THE KNIGHTS

Not dust! Not dust the chivalry,
The knightly heart of high romance
Enshrined in ancient poetry.

Behold, the battlefields of France!

ABBIE FARWell Brown.

By permission, HARPER'S MAGAZINE.

TOMMY TOUJOURS GAI

When Tommy comes marching,
Marching across the street,
There's a little drum inside us
That goes
"beat," "beat," "beat;
There's a little drum inside us

Sings the things we cannot say,
As dumb we stand to see him
Tommy toujours gai.

Oh, Tommy's cap is tilted
And a gleam is in his eye;
His step it is a jaunty one

pass,

As he goes marching by.
There are bright eyes at the window
Just to pass the time of day,

When Tommy marches through the town,
Tommy toujours gai.

When Tommy's o'er the silver streak,

A happy lad is he;

With the boys astride his shoulder
And the babies at his knee.
"Ma foi! Mais comme il est gentil!
Dormez, petit ange, dormez;
Your Tommy he will come again,
Tommy toujours gai.'

Sometimes, of course, he's fighting.
Sometimes, maybe, he's sad,
When the going's not too easy,
And there's nothing to be had

But a biscuit for his breakfast,
And no jam at all for tea.
Oh, then his thoughts turn wistfulwise
Home across the sea.

In suit of blue or silver-grey
He comes again to town.
His face it is a bit more thin,

His cheek a shade less brown.
He leans a little on his stick
In an unobtrusive way,
But somehow still he has the air
Of Tommy toujours gai.

Then ladies say a-smiling,
"Now, Tommy, come with me.
I'll take you driving in the Park,"
And Won't you come to tea?"
Then we all sing " Tipperary "

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And laugh and joke and play,
Since Tommy's with us once again,
Tommy toujours gai.

But the little drums deride us,

And the little songs inside us

Sing the songs we cannot say,

Sing the words we fain would say.

W. J. CAMERON.

By permission, Cameron, War AND LIFE, Chapman & Hall, London.

SONG BEFORE SAILING

Here's to the lads that fight for the King!
Here's to the Highlanders, kilts a-swing!
Here's to the boys from the Only Isle

Who would die for the sake of their country's smile.
Here's to our comrades whose courage glows

Brave as their emblem, the English rose!
Shout till the rafters are ringing,

"Here's to our luck,

Here's to our pluck,

On the road we must take on the morrow!"

Think on you we have left behind?
Ay, with many a thought that's kind!
You who hid with a miser's fears

The hard-wrung bitter pence of your tears,
And gave us instead of your shining gold,
Smile and good cheer, for our hearts to hold
As weapons and armour meet for the fight;
You, being absent, are with us to-night—
For we could not have left you
behind us.

So here's to your pluck,

And here's to good luck,

On the road we will take on the morrow!

Comes an end to the best of the fun;

One toast yet ere the feasting's done!

Then down with the glasses-crash-on the floor, For the hour we have tasted may come no more:— "Here's to the sunlit, glad sea-foam,

And the troop-ship that will one day carry us home!" Some of us only? Well, good lack,

It is bullets alone that can keep us back!
But we are not beggars to borrow
Pence to make show of our sorrow;
Though some have the luck,

And some have—just-pluck,

Yet here's to our road on the morrow!

W. J. CAMERON.

By permission, Cameron, POEMs, Longmans, Green & Co.

"I CANNA SEE THE SERGEANT "

I canna see the Sergeant,
I canna see the Sergeant,
I canna-see the sergeant,
He's owre far awa'.

Bring the wee chap nearer,
Bring the wee chap nearer,
O bring the wee chap-nearer-
He's owre bloomin' sma'.

For smoke and shell-and a'

Now we can see him clearer,
Now we can see him nearer-
Upon the topmost parapet
He's foremost o' us a'!

We canna see the sergeant,
The sma' stout-hearted sergeant
We canna-see the sergeant,
He's dead and gone awa'.