Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face, And tell him--what he'd very much prefer-- That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved his place, And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her.

He's an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget it all, But we do not want his kiddies to remind him, That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul, So we'll help the home our Tommy's left behind him!

Cook's home--Duke's home--home of a millionaire.

(Fifty'thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) Each of 'em doing his country's work (and what have you got to spare?) Pa.s.s the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!

FOR THE EMPIRE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

It is no more place and party, It is no more begging votes; But the roaring of steam-packets, And a rushing of bluejackets And a rally of redcoats; For the Empire's will is hearty, Thundered by united throats.

We are sick of talk and treason, There is duty to be done; By the veteran in danger, And the lad who is a stranger Unto strife and shrinks from none; In the power of right and reason, Now all cla.s.ses are but one.

We have suffered and have yielded, Till we felt the burning shame; And long outrage and endurance Are our glory of a.s.surance To begin the b.l.o.o.d.y game; By our honour are we shielded, In the might of England's name.

It is no more fume of faction, It is no more weary calls; We are strong in faith and steady, With the sword of Justice ready And our iron men and walls; Since the hour has struck for action, And red retribution falls.

We have wrongs, which for redressing Cry aloud to G.o.d at last; It is woe to him who trifles When we speak across our rifles At the great and final cast; And we seek no other blessing Than the blotting out the past.

We will brook no new denial, We will have no second tale; And we seek no sordid laurels, But here fight the ages' quarrels And for freedom's broadening pale-- Lo, an Empire on its trial, Hangs within the awful scale.

WANTED--A CROMWELL.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

O for an hour of Cromwell's might Who raised an Empire out of dust, And lifted it to noontide light By simple and heroic trust; Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust, And clove its way through crowned night.

We want old England's iron stock, Hewn of the same eternal rock.

Where is the man of equal part, To rule by right divine of power; With statesman's head and soldier's heart, And all the ages' dreadful dower Brought to a bright and perfect flower-- From whom a n.o.bler course may start?

We hear but faction's fume and cry, With England in her agony.

Where is the master mind that reads The far-off issues of the day, And with a willing nation pleads That loves to own a master sway?

Where are the landmarks on the way, Set up alone by him who leads?

We vainly ask a common creed To make us one in England's need.

Is there no man with broader reach To fill a th.o.r.n.y throne of care, And bravely act and bravely teach Because in all he has a share?

No helper who will do and dare, And stand a bulwark in the breach?

Have we no lord of England's fate, Though coming from a cottage gate?

O surely somewhere is the hand To grasp and guide this reeling realm, While in the hour-gla.s.s sinks the sand And faints the pilot at the helm; If billows break to overwhelm, Yet he will conquer and command.

England is waiting to be led, If through the dying and the dead.

We do not seek the party fame That trafficks in a people's fall, But one to shield our burning shame And answer just his country's call; To weld us in a solid wall, And kindle with a common flame.

Ah, when she finds the fitting man, England will do what England can.

ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed, As witness conquered tides, And many a pasture sown with crimson seed-- Our English Ironsides; And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain, They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain.

The same grand spirit in the same grim stress Arms them with stubborn mail; They see the light of duty's loveliness And over death prevail.

They never count the price or weigh the odds, The work is theirs, the victory is G.o.d's.

They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock, Where stern the horseman rides, Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock-- Our English Ironsides.

Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag They bear the honour of the ancient flag.

What if they starve, or on red pillows lie Beneath a burning sun?

It is enough to live their day, or die Ere it has even begun; They only ask what duty's voice would crave, And march right on to glory or the grave.

THE THREE CHERRY-STONES.

ANONYMOUS.

Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not.

The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional.

The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile pa.s.sed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group.

Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amus.e.m.e.nt of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.

Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two.

As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had ent.i.tled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.

The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party--it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry--three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon.

They met, and fired alternately, by lot--the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire--he did--fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired--the ball pa.s.sed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month pa.s.sed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note--a challenge, of course--and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay.

Again they met--fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist--the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the _modus operandi_ and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month pa.s.sed--another--and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain.

At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it.

The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope.