Not dust! Not dust the chivalry,

The knightly heart of high romance
Enshrined in ancient poetry.

Behold, the battlefields of France !



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 pass,

Tommy toujours gai.

Oh, Tommy's cap is tilted

And a gleam is in his eye;
His step it is a jaunty one

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”

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.

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


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

and armour meet for the fight; You, being absent, are with us to-nightFor we could not have left


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,

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'.

We canna see the sergeant,
The five foot five inch sergeant,
We canna—see the sergeant

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'.

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