"GIVE us a song," the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.
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 recalled 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.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot-and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars.
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 honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.
In days of old the minstrel sung
And through the vaulted rafters rung
The name of knights; and honor sprung
From noble deeds, and glory clung
To them in all high places.
And men strove less for power or pelf
Or sought to hoard in drawer or shelf,
But sought to win, forgetting self,
The nobleness that graces.
I do not long to be a knight
In that old way, and hew and smite
With gleaming sword in single fight,
And so by force maintain the right,
And win a name in story.
But yet a knight I still would be
In life's front ranks of chivalry,
And wield a power to make men free
For love and not for glory.
THE minstrel boy to the war has gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior bard,
Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!
HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING
UTHER was king in the land of Britain. He was a great king for those days. He had many strong and noble knights for friends. But his greatest and best friend was Merlin the Enchanter.
Merlin could become unseen.
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