CANADIANS

With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs,

With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the

roofs,

Low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye,
Through our English village the Canadians go by.

Shying at a passing cart, swerving from a car,
Tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a snowy star,
Racking at a Yankee gait, reaching at the rein,
Twenty raw Canadians are tasting life again!

Hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip,
Strained and sick and weary with the wallow of the ship,
Glad to smell the turf again, hear the robin's call,
Tread again the country road they lost at Montreal!

Fate may bring them dule and woe; better steeds than they

Sleep beside the English guns a hundred leagues away; But till war hath need of them, lightly lie their reins, Softly fall the feet of them along the English lanes. WILL H. OGILVIE.

By permission, COUNTRY LIFE, London.

HERE: AND THERE

SEPTEMBER, 1914

HERE

Soft benediction of September sun;

Voices of children, laughing as they run;

Green English lawns, bright flowers and butterflies; And over all the blue embracing skies.

THERE

Tumult and roaring of the incessant gun;
Dead men and dying, trenches lost and won;
Blood, mud, and havoc, bugles, shoutings, cries;
And over all the blue embracing skies.

F. W. BOURDILLON.

By permission, CHRISTMAS ROSES FOR 1914, A. L. Humphreys,

They have donned their winged helms,

They would rise and reign,

The young king Sebastian,

The old king Charlemagne,

Harold with his great bow,
Roland with his horn.

Men who heard their horses' hoofs

Many a scarlet morn!

The Old Kings have risen.

Where the hosts advance
Redbeard cries his Germans on,
Karle cries out for France,

Up and down the battlefield
Ghostly armies beat,

Stilly down the gray sea glides
Olaf's shadow-fleet:

Up and down the red fields
Men have seen them go,
Seen the long plumes on the wind,
Seen the pennons flow,
Harry out of Agincourt

Sends his bowmen wide,

Joan that has forgiven them

Battles at their side. . .

Christ, King of Paradise,

Hasten with Thy hosts,

Angels all in silver mail,

Saints and blessed ghosts,

Cry the long swords sheathed again,

Cry the pennons furled,

Lest under Ragnarok

Lie the shattered world!

MARGARET WIDDEMER.

By permission, Widdemer, THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE, Henry

Holt & Co.

THE VOLUNTEER

Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent
Toiling at ledgers in a city grey,

Thinking that so his days would drift away
With no lance broken in life's tournament;