb that had
left her ill content:
And the rest they came aboard us, and
they fought us hand to hand.
For a dozen times they came with their
pikes and musketeers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as
a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the
land.
And the sun went down, and the stars
came out far over the Summer
sea.
But never a moment ceased the fight
of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long,
their high-built galleons came;
Ship after ship, the whole night long.
with her battle-thunder and
flame:
Ship after ship, the. whole night long,
drew back with her dead and her
shame.
For some were sunk, and many were
shattered, and so could fight us
no more
God of battles, was ever a battle like
this in the world before?
For he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"
Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
And It chanced that, when half of the
short Summer night was gone.
With a grisly wound to be' drest he had
- left the deck.
But a bullet struck him that was dress
ing it suddenly dead.
And himself he was wounded again In
the side and the head;
And he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"
And the night went down and the sun
smiled out far over the Summer
sea.
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides
lay round us all In a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for
they feared that we still could
sting.
So they watched what the end would be,
And we had not fought them In vain.
But In perilous "plight were we.
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were
slain.
And half of the rest of us maimed for
, life
In the crash of the cannonades and the
desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold
were most of them stark and
cold.
And the pikes were all broken or bent.
and the powder was all of it
spent;
And the masts and the rigging were
lyinir over the side.
But Sir Richard cried in his English
pride:
"We have fought such a fight for a
day and a night ' ;
As may never be fought again!
We have one great glory, my men!
And a day less or more,
At sea or ashore.
We die dost it matter when?
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner sink
her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the
hands of Spain!"
And
the gunner said "Ay! Ay
but
the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives.
And the Lord hath spared our lives,
We will make the Spaniard promise, If
we yield, to let us go:
We shall live to fight again and to
strike another blow." .,
And the lion there lay dying, and they
yielded to tne toe.
And the stately Spanish men to their
flagship bore him then.
Where they laid him by the mast, old
Sir Richard caught at last.
And they praised him to his face with
their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks and he
cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faltbi
like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man Isj
bound to do;
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard
Grenvllle, die!"
And he fell upon their decks anc". ha
died.
And they stared at the dead that had
been so valiant and true.
And had holden the power and glory of
Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship
and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for
aught they knew.
But they sank his body with honor
down into the deep,
And they manned the Revenge with a.
swarthier alien crew,
And away she sailed with her loss and
longed for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had
ruined awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the
weather to moan.
And or ever that evening ended a great
gale blew.
And a w -ve like the wave that Is raised
by an earthquake grew.
Till It smote on their hulls and the!
sails and their masts and their:
flags.
And the whole sea plunged and fill or
the shot-shattered navy of Spain,
And the little Revengo herself went
down by the island crags.
To be lost evermore in the main.
C. F., of Roseburg, contributor. V
.
THE IRISHMAN'S TOAST.
Don't call me weak-minded because J
may sing
Of the dearest old spot on the earthj
Or don't think me foolish should menu
ory bring
To my mind the dear land of m
birth.
With its hills and its valleys. Its moum
taln3 and vales
Of which our forefathers did boast.
Of a dear little Island all covered wltH
green.
Now. listen: Til sing you an Irishn
man's toast.
Chorus
Here's to the land of the shamrock sd
green:
Here's to each boy and his darling col
leen:
Here's to the friends we love dearest
and most.
May God speed old Ireland Is an Irish-
man's toast.
How well I remember the old cabin
home
As It stood by the murmuring rill;
There, together, my playmates and I
used to roam
By the chapel that stood by the hill.
But the strong hand of time has de
stroyed the old spot.
And the farm now is barren and bare.
Tet around the old porch there's the Ivy
entwined.
And the birds seem to warble this
toast In the air.
The church and the schoolhouse have)
both been replaced;
In the Harp Hotel lives a new host:
The gray-haired old veteran has long!
gone to rest.
And his wife has deserted her post.
For death, the stern reaper, has called
them away.
And their children have gone o'er the
the sea.
Oh, there's nothing . but strangers '
around the old home.
But the echo comes back with this
toast to my ear.
Contributor, M. T. O'Connell, Wlnlock,
Wash.
DON'T YOU GO, TOMMY. DONT GO.
You'll rue it, my boy, now mind what
I say;.
Don't spend all your money and time
in that way;
There's no one but idlers that lounge
about so:
I beg of you, Tommy, don't go!
We're feeble and old your mother and
me.
And kind to us both you should
ever be.
To whisky-shops, billiards and cards
bid adieu.
I beg of you. Tommy, don't go.
CHORUS.
Don't you go. Tommy, don't go!
There's no one but idlers that lounge
about so:
I beg of you, Tommy, don't go.
Why don't you be steady and work
like a man?
I can't hold the plow, but still do what
I can;
There's so much to do and our grain
we must sow,
I beg of you. Tommy, don't go.
Besides, there are corn and potatoes td.
plant.
Tou're young and can stand it, you
know that I can't;
Let whisky alone, for it grieves
mother eo,
I beg of you, Tommy don't go.
We've watched o'er you, Tommy, . In
sweet infancy.
While angels were silently beck'nlng
to thee:
At midnight we knelt at your cradle
60 low, J
I beg of you. Tommy, don't gd.
Be kind to us. Tommy, we'll soon pass
away.
The farm will be yours at no distant
day.
Eternity's blessing yo-'ll reap if you
sow,
O Tommy, dear Tommy, don't go!
A song popular a generation ago;
Mrs. C. L. Mastin. contributor.
TUT SCIENVIFTC SLUGGARD.
'Tis the voice of -he scientist, hear him,
explain;
"Don't yet up too soon, it is bad for
thi brain.
The mind it nhinges," he ruthlessly
said:
"If you rise In the morning too soon
from your bed."
"Go early to bed and be early to rise.
And so you'll be healthy and wealthy
and wise:"
But how about those agricultural hands.
Who do all tne ye- r round what the
proverb commands?
I passed by his garden quite early one
morn.
And saw him uprooting the thistle and
thorn.
His limbs are rheumatic, his energy
flags,
And as for his trousers and shirt, they
were rags.
I spoke to the yokel, still hoping to find
That rising so early was gocd for his
mind:
He doddered and driveled, alas, it was
plain.
The worthy buc-lic was three parts
insane.
Said I . In my heart: "Here's a lesson
for me.
That man Is a picture of what I might
he;
Then, thanks to .ne science, for teach
ing so clearly.
It's quite a delusion to ret up too
early "
Mrs. F. Kxutsinger, contributor,