Tarras Water calling,

Tarras Water falling,

Tarras Water calling, calling,

Tarras Water, Tarras Water!

WILFRED WILSON GIBSON.

By permission, Gibson, COLLECTED POEMS, Macmillan Co.

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England now that April's there!
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, un-

aware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark! where by blossomed pear tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower-
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recall'd a different name,

But all sang "Annie Laurie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest-

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Co., from Taylor's POETICAL WORKS.

IT'S A FAR, FAR CRY

It's a far, far cry to my own land,
A hundred leagues or more;
To moorlands where the fairies flit

In Rosses and Gweedore—

Where white-maned waves come prancing up

To Dooran's rugged shore.

There's a cabin there by a holy well,

Once blessed by Columbcille,
And a holly bush and a fairy fort
On the slope of Glenties Hill,
Where the dancing feet of many winds
Go roving at their will.

My heart is sick of the level lands;

Where the wingless windmills be,

Where the long-nosed guns from dusk to dawn

Are speaking angrily;

But the little home by Glenties Hill,

Ah! that's the place for me.