•::•: :':■''''■ : ■ ' 
 
 Wt a n y 
 
 Keys 
 
 A Bo ok 
 of Verse 
 
C p v r , r y 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA . 
 
IN MANY KEYS 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH 
 
 Author of " Motley : Verses Grave and Gay," etc. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS 
 1902 
 
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the 
 
 year one thousand nine hundred and two, by 
 
 William Briggs, 
 
 at the Department of Agriculture. 
 
.3 
 
 TO 
 THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 /IDS Dear TKHife, 
 
 785 
 
FOREWARD. 
 
 %i It may be glorious to write 
 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls like those far stars that come in sight 
 Once in a century. 
 
 " But better far it is to speak 
 
 One simple word which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 And friendless sons of men. 
 
 11 To write some earnest verse or line 
 
 Which, seeking not the praise of Art, - 
 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the unlearned heart." 
 
 — James Russell Lowell. 
 
 / 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Canadian — 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Unity Day 15 
 
 May 24th, 1 901 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 Chrysler's Farm 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 A Canadian Christmas 
 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 Lundy's Lane 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 Miss Canada Abroad 
 
 
 
 
 25 
 
 The Return of the Contingents 
 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 The Passing of the Century 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 Red Rose Day . 
 
 
 
 
 4i 
 
 Canada's Aspiration . 
 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 The Poem of Pretoria Day 
 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 Canada's Autumn 
 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 The Canady Farmer . 
 
 
 
 
 5i 
 
 I NTERN ATIONAL — 
 
 
 
 
 
 At the Anglo-Saxon Banquet 
 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 The Open Door 
 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 Crete 
 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 Heroic Britain 
 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 Armenia .... 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 The Colonies to the World 
 
 
 
 
 7i 
 
 The Kurds 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 A Scotch Engineer's Address to 
 
 Spain 
 
 
 
 76 
 
10 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 I nternational— Continued. 
 The Touch of Nature 
 
 Peace 
 
 The Charge at Dargai Ridge 
 
 M ISCELLANEOUS — 
 
 Ireland's Welcome to Queen Victoria 
 
 "Ironsides" 
 
 Private Miller 
 
 Juan 
 
 The Dude in the Lumber Camp 
 
 The Emigration Official 
 
 " In Touch with Nature " . 
 
 The Dream and the Awaking 
 
 A " Common " Posy . 
 
 The Drinking-Water Cart 
 
 The Peeler and the Tramp 
 
 Her Answer 
 
 Unrequited 
 
 The Apology of Edwin Markham 
 
 The Sentry's Prayer . 
 
 The Hero Fisherman . 
 
 A Country Graveyard 
 
 The Adopted Boy 
 
 The King and the Beggar 
 
 The Muddled Pedler . 
 
 The Child and the Toad 
 
 Polite . . . 
 
 Word and Deed 
 
 The Whaling of the Kid 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 11 
 
 M iscellaneous— Continued. 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 Echoes of Drumtochty— 
 
 Chairlie's Return .... 
 
 Domsie 
 
 Personal — 
 
 To Queen Victoria, on Her 77th Birthday 
 
 Father O'Leary 
 
 The Burial of Gen. Wauchope . 
 
 Kipling 
 
 To Ian Maclaren (Dr. John Watson) 
 
 Robert Burns 
 
 To the Poet, William Watson — A Reply 
 
 To Alexandra, Princess of Wales 
 
 To J. W. L. Forster .... 
 
 Carlyle's Portrait .... 
 
 A Lament 
 
 Torthorwold — (To John G. Paton) 
 Memorial— 
 
 Lines for Queen Victoria's Burial 
 
 The Death of Gladstone 
 
 Henry George 
 
 Frances E. Willard 
 
 Rev. D. J. Macdonnell 
 
 Father Edward McGlynn . 
 
 John Mark King 
 
 Dr. McDiarmid, of Scarboro' 
 
 Thomas Kirkland, M.A. 
 Notes 
 
 Page 
 
 '57 
 
 158 
 162 
 
 175 
 178 
 180 
 
 183 
 186 
 191 
 
 195 
 197 
 199 
 200 
 203 
 206 
 
 213 
 2l6 
 219 
 221 
 223 
 225 
 227 
 228 
 231 
 235 
 
CanaMan, 
 
 13 
 
IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 UNITY DAY— JULY i. 
 
 A thousand streamlets, 'neath the auroral light 
 Of the far, silent North, shine as they wend 
 And waver southward ; from the sunset West 
 A thousand more down from the mountains glance 
 And wander o'er the prairie deviously 
 In lonely course, till here and there they meet, 
 And kiss, and join their waters into one, 
 And stronger flow toward the eastern lake, 
 Mingling in joy of dancing wave ; then on, 
 In the new power of river lordlier grown 
 With every league of way, to lordlier lake, 
 Now swelled to wind-swept sea ; thence on again, 
 Alternate lake and river, through the gorge, 
 Where echoes that have rung since time began 
 Still roar amazement at the wond'rous Fall 
 That awes the world ; still eastward, past the isles— 
 The thousand emeralds scattered in the stream 
 To show God's boundless bounty — on and on, 
 In the majestic sweep of deep, clear flood, 
 Past stately cities, peaceful sloping farms, 
 And villages that seem to kneel in prayer ; 
 A river of imperial renown, 
 15 
 
16 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Named, with an almost sacred reverence, 
 Our glorious St. Lawrence ! 
 
 Canada ! 
 Behold the emblem of thy polity 
 From God's own hand ; read well the parable 
 Here spoken by His lips. These diverse streams 
 Of North and West, that flow and join and roll 
 In one triumphal volume to the Gulf, 
 Find voice in loud Niagara to preach 
 The lesson to thy heart of Unity : 
 They typify the races gathered here 
 From all the ends of earth, with life-ideals 
 As various as their features. Oh, behold, 
 If thou would'st weld them into one great State, 
 One strong and valiant nation, there must be 
 True unity of heart, as waters mix 
 To form thy splendid river — there must be 
 Not toleration cold, but human love, 
 And brotherhood and large-soul'd sympathy ! 
 
 With deep, wise thought must thou e'er con- 
 template 
 How much of what is noble and sincere 
 Each race brings to thee, making little note 
 Of what is weak and evil, till it pass 
 And wither in the shade of thy neglect ; 
 And cultivate an instinct generous 
 For what may be of beautiful and good 
 In every various worship-altar ; nay, 
 A patriot eye and reverent heart that looks 
 Will find agreements more than differences 
 In every creed he judges alien. 
 Then, would'st thou be firm 'stablished, Canada, 
 
UNITY DA Y—JUL Y i. 17 
 
 Sink differences ; build love on things agreed, 
 Remembering, with bowed and humble soul, 
 That all alike, in this dim, mystic life, 
 Are children crying in the dark for God. 
 
 The old dead age preached tolerance j the new 
 Has a new watchword — catholicity ; 
 Be no test known to thee but loyalty, 
 And let Canadian be the dearest name 
 To all thy sons and daughters ; scattered streams 
 From many sources form, in unity, 
 Thy nation's river ; yet each separate lake 
 Mirrors its own choice picture of the sky ; 
 So, tho' the separate creeds reflect one heaven 
 In differing views, and varied modes and forms, 
 All hearts may be Canadian, and one stream 
 Of patriot faith in liberty and right, 
 And in our flag, our empire, and our King, 
 May grandly flow in ever-widening power 
 To match our one St. Lawrence ! 
 
18 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 MAY 24, 190: 
 
 Is it a grieving fancy deems the sun 
 
 Less bright to-day o'er buds and blossoming 
 
 Than in past years, when bounteous joys did run 
 Through all the boughs of spring ? 
 
 Why seems the blue of the round sky so pale ? 
 
 Why seem the clouds so mournfully to move ? 
 Why seems the robin's cheerful note to fail 
 
 In this the month of love ? 
 
 To-day, the choicest that sweet May can show, 
 Was erst the blithest that our spirits knew ; 
 
 But now, meseems, 'tis tears that overflow 
 In the morn's glistening dew. 
 
 Or is it but the stirring of a grief 
 
 Within our breasts that makes the grass less green, 
 And gives sad meaning to the trembling leaf — 
 
 Thoughts of our vanished Queen ? 
 
 Aye, for or old she was the central orb 
 
 That gave this Day its well-remembered glow j 
 
 Now death's horizon and the night absorb 
 Her whom no more we'll know. 
 
MA V 24, igoi. 19 
 
 Her gracious memory henceforth must lend 
 
 A pathos to this springtime holiday ; 
 To us its splendid hues of joy must blend 
 
 With sorrow's tender grey, 
 
 Yet but to bless it with a nobler air 
 
 And loftier purpose. With true hearts we sing 
 Our Empire's anthem, and send up the prayer — 
 
 God save our noble King ! 
 
20 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 CHRYSLER'S FARM. 
 
 Across the river, whittling as he came, 
 Strode the tall figure of old Uncle Sam. 
 
 To greet him with a neighbor's friendly hand 
 Stood Johnny Bull Canuck on sacred land. 
 
 And soon the twain were in a pleasant chat, 
 Discursively discussing this and that, 
 
 From great affairs that boded ill or good, 
 To smaller gossip of the neighborhood. 
 
 At length by chance Sam's roving eagle eye 
 Descried a new erected shaft near by. 
 
CHRYSLERS FARM. 21 
 
 "Oho," said he, "John, this is something new — 
 I didn't know this sort of tree you grew. 
 
 " When did you plant it ? What do you suppose 
 It's goin' to be good for when it grows ? " 
 
 John blandly smiled. " That special breed of tree 
 Is good for jogging memories," quoth he ; 
 
 11 You've only got to give it half a look 
 And it will talk just like a history book ; 
 
 " To our Canadian youth, that is, I mean — 
 It has a lot to say about 'Thirteen. 
 
 " You didn't 'spose that sort of tree we grew ? 
 If I may use your phrase — you bet we do ! 
 
 " This land, round here grows anything we please ; 
 It sprouts up soldiers, Sam, as well as trees ; 
 
 " For, don't you know" — John proudly waved his arm — 
 " This place you're standing on is Chrysler's Farm ! " 
 
 Old Uncle Sam he raised his head and bowed 
 Toward the shaft, and said, " It does you proud ! " 
 
22 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 A CANADIAN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 A Poem Amended to Accord with Facts. 
 
 i^C 
 
 
 The 9W 9 «t -lay like a blanket 
 
 On field and lane and street, 
 And still the flakes we*e falling ^«-<^ 
 
 Like naisoloGG fairy feet. cr^oL 
 The air Was stear and 4rv&[y 
 
 As oloighs dashed to arid fro. 
 Twas Christmas — such as only 
 
 Canadians can know. 
 
 ^7 
 
 j€z&J^ 
 
 
 Upon the Wfr«0 gteie y 3^-v^~^ 
 
 The aUa tet c swept in glee, p£x*^jz} 
 
 With joy in voice and gesture 
 So buoyant, bright and free. 
 
 And shouted to each other 
 
 " 'Ti8 Christmas tide, yo ho ! 
 
 And Christmas such as only 
 Canadians can know." 
 
 €~/Oz- 
 
LUNDYS LANE. 
 
 LUNDY'S LANE. 
 
 On the Dedication of the Monument to Commemorate 
 the Battle. 
 
 Not with vain swagger of mere soldier-pride 
 Would we affront this age of peaceful strife ; 
 
 Yet to forget heroic men who died 
 
 That we might live the grander, larger life, 
 
 To leave their graves unmarked, unsanctified, 
 
 Were cowardice to ingratitude allied, 
 E'en in a day with commonplaces rife. 
 
 Upon this spot, where men of British blood 
 With kinsmen fought to save our infant State, 
 
 We rear the shaft that looks across the flood 
 Whence came our foes upon that day of fate, 
 Saluting their descendants void of hate, 
 
 And wishing them, as brothers, nought but good. 
 
24 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 We rear the shaft that by such outward sign 
 Our nation's reverence may be told abroad 
 
 For mouldering graves that make this spot divine 
 And consecrate its old historic sod, 
 On which our soldiers, by the grace of God, 
 
 Won this True North and kept our boundary line. 
 
 As 'round this pillar's base the mounds decay, 
 And passing years efface the marks of war, 
 
 So would we have old rancors pass away, 
 And greet with hope the better days that are, 
 The nobler strife of Maple Leaf and Star 
 
 To bless mankind, while Peace, enthroned, holds sway. 
 
MISS CANADA ABROAD. 25 
 
 MISS CANADA ABROAD. 
 
 The Star of London's Mayfair, all knowing ones agree 
 Is John Bull's Western Daughter, who, at the Jubilee, 
 Captured the gay old city with her beauty and her grace, 
 And ever since, in British hearts, has held the foremost 
 place. 
 
 Not the young lady, mark you, whom Tennyson, the Blest, 
 Referred to as J. Bull's M Gigantic Daughter of the West"; 
 But she whom Poet Kipling called " Our Lady of the 
 
 Snows," 
 Alluding to her dazzling complexion, I suppose. 
 
 Miss Canada, in short. Well, London raved about the girl, 
 And season after season, she led the dizzy whirl ; 
 The press teemed with her praises, and every move she made 
 Called forth admiring cheers, — she threw all rivals in the 
 shade. 
 
26 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And she enjoyed her triumph — what girl would not be 
 
 proud 
 To reign supreme in such a style o'er London's surging 
 
 crowd ? 
 But yet she felt a yearning : tho' the acknowledged belle, 
 She longed to have a chance to. prove she was of use as well. 
 
 " My face is not my fortune," she said to Mr. Bull, 
 
 "And if you'll let me have my way, I'll prove it to the 
 
 full ! " 
 " Your way ? " cried John ; " why, take it, of course, my 
 
 pretty dear, 
 Do anything you please, you know, — we're all your servants 
 
 here ! " 
 
 'Twas close to Christmas : from the throng Miss Canada 
 
 withdrew, 
 And Lonnon was agog to know what 'twas she meant to do, 
 But none found out till Christmas Day, when, looking much 
 
 at ease, 
 She stood and rang a bell and cried, "John! Come to 
 
 dinner, please ! " 
 
MISS CANADA ABROAD. 
 
 27 
 
 And Mr. Bull, with his good wife, Britannia, on his arm, 
 And all his little colonies — a most prodigious swarm — 
 And men of state from foreign lands, and 
 
 lords of high degree, 
 And ladies too, went trooping in to see 
 
 what they would see. 
 
 Miss Canada, in apron white, and very 
 
 neat attire, 
 Bade welcome to her honored guests, and V 
 
 much they did admire 
 Her modest, wholesome, cherry ways, — 
 
 and whispers soon grew rife 
 Amidst the company, " By Jove ! she'd 
 make a splendid wife ! " 
 
 They entered and beheld a room that dazzled every eye, 
 The floor of polished hardwood, bright chandeliers on 
 high ; 
 
 Artistic furniture in place, rich and of lustrous 
 
 shine, 
 And all that heart could wish for in the decora- 
 yfj tive line. 
 
 " All made in Canada, my friends ! " exclaimed 
 
 the hostess fair, 
 " Canadian forests grew the wood for table,, 
 
 sideboard, chair, 
 Floor, ceiling, wainscot, — timber wealth we 
 
 have in endless store 
 Throughout our half-a-continent from ocean's 
 
 shore to shore. 
 
IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " But pray be seated, Mr. Bull," and all the guests sat down 
 And had the grandest dinner that Christmas e'er had known, 
 Served up by sweet Miss Canada and her provincial force, 
 Who in neat waitress costume displayed it course by course. 
 
 Miss Maritime first served the soup — a dainty oyster stew 
 (Tho' there was bouillon, also, and clear consomme" too) ; 
 Then followed a procession of every varied dish 
 That cookery knows how to make of fine Canadian fish. 
 
 And next came roasts — the Nor'- West girl, from the wide 
 
 ranches, bore 
 Prime beef, the M beat " of which John Bull had never seen 
 
 before ; 
 And pork of splendid quality, and poultry of all kinds, 
 Turkey and chicken, goose and duck, — for varied gourmand 
 
 minds. 
 
 And vegetables — every sort, and each the very best, 
 Boiled, stewed, and pickled, — carried in by girls from East 
 and West ; 
 
MISS CANADA ABROAD. 29 
 
 With bread, rolls, cakes and pastry, and puddings in a 
 
 shower, 
 All made from Manitoba wheat ground into matchless flour. 
 
 And cheese and butter, best extant, and fruit the first on 
 
 earth, 
 Wound up the bill of fare. Quoth John, " I'm known for 
 
 ample girth, 
 But hold, I have my limits ! " Cried everyone, " Amen ! 
 For such a Christmas dinner we've had we don't know 
 
 when ! " 
 
 Miss Canada smiled proudly. " Then please make note," 
 
 said she, 
 " The entire menu you've discussed I brought across the 
 
 sea ; 
 I'm honored when you call me the gem of Britain's crown, 
 But I am more than ornament ; see, I can feed you, John ! " 
 
 John rose and bowed ; his ample breast was trembling with 
 
 a flutterance; 
 He loosed his neck and tried to speak, but was too full for 
 
 utterance ! 
 
30 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE CONTINGENTS. 
 BRITANNIA. 
 
 I. 
 Take them back, Canada ; 
 Proudly receive them ! 
 Each gallant son of thine, 
 Bearing on head of him, 
 Wearing in heart of him 
 Britain's deep gratitude, 
 Heart's benediction 
 Of people and Queen. 
 Honor them mightily — 
 They who have honored you, 
 Honored the empire, 
 Honored our breed ! 
 Fine decorum disdain, 
 Give your impulse the reign, 
 Fete them, and feast them, 
 And hero-wreaths weave them 
 Of oak leaves and maple leaves 
 Lovingly blended ; 
 For by valor of theirs 
 Was Majuba jibe ended ; 
 My blessing goes with them 
 Over the ocean : 
 Honor them splendidly, 
 Bate no emotion ; 
 Honor them, Canada, 
 Fighters so splendid ! 
 
THE RETURN OF THE CONTINGENTS. 31 
 
 II. 
 Welcome them, Canada, 
 From battle triumphant, 
 From service unstinted 
 On kopje and veldt ; 
 Faces brown-tinted 
 With the African sun, 
 And the toil and the strain 
 Of duty well done ; 
 Peers of my chivalrous 
 Famous old veterans 
 In soldierly valor, 
 Marching and skirmishing, 
 Scouting and charging, 
 Working the gun ; 
 Take them back, Canada, 
 Hero each one ; 
 On their khaki no stain ; 
 Clasp their hands, comrades, 
 Receive them, compatriots, 
 Haggard, but glorious, 
 Over the sea to the home-hearth again ! 
 
 in. 
 Keep their names, Canada, 
 Bright in your annals ; 
 Through all our great empire 
 They're spoken right proudly, 
 And all the bright future 
 Shall know them and cherish them, 
 And progeny distant 
 Shall boast of the blood 
 
32 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Of the gallant contingents, 
 Of the men true and valiant, 
 Who, first in all history, 
 Crossed the wide flood 
 For honor and liberty, 
 Order and right, 
 Beside their world-kindred 
 To labor and fight ; 
 And in victory to stand 
 Beneath the old flag 
 For the old motherland ! 
 
 CANADA. 
 
 IV. 
 Hail thee, Britannia, 
 Generous and brave ; 
 Mother of freedom, 
 Greeting we give to thee 
 Over the wave ; 
 The true sons we lent to thee, 
 Fighters we sent to thee, 
 Here now, tumultuous, 
 We welcome again. 
 
 Look thee, Britannia, 
 Mark how we welcome them : 
 Rank upon rank of us, 
 Mile upon mile ; 
 Joyfully, proudly, 
 Tearfully, cheerfully, 
 
THE RETURN OF THE CONTINGENTS. 33 
 
 Faintly and loudly. 
 
 Hark ! the drums rattling 
 
 Tell us they're coming ; 
 
 Hushed now all prattling, 
 
 Something is clutching 
 
 The hearts in our bosoms ; 
 
 Something is choking us ; 
 
 Paces are paling ; 
 
 A thrill runs abroad — 
 
 Our souls are swept on 
 
 In the tempest of music, 
 
 Our hearts beat the time 
 
 To the rhythm of the marching ; 
 
 Eyes fill and lips falter — 
 
 They come ! They are here ! 
 
 A strange, creeping thrill 
 
 Holds us silent and awed ; 
 
 Eyes that are dimmed 
 
 See the bronzed, passing forms, 
 
 And lips that are tremulous 
 
 Whisper, Thank God ! 
 
 They are passing, are passing — 
 
 With stride swift and even, 
 
 And a swing multitudinous 
 
 Heel matched to heel, 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, 
 
 Steel glinting to steel. 
 
 Then the spell breaks, 
 
 And the cheering and shouting 
 
 And the tumult uproarious 
 
 Give tongue to our feelings. 
 
 Hark ! dim in the distance, 
 
H . IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 A mile down the multitude, 
 
 It rises j it grows to a thunderous roar, 
 
 Like a tidal-wave breaking 
 
 And rolling and shaking 
 
 On an echoing shore ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Welcome, lads, welcome ! 
 From honest, hard service, 
 Gallant and soldierly, 
 In the wide wilderness ; 
 Through the grim gorges ; 
 Over the kopjes ; 
 Over the torrents ; 
 In storm and in sunshine ; 
 Scouting and fighting, 
 And swiftly obeying ; 
 Khaki-clad Centaurs, 
 Brown with brave labor, 
 Welcome, thrice welcome ! 
 Back from the veldts of blood, 
 Back to the cheers 
 Of our kin at the Cape, 
 Ringing and hearty, 
 Loud in your ears : 
 
 Welcome, brave colonists, 
 Over the ocean 
 Tumultuous rolling 
 To England, tumultuous 
 With plaudits and praises ; 
 To thanks frankly spoken 
 
THE RETURN OF THE CONTINGENTS. 35 
 
 Of grateful old Britain ; 
 To tribute right kingly 
 Of Edward, the noble, 
 Our kingliest King ! 
 
 Welcome, swart horsemen, 
 Over the eager sea 
 Billowing westward 
 To your own west again ; 
 Back to the home-land, 
 The queen of all lands — 
 Back to your prairies, 
 White or flower-spangled ; 
 Back to your ranges, 
 Your foot-hills, your canyons ; 
 Your life of vast vision 
 And glorious free breathing 
 'Neath peerless blue skies ; 
 Back to loved faces, 
 And warm-waiting hearths, 
 And proud-beating hearts ! 
 Welcome, Strathcona's ! 
 Welcome ! Well done ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But this, my Britannia, 
 Is more than mere pageant 
 Passing and vanishing ! 
 This is historical. 
 Deep in our tablets, 
 High in our citadels, 
 The names of these heroes 
 
36 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 We'll keep 'yond forgetting ; 
 We'll hang in our temples 
 The colors they carried, 
 The banner of Britain, 
 With the wreath-circled beaver 
 In the glowing red field ; 
 And upon it the blazon 
 Of names now immortal — 
 " Royal Canadian," 
 11 Dominion Artillery," 
 " Strathcona Horse," 
 " Paardeburg," " Mafeking " ; 
 Time in its course, 
 As the ages unfold, 
 Will dim not their splendor, 
 Nor tarnish their gold ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 With thee, Britannia, 
 Mourn we the absent ones, 
 Fallen in battle, 
 Or slain by the fevers ; 
 These honor we tearfully, 
 And proudly remember ; 
 Nobly they fought for thee, 
 Nobly they died for thee ; 
 We will remember them — 
 We will remember ! 
 
THE PASSING OF THE CENTURY. 37 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE CENTURY. 
 
 " Come, let me tell thee, ere I go my way, 
 The greatest of the things that I have seen." 
 So spake the Century, drawing proudly up 
 His regal figure in its classic robe, 
 And pausing, with Historia at his side, 
 Before the portal of the Past, his foot 
 Already on the threshold. " Thou wilt write 
 My story in thy scroll, continuing 
 The eighteen chapters of the Christian age — 
 Telling the tale, as is thy wont, in prose, 
 In truth severe, and shorn of ornament ; 
 Yet, such the marvellous record thou must write, 
 That earlier eyes, if they might read the tale, 
 Would deem it fairy lore, fantastical, 
 Or own that mortal men had grown to gods ! 
 For thou must tell of things miraculous 
 To other eras, blest above these last 
 With the child-faculty of Wonder, which 
 Is now well-nigh outworn in human souls. 
 Think'st thou such readers could believe it true 
 That wingless mortals sweep o'er land and sea 
 With swifter flight than eagles ? Or that speech, 
 Translated into lightning-flash, unites 
 All ends of earth in one community ? 
 
38 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 That Titan-powers, captive to puny man, 
 Patiently labor for him night and day, 
 Producing endless stores of useful things 
 And things of beauty ? That a household toy 
 Of lifeless substance entertains his ease 
 With living human speech and music-strain 
 Perfect in tone as tongue or instrument ? 
 That life itself, moving in varied scene, 
 May now be brought in pictured semblance 
 From lands far distant, to be reproduced 
 At his command upon a canvass screen 
 In detail all exact ? That mimic moons 
 Light up his cities through the hours of night 
 With glow of mystic day ? 
 
 " These marvels all 
 Thou wilt describe as plain, prosaic fact, 
 And take thy chance with Incredulity ; 
 Nay, more than these ; thou wilt set forth as well 
 The triumphs of the pen, the plough, the sword, 
 The mart, the forum, and the printing-press, 
 The schools of art and science — wondrous all ! 
 
 •' But let me tell thee, for my time is short, 
 The greatest of the things that I have seen — 
 The latest but the noblest of them all — 
 Th' apotheosis of Free Government. 
 Set down as the event most notable 
 Of all that happened in my hundred years 
 That episode of war ; in epic strain 
 Rehearse how Britain's free-soul'd colonies 
 Sprang to her side when the alarm rang out, 
 
THE PASSING OF THE CENTURY. 39 
 
 Sending across the thousand leagues of sea 
 
 Their valorous sons to service unconstrained, 
 
 And pouring forth their treasure, proud and glad, 
 
 To aid the Old Land's cause ; no sight like this 
 
 Has any century hitherto beheld ; 
 
 For never till Victoria's Empire rose 
 
 Has any throne bound its dependencies 
 
 By heart-strings to itself, and built on love 
 
 Its world-encircling might. Thy pen, perchance, 
 
 Has traced the record of some ancient power 
 
 Whose slaves obeyed — but 'twas with slavish fear ; 
 
 Or thou hast known of formal pacts and bonds 
 
 That have compelled alliance mutually 
 
 'Twixt state and state ; but here is something new, 
 
 A spectacle pathetic and sublime 
 
 Whereat mere Power may weep, and tremble, too. 
 
 Yet not mysterious ; open, simple, plain, 
 
 The secret of this wonder of the world : 
 
 Britain alone has nurtured Liberty ; 
 
 With generous heart and open hand has given 
 
 To her possessions what herself most prized — 
 
 Freedom, home-government, full civil rights, 
 
 And with no selfish aim — pure motherhood, 
 
 Demanding but the mother-privilege 
 
 Of shielding her wide brood. So has it come, 
 
 Since nations still are form'd of human hearts, 
 
 That mellow gratitude at length has burst 
 
 Into a full-blown chivalry of love, 
 
 And that the gifts thus bounteously bestow'd 
 
 Have now returned upon her, thousand fold, 
 
 In fealty that counts not any cost 
 
 Of filial service in the hour of need. 
 
40 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " Set down, Historia, that in these my days 
 The world has witnessed the prodigious birth 
 Of a new nation, a world-ruling power, 
 A firm-knit people 'neath a single flag ; 
 Diverse in clime and character, but one 
 In soul, and purpose, and blood-brotherhood ; 
 Henceforth a Greater Britain to hold sway 
 O'er this distracted earth." 
 
RED ROSE DAY. 41 
 
 RED ROSE DAY. 
 
 June 6th. * 
 
 Red roses, royal flowers of June ; 
 
 Love's chosen emblem, and Sir John's ; 
 Decking to-day in proud festoon 
 
 The patriot Chieftain's honored bronze, 
 Breathe out thy perfume, matchless sweet, 
 Our hearts to greet. 
 
 Art here has moulded his loved form, 
 
 His memorable master-face ; 
 And nature now, in blossoms warm, 
 
 A moment gives us back its grace — 
 The aroma of his spirit kind, 
 And tolerant mind. 
 
 And, somehow, to my inner ear, 
 
 The rose-breath is transformed to speech, 
 And gently whispers, low and clear, 
 The lesson his great life would teach : 
 " Let there be unity and peace \ 
 Let rancors cease. 
 
 " You come, still faithful to my name, 
 With memories of me to commune ; 
 Dear friends, for symbol of my fame, 
 
 I'd choose broad, growing, generous June, 
 And make it typify my sway 
 O'er Canada. 
 
42 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " Remember your great land is one ; 
 Let party passion, racial strife, 
 And narrow hates of creed be done — 
 
 Rise to the broader nation-life ; 
 Let my red rose denote the blood 
 Of brotherhood " 
 
CANADA'S ASPIRATION. 43 
 
 CANADA'S ASPIRATION. 
 
 I saw my country, fair young Canada, 
 A beauteous figure in her ample North, 
 
 And proudly said, She surely hath no peer 
 'Mongst all the maidens of the rounded earth. 
 
 Saxon and Latin, come, behold in her 
 
 Your mingled virtues sprung to perfect flower — 
 
 The sinuous grace of France in every move, 
 And in each motion British ease and power. 
 
 Her dower of choicest blood in double stream 
 She has not shamed by an effiminate sloth ; 
 
 The lore of France and Britain she has conned, 
 And sought the truest course with light from both. 
 
 And other wisdom-volumes she has read, 
 By other peoples written with their blood, 
 
 Sitting at History's feet with studious mind 
 To learn what things are for a nation's good. 
 
 I saw my country rise \ upon her face 
 A light from heaven fell as if to bless, 
 
 As lifting one white arm aloft she cried, 
 
 " That which exalts a land is righteousness. 
 
44 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " This goodly heritage of mine, this realm 
 
 Of Greater Britain, spread from sea to sea, 
 I dedicate to God and to the cause 
 Of Justice, Honor and Humanity. 
 
 " The bow that glorifies our arctic sky 
 
 With its white myst'ry of quick-darting lights, 
 Shall symbolize the purity of our fame 
 
 And our unsleeping guard o'er freemen's rights. 
 
 Each man within our bounds shall be a king 
 
 Respecting equal royalty in all, 
 And not in vain on my avenging sword 
 
 Shall the oppressed 'gainst the oppressor call. 
 
 " My revenues in unstained hands shall be, 
 My laws shall deal alike with rich and poor, 
 The strife fomenter, briber, coward, knave, 
 
 And huckstering bigot — these shall not endure. 
 
 My land shall be the refuge of mankind 
 From tyranny, injustice, want and wrong, 
 
 And soon the teeming millions, here at home, 
 
 Shall shame the birds with freedom's happy song." 
 
THE POEM OF PRETORIA DAY. 45 
 
 THE POEM OF PRETORIA DAY.* 
 
 Each soul of human kind is in some sort 
 
 A poet-soul, and when a vital thought 
 
 Or a supreme emotion clutches it, 
 
 'Tis as the spark of fire to tinder : straight 
 
 Poetic utterances must be ; as well 
 
 Explode a cannon and suppress the roar 
 
 As seek to hold the liberated blaze 
 
 Of human passion ; it must find a voice, 
 
 And that voice ever must be poetry. 
 
 Not that it comes in harmony of words, 
 
 Or melody of measured verse or song — 
 
 All poets are not singers, nor are pens 
 
 Their only implements — tin horns will do, 
 
 Or rattling, thumping drums and trumpet-blare, 
 
 Rockets or crackers, clanging, humming bells, 
 
 Fog horns and factory whistles — anything 
 
 May be the fitting medium for the flood 
 
 That swells the breast demanding exit thence ; 
 
 The poet-soul, such is its law, must speak, 
 
 And noise gives sweet relief ; hence clang and roar 
 
 That memorable night was to the town 
 
 A satisfying sonnet. Yet each bard 
 
 Has his own separate nature. Din and crash 
 
 Are not the only form of speech — perchance 
 
 Sheer, unabashed tomfoolery's the choice 
 
 * See Note I. 
 
46 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And special vade mecum — one I saw, 
 The seemly elder of a sober church 
 At other times, who, on that holiday, 
 Rushed from the sidewalk to a passing car, 
 And blowing up a small balloon he held 
 (A squeaking toy that, when inflated full, 
 Took on the comic figure of a hog) 
 Waved it in his afflatus, crying, " The Boer, 
 The Boer ! " a witty verselet his ! 
 
 Colors, too, are vents 
 For poetry — hence buntings of bright hue — 
 Most fitly called for such occasions " loud " — 
 Buttons and bonfires, pictures, scarfs, rosettes 
 And flags — these all are symbols eloquent 
 To speak, and so relieve the speechless soul, 
 And publish forth and satisfy the dumb. 
 
 'Twas close to midnight when the awakening spark 
 
 Fell on our magazine — a sudden flash 
 
 From the electric wire — (miraculous, 
 
 Amazing, wonderful, if we would think, 
 
 That there could be such wire and vocal flash — 
 
 But wonder in our age is dying out, 
 
 Or we would sometimes haply take a thought 
 
 Of what it means that converse may be held 
 
 At ease across six thousand miles of sea ; 
 
 Of what it means ? nay, who can tell me that 
 
 Can fathom, grasp, expound and understand 
 
 The abyss of man and nature !) 
 
 As I said, 
 'Twas close to midnight when the tidings came — 
 
THE POEM OF PRETORIA DAY. 47 
 
 A piece of news of import adequate 
 
 To touch the springs of innate poetry ; 
 
 And straight the city, town and village rose, 
 
 Rushed headlong to the streets, all eyes, I ween, 
 
 In finest frenzy rolling, and at once — 
 
 Inspired as truly as bard ever was — 
 
 Wrote in wild characters of tumult, cheers, 
 
 Songs, handshakes, antics, capers, sweat and noise, 
 
 A poem of joy that night and all next day ! 
 
 For was it not a poem ? Look below 
 
 The bedlam and you find pure sanity ; 
 
 Beneath the vulgar, the true spiritual ; 
 
 Beneath the madness, truth and soberness j 
 
 For the deep human thought that found a voice 
 
 In such grotesquerie was the firm base — 
 
 Love, fellowship, right, brotherhood of man — 
 
 On which the poets evermore have built, 
 
 Homer and Shakespeare, Dante, Milton, all 
 
 The laureates of mankind who ever spoke 
 
 For the whole race. It was no narrow rage 
 
 Of gloating o'er the beaten enemy, 
 
 Or frothy pride of arms, but splendid joy 
 
 That honorable war in honor fought 
 
 Was ended, and that fond Colonial homes 
 
 Might now be decked for welcome to the sons 
 
 Home-coming soon, for whom fond hearts have 
 
 yearned. 
 If tears were mingled in the paean-song 
 They were at once the shining drops of pride 
 For our own kith and kin, and pity's meed 
 For a brave foe fall'n in a wretched cause. 
 True, harum-scarum boys rushed up and down 
 
48 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 With guys of fearsome aspect, wearing hats 
 
 Of antiquated pattern, doomed to flame, 
 
 'Mid cries of " Down with Kruger " — true enough ; 
 
 But in the crowd, that soft-toned, woman's voice 
 
 Which muttered " Poor old man, I feel for him," 
 
 Went deeper than the surface-fun, and spoke 
 
 The nobler base on which our nation rests ; 
 
 For no true poet ever hated man, 
 
 Tho' hating deeds and policies of men ; 
 
 And so it was that day. Stark mad, say you ? 
 
 A wild abandonment of dignity 
 
 And common sense ! Perhaps — undoubtedly ; 
 
 But when, in all immortal literature, 
 
 Was line or stanza ever yet produced 
 
 By poet in a moment of severe 
 
 And conscious dignity ? 
 
 'Twas worth the price 
 Of one full day's decorum, doubt it not ! 
 We had a glorious thought and gloriously 
 We uttered it ! 
 
CANADA'S AUTUMN. 49 
 
 CANADA'S AUTUMN. 
 
 Upon the hill-top Admiration stands 
 Glowing with rapture, while her roaming eyes 
 Dance with delight ; no sound, no whispered word 
 Comes from her parted lips ; her bosom heaves, 
 Her aspect speaks, but utterable words 
 Were now a desecration — such a scene ! 
 
 A noble valley, stretching league on league 
 To the far hills that meet the melting sky, — 
 A foreground of green fields and rushing streams, 
 Then for the rest a riot of all things 
 That make a sight to satisfy the heart ; 
 'Tis Autumn's picture for the annual show — 
 A water-color sketch — a masterpiece. 
 The composition is supreme, superb, 
 The light and shade, the feeling and the breadth 
 Are perfect, and the coloring, ye gods ! 
 Tis daring, 'tis defiant, 'tis divine ! 
 'Twould seem the Titan artist, full inspired, 
 With swift long strides has late gone sweeping past, 
 Her palette blazing with a thousand tints, 
 And with deft, flashing hand has dash'd her brush 
 On copse and grove and forest, nor in haste 
 Has slighted humble grass and low-born weed, 
 For everything, from shrub to noblest tree, 
 Her magic has transformed. The sober land 
 4 
 
50 . IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Breaks with her passing into mad display 
 Like Quaker turned at once to Harlequin j 
 Dim and afar we see her speeding on, 
 Still playing the Impressionist, and catch 
 In the faint rustle of the falling leaves 
 The echo of her laughter as she flies. 
 
 For this is Autumn's oft repeated jest ; 
 And she anticipates with hoyden glee 
 How scarlet trees and purple underbrush, 
 And yellow turf, and gay preposterous skies, 
 And daubs and masses of new tints and shades 
 On forest and on field — tints without names, 
 Wildly impossible to Art — shall shock 
 The eye-glass'd critic folk who know it all ! 
 
THE CANADY FARMER. 
 
 ft] 
 
 THE CANADY FARMER. 
 Remarks by Slick Jim, the Reformed Hay-fork Man. 
 
 I hain't no college student, ner deeply 
 lerned in books — 
 
 I 'spose most folks would rank me with the 
 fakirs and the crooks — 
 
 But I've studied human Natur' and took a 
 high degree 
 
 In the school of Ole Experience — Life's Uni- 
 versity. 
 
 ^if An' I calkilate I'm posted, if any feller is, 
 
 On the subjeck of the Farmer, and the 
 entire farmin' biz., 
 An' I jest proceed to mention that them comic paper 
 
 chaps 
 Is 'way off in their reck'nin' when they make them funny 
 scraps. 
 
 I read 'em in the papers — 'bout old hayseed from the farm 
 Who goes to town a visitin', an' alius comes to harm ; 
 How bunco steerers tackles him, and 'peers to be quite 
 
 thick, 
 An' gits his money from him an' fools him with a brick. 
 
 An' sometimes they hev picters showin' Hayseed lookin' 
 
 green, 
 An' wearin' go-to-meetin' clothes, the wust you ever seen ; 
 
52 
 
 IN MA AY KEYS. 
 
 With big top-boots and duster, an' ole-style carpet bag, 
 Or drivin' through the city with a raw-bone, bobtail nag. 
 
 Them funny men an' artists seems to hev jes' one idee — 
 Thet the Farmer is a bloomin' chump and greenhorn jay, 
 
 you see ; 
 But that is where they're off their base and gives theirselves 
 
 away — 
 I'll back the av'rage farmer 'gin them smarties any day ! 
 
 You understand I'm speakin' of the farmin' man I know 
 Which lives right here in Canady — all through Ontario ; 
 If the farmer over yender in the States, 'bout which I read, 
 Is the fool they make him out to be he's quite a different 
 breed. 
 
 I reckon I'm no sucker or I'd never got the name 
 
 " Slick Jim " — what I was knowed by when I worked the 
 
 hay-fork game— 
 Or, ruther, tried to work it, a couple of years or so, 
 But had to give it up because the racket wouldn't go. 
 
THE CANADY FARMER. 53 
 
 If farmers was the idiots them funny writers say, 
 The'd be money in the hay-fork fake, an' I'd be rich to-day; 
 But here I am a-peddlin' tins and livin' straight and fair, 
 'Cos why ? The's eddication an' knowledge in the air ! 
 
 Wot chance hes fakirs got to thrive on pluckin' rural geese 
 In a country where sound knowledge continners to increase? 
 Where they hev Travellin' Dairies and Farmers' Institoots ? 
 They've got no use fer lightnin'-rod or hay-fork scheme 
 galoots. 
 
 The Canady farmer mostly takes the Farmer's 
 Advocate, 
 
 And gits posted on the markets and about the 
 rates of freight, 
 
 An' on every new invention an' all the latest frauds, 
 
 So the fakir's got to git, you see, or work 'gin fear- 
 ful odds. 
 
 An' then, agin, them comic chaps gits up some measly jokes 
 Along anuther line of thought about the farmin' folks — 
 They hev the gall — them city dudes, who never does no 
 
 work — 
 To picter farmers settin' round, their laber fer to shirk ! 
 
 Jes' look at this here sample, to show you what they do — 
 I clipped it from a paper ; jest read them verses through ; 
 I'll stop till you hev read 'em — 
 
 " Thar's nuthin' much to do, yer see, 
 Nuthin' much ter do. 
 Th' shingles mostly off th' barn 
 An' let th' rain right through. 
 
54 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Thar ain't no use o' stowin' hay 
 Right whar 'twill mildew every day, 
 'Twould be good labor throwed away, 
 Thar's nuthin' much ter do. 
 
 " Thar's nuthin' much to do, by gee ! 
 
 Nuthin' much ter do. 
 Th' fences all down in th' lot, 
 
 An' let the cows right through. 
 Thar hain't no use o' sowing wheat 
 Th' neighbors' cattle fer to eat ; 
 I'd sooner sit and rest my feet — 
 
 Thar's nuthin' much ter do." 
 
 Now, I make bold to say, 
 The' hain't a farmin' man like that in all of Canady ! 
 
 If I was huntin' lazy folks, I'd 'spect 'em to be found 
 Where comic paper writers and artists most abound — 
 
 A lot of long-haired, shiftless coons, with nothin' 
 
 more to do 
 Than git off things like the above, that's neither 
 fair ner true. 
 
 The farmin' man's a worker from cradle unto grave, 
 Instead of bein' an idler, he's nigher to a slave ; 
 An' I only wish thet things wus fixed so, after doin' 
 
 his best, 
 The farmer would get decent pay and time to take 
 
 a rest. 
 
flnternationaU 
 
AT THE ANGLO-SAXON BANQUET. 
 
 r>7 
 
 AT THE ANGLO-SAXON BANQUET. 
 
 " A lasting friendship between the two nations can be secured, not 
 by frothy sentimentality on public platforms, but by reciprocal ad- 
 vantages in solid, material interests." — Saturday Review. 
 
 Mr. Bull (log.) : 
 
 'Ere, Sam, old chap, sit down a bit in the conservatory, 
 Were we'll be out of range, you know, of deaf'nin' shouts 
 
 of glory 
 From yonder banquet 'all, w'ere, 'neath the flags festooned 
 
 together, 
 Your folks and mine are settin' forth that they're birds of a 
 
 feather, 
 
 And cheerin' of theirselves so 'oarse, and most uproarious 
 
 waxin', 
 To hemphasize their gratitude at bein' Hanglo-Saxon ; 
 
58 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And 'ow they're from the self same stock, and 'ave the 
 
 same traditions, 
 The same ideas of justice, and the very same hambitions. 
 
 I don't 'ave no objections to these 'appy family meetins', 
 And heloquent horations and hinternational greetins', 
 And wavin' of Old Glory along with Britain's banner ; 
 I wouldn't hinterfere with such in any form or manner. 
 
 I'm glad to see 'em sittin' down and feastin' good and 'earty 
 Around a Henglish-speakin' board, a reg'lar jolly party, 
 Because it shows old bygone sores, that seemed beyond all 
 
 'ealin', 
 'Ave been completely cured, and now we 'ave a proper 
 
 feelin'. 
 
 So let em' drink their toasts, and cheer, and make poetic 
 
 speeches, 
 Wile we sit down and 'ave a talk, 'ere w'ere the row won't 
 
 reach us ; 
 And w'ile they spout from Tennyson and Lowell verses rosy, 
 We'll deal with t'other side of it — the side that's simply 
 
 prosy. 
 
 'Ave a cigar? Well, Sam, look 'ere, w'ile I throw no wet 
 
 blankets 
 On pretty talk of unity at all these bloomin' banquets, 
 Yet we're both sane, 'ard 'eaded men, and know it's simply 
 
 mockin' 
 All genuine alliance if it should end in talkin'. 
 
AT THE ANGLO-SAXON BANQUET. 59 
 
 (Not that I mean alliance put down with pen on paper, 
 My own opinion bein' such would be a foolish caper), 
 But wot I mean is joinin' 'earts and 'elpin' one another, 
 And hactin' in a general way as brother ought to brother. 
 
 That sort of union we can 'ave, and we must 'ave 'ereafter, 
 Or all this talk is cracklin' thorns and like a hidiot's 
 
 laughter ; 
 And wot does such a union mean? Not simply flags 
 
 paradin', 
 But solid mutual 'elp as well, especially in tradin'. 
 
 It's.'ard to say the word, dear Sam, but still it must, be 
 
 stated — 
 All hover Europe and the heast, by black and w'ite you're 
 
 'ated ; 
 Houtside of this tight little isle, there's not a bloomin' 
 
 nation 
 That loves you any more than they love me, your near 
 
 relation ! 
 
 W'y, even the friends you used to 'ave in all them foreign 
 
 places — 
 'Oo watched your young Republic 'orse go through 'is tidy 
 
 paces, 
 And, as the friends of freedom, 'ad hope — they're friends 
 
 no longer. 
 They're with your foes to-day, and curse with them, but 
 
 rather stronger. 
 
 For w'y ? Well, w'en you started in, they say, you just 
 
 pretended 
 To be oppression's foe, but as a grabber you 'ave ended f 
 
60 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 One lot say you're a 'ipocrite, and show your British breedin', 
 And t'others say you've proved a fraud and left poor Free- 
 dom bleedin'. 
 
 The Phillipines affair, you see, is wot 'as soured their spirits ; 
 You used to stand for peace, but now you boast of warlike 
 
 merits ; 
 You've stepped houtside your boundary and broke your 
 
 constitution, 
 And now, they say, you're just like me, and that means 
 
 worse than Rooshan. 
 
 You're a disturbin' helement, and so they're bound to 'ate 
 
 you, 
 That's w'y their papers hevery w'eres so scurrilously rate you ; 
 And that is w'y there's not a 'eart or 'and extended to you 
 In hall this bloomin' 'emisphere but mine; that's how they 
 
 view you. 
 
 Such bein' so, 'ow comes it, Sam, you got that Spanish 
 
 cession, 
 As you would say, " just slick as grease," and now are in 
 
 possession 
 Of Philippines and so forth ? W'y didn't all the powers 
 That growled around the conference step in and say, 
 
 " They're ours ? " 
 
 'Ave you considered that, old chap ? I'll take my haffy- 
 
 davy 
 I know the w'y : 'twas owin' to a certain party's navy — 
 The same that seemed to stop the way to any hinterferin' 
 Wen you we're freein' Cuba — or leastwise, so I'm 'earin'. 
 
AT THE ANGLO-SAXON BANQUET 61 
 
 Your weed is done ; there, 'elp yourself, as did your 'ero 
 
 Dewey — 
 Take a Manilla! 'Ow's that joke? . . . Well, Sam, 
 
 for methods Jewey 
 I 'ave no use, but " biz is biz " — I quote your own old 
 
 sayin' — 
 And all these solid favors of mine deserve repay in'. 
 
 That's wot they call the quid pro quo at Hoxford, 'mong 
 
 the scholars, 
 A Latin term that means fair scales in services or dollars 
 By way of honest tradin' rights and doors of commerce 
 
 open 
 Where'er you plant your flag abroad — no high protection 
 
 ropin'. 
 
 It means you deal with Canada in manner generous 'anded, 
 An' w'en that China fuss comes on your ships with mine 
 
 be banded ; 
 Our business hinterests are alike in that wide eastern 
 
 hocean, 
 Wile " Progress, peace and freedom " is a Hanglo- Yankee 
 
 notion. 
 
 You've launched upon a great career, a civilizin' mission, 
 You need a powerful friend, and I'm the chap for that 
 
 position : 
 Then, 'elp for 'elp — there, Sam, that's all, let's go back to 
 
 the table 
 Feeling that banquet heloquence 'as a business basis stable. 
 
62 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE OPEN DOOR." 
 
 Russia proposed to close China to all trade except her own, thus 
 making a "closed door" of what had been "an open door" for 
 centuries. 
 
 John Bull spake out in accents clear, 
 
 With something of the lion's roar, 
 (His cousin Sam was standing near) — 
 
 " Hello ! You there on China's shore, 
 
 There's got to be an Open Door ! 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " Encore ! " 
 
 " This wholesale changing of the map 
 By the great powers everywhere 
 May be all right — and I'm the chap 
 Who takes the cake, they all declare, 
 But with the world my cake I share, 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " Ah there ! " 
 
 " The ' Open Door ' for one and all, 
 Free Trade in every blessed spot 
 Where I am ruler — at the pole 
 Or in the tropics ; cold or hot — 
 Fair field for all the blooming lot — 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " That's what ! " 
 
" THE OPEN DOOR." 63 
 
 " I've got some millions to be fed, 
 
 And markets I must somehow get : 
 My life depends upon my trade ; 
 
 All round the world I spread my net, 
 And for free commerce I am set, 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, "You bet!" 
 
 11 I've got no use for Chinese walls — 
 
 We want no more, but rather fewer — 
 And, by my ten-pound cannon balls, 
 And first-class battleships galore, 
 This sort of thing I won't endure — 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " Why, sure ! " 
 
 " My policy all round is Peace, 
 
 My mission is to spread the light ; 
 I rule the waves that war may cease, 
 But in my arm's resistless might, 
 And for free markets I will fight ! 
 What say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " That's right ! " 
 
 " Say ' sphere of influence ' if the phrase 
 More diplomatically flows 
 Than ■ Open Door ' — but don't you raise, 
 My friends, lest you become my foes, 
 Trade barriers ; we may come to blows — 
 What say say you, Sam ? " 
 
 Cries Sam, " That goes ! " 
 
64 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 The Gang — ah, pardon me — the Powers 
 
 Retire to think a season, so 
 John turns to Sam and says : " 'Tis ours, 
 
 Not mine alone, but ours, to show 
 
 The path on which world trade must go. 
 Hey, Sam?" 
 
 Cries Sam, " It-is-you-know ! " 
 
 " In fack, I calkilate," says he, 
 
 " 'Twould be a ruther grand affair 
 If out thar on the Yellow Sea, 
 
 With your old flag mine should appear j 
 My duty in this thing seems clear — 
 What say you, John ? " 
 
 Cries Bull, " 'Ear ! 'Ear ! " 
 
CRETE. 65 
 
 CRETE. 
 
 Ah ! here is news to make our British blood 
 
 Leap in our veins ! The age of chivalry 
 
 Has burst the fetters of the age of gold ! 
 
 Saint George has drawn the sword for tortured Crete, 
 
 And fronts the Moslem dragon single arm'd ; 
 
 Nay, 'gainst the formal protest of the powers, 
 
 Who, allied in a mutual distrust, 
 
 Abate their Christian faith for policy, 
 
 And serve Mahomet's spawn. Their men-of-war 
 
 Roar angry chorus round the frenzied isle, 
 
 And bid the champion pause ; in vain their roar ; 
 
 " My cause is God's !" he cries with hero's mien, 
 
 Turning an unblanched face on their array, 
 
 " My cause is God's, in whose great name I trust, 
 
 He will defend the right, though all the world 
 
 Rise up in arms against it ; powers are great 
 
 When they have holy purpose. Ye are weak, 
 
 Leagued in a cancerous cause, unnerved by shame, 
 
 Who stand for hell and Sultan; why should I, 
 
 Who serve the God of Gideon, fear your threats ! " 
 
 Well spoke, St. George ! 
 Yea, tho' thou fall in this brave enterprise, 
 And be o'erwhelmed by the brutal odds, 
 All time shall hold thy memory in its heart, 
 And all of Saxon blood shall evermore 
 Stand straight with pride at mention of thy name ; 
 5 
 
66 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Thy English name ! What ! not St. George, 
 Great Britain's glory, but King George of Greece ? 
 And what is this ? Nay, nay, 'tis brazen false, 
 Our England's voice the foremost in the pack 
 Of hounds that serve the Turk and bark so loud ! 
 They lie ! Or if they speak but half the truth, 
 Let pity find some spot where Saxon shame 
 May hide her burning face ! 
 
HEROIC BRITAIN. 67 
 
 HEROIC BRITAIN. 
 
 Noble old Isle, thy foes of late 
 
 Have called thee many an ugly name ; 
 
 Their judgments, speaking for their hate, 
 Have challenged thy historic claim 
 
 To greatness that is truly great 
 
 In character of man or State. 
 
 When o'er the sea in might did pour 
 Prompt horse and foot to Table Bay, 
 
 And from each leal colonial shore 
 
 Thy true-soul'd sons rushed to the fray, 
 
 These critics sneered — " A first-class power, 
 
 Seeking to crush the simple Boer." 
 
 Brute strength ! a bully-coward's odds ! 
 
 The lust of gold — the greed of gain — 
 The war a scheme of knaves and frauds " — 
 
 So ran the critical refrain ; 
 With mockery of winks and nods 
 O'er "financiers" as Britain's gods. 
 
 And when at kopje, nek or drift 
 
 Thy columns meet repulse or check, 
 
 How loud the laugh of glee ; how swift 
 The prophecy of final wreck ! 
 
 How still and grim when fortunes shift, 
 
 And momentary vapors lift ! 
 
IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Through all, deep patience was thy part, 
 Calm front, good conscience, strong reserve, 
 
 Lamb gentleness in Lion heart ; 
 No rash retort, no halt, no swerve, 
 
 Disdain of falsehood's poisoned dart ; 
 
 How splendidly thou stood'st apart ! 
 
 Brute strength and conquest," thy ideal, 
 
 The shallow, carping critic says, 
 Yet what has made the strong appeal 
 
 To thy home millions all these days ? 
 Has London shaken with the peal 
 Of joy bells o'er mere deeds of steel ? 
 
 Has it been news of battle won 
 
 That has set loose the Empire's cheer ? 
 
 Has it been bloody work of gun 
 That has to thee been chiefly dear ? 
 
 No ! thy great pulse has leaped and run 
 
 Only at the heroic done ! 
 
 Noble old Isle, though foes of late 
 
 Have called thee many an ugly name ; 
 
 Though in their blind and frenzied hate 
 They've sought to dim thy ancient fame, 
 
 In greatness that is truly great 
 
 Thou'rt still the one Imperial State ! 
 
ARMENIA. 
 
 ARMENIA. 
 
 Armenia, site of Eden's primal bliss, 
 
 And scene of man's primaeval tragedy, 
 
 Whose darkness yet doth veil thy weeping sky, 
 
 Whose memory is renewed in tears and blood, 
 
 Written afresh upon thy hills and homes 
 
 From day to day. Thou mayest not forget 
 
 That Adam sinned and fell, and, white with fear, 
 
 In shame and nakedness was driven forth 
 
 With trembling Eve ; yet it is haply thine 
 
 To call to mind the Father's promise, too : 
 
 " The woman's seed shall bruise the serpent's head," 
 
 And so thou may'st well raise imploring hands 
 
 To heaven and cry, u How long, O Lord, how long ! " 
 
 For here, tho' Adam full redeemed by Christ 
 
 Still groans and suffers in th' Armenian race, 
 
 That Serpent's spawn, the subtle, cruel Turk, 
 
 With slimy trail pollutes the Garden yet 
 
 And works his deadly will ! 
 
 Hath God not heard the cry ? What spirit now stirs 
 
 The Christian nations and makes hot their hearts 
 
 But His, who came to set the captive free, 
 
 And who is now enthroned o'er kings and lords 
 
 In all the earth — Jesus of Nazareth ? 
 
 His pity, touching England's fervid soul, 
 
 Finds speech through Gladstone's lips, 
 
 And the electric words flash round the earth 
 
70 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 To wake humanity. Now to the task ! 
 
 No paltering longer with this lying dupe 
 
 Of the False Prophet ; if the Prince of Peace 
 
 Forbids His followers to draw the sword 
 
 And smite off in quick wrath the sodden ear 
 
 That has been deaf to warnings, threats and prayers- 
 
 If indignation may not have her way, 
 
 And wreak the vengeance swift and terrible 
 
 For which Armenian valleys cry to God 
 
 Against the flabby Turk ; if still his bulk 
 
 By force of diplomatic needs must squat 
 
 Upon the Bosphorus, like ugly toad 
 
 Beside a fairy pool ; if his black heart 
 
 Must still be shielded by his hellish creed 
 
 From human instinct — now at least his hands 
 
 Must be and shall be chained from further crimes ' 
 
THE COLONIES TO THE WORLD. 71 
 
 THE COLONIES TO THE WORLD. 
 
 Why spring our sons to service 
 
 In Britain's cause to-day ? 
 Why flash our sabres, eager 
 
 To share in Britain's fray ? 
 Think ye 'tis Law constrains us, 
 
 Or duty's cold decree ? 
 No ! 'tis Love's mighty impulse — 
 
 The fealty of the free ! 
 
 On right and left of Britain, 
 
 Loyal and unafraid, 
 Stand kith and kin, who love her 
 
 For the enemies she's made ; 
 Foes, of the bomb and dagger, 
 
 Foes, of the tongue and pen, 
 Foes who, with hearts that hate her, 
 
 Hate, too, the weal of men. 
 
 All round the earth her scorners 
 
 Are bred in every land J 
 In thrice a thousand cabals 
 
 Her overthrow is planned ; 
 Yet where's the land so darken'd, 
 
 So poor, so lost to shame, 
 But holds a saving remnant 
 
 To reverence Britain's name ? 
 
72 . . IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 The baser jibe and flout her, 
 
 And prate with ribald tongues 
 Of rankling present evil 
 
 Sprung from age-cankered wrongs j 
 The nobler bid them hearken 
 
 To the travail and the strife 
 That tell the good cause growing 
 
 With a more abundant life. 
 
 These choicer souls, with vision 
 
 Of Liberty and Right, 
 Ask us not why we muster 
 
 To-day in serried might ; 
 They know that Britain's war- drum 
 
 No base bond-servant calls ; 
 They know that, fall our Empire, 
 
 And Freedom's temple falls. 
 
 Do others seek our reasons — 
 
 Ask why we gladly pay ? , 
 Why lion-like we gather 
 
 At the lion's side to-day ? 
 We answer calm and steadfast, 
 
 That all the world may know, 
 In Britain's enemy we see 
 
 The face of mankind's foe ! 
 
THE KURDS. 73 
 
 THE KURDS. 
 
 The Devil, in unwonted merry vein, 
 
 With the Great Powers of Europe at his side, 
 
 Gazed down upon the wide Armenian plain 
 
 To see the Kurdish thieves — his special pride — 
 Forth from their mountain hiding-places ride 
 
 To do the Turkish Sultan's bidding yet again. 
 
 Russia and France and Germany were there, 
 
 And Italy and Austria, Christian maids, 
 And Britain stalwart, with fair Saxon hair ; 
 And all wore crests and shields, with warlike air, 
 
 And glittering armor and keen-flashing blades. 
 
 The Devil grinned, and rubbed his hands with glee, 
 
 And pointed to the village at their feet ; 
 " Just wait a moment, honored friends," said he, 
 " And some rare sport I promise you shall see, 
 
 Such sport as hell itself would find it hard to beat !" 
 
 11 Ah ! here they come, we have not watched in vain," 
 
 Down from the further hills, upon the words, 
 In whirlwind sweep of horsemen o'er the plain, 
 Came swarthy hordes on loose and flying rein — 
 
 The Abdul-Hamid Cavalry — the Devil's Own — the Kurds. 
 
 Banditti, black of heart as black of hair, 
 
 With lust and murder glaring from their eyes, 
 Yet licensed by that wretch whose name they bear, 
 " Abdul, the Damned," whose uniform they wear, 
 To work their will until God's heavy vengeance rise. 
 
74 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 u See ! " cries the Devil, trembling with delight, 
 " See the Armenian village how it cowers, 
 
 As you have seen a lamb, in piteous plight, 
 
 Standing at bay before a tiger's might — 
 
 Do ye not find it interesting, Oh Great Powers ? " 
 
 " Hear the wild shrieks of women in despair, 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the children screaming as they cling, 
 See yon old pastor with the snow-white hair 
 With outstretched hands and face upturned in prayer, 
 And listen ! a death-song his faithful people sing. 
 
 And now — " but here the Devil turned away, 
 And hid his face and dropped his merry mood, 
 
 A timely cloud in pity veiled the day, 
 
 The Powers of Europe sickened where they stood — 
 The Kurds had come — there rose a mist of blood 
 
 To dim the nameless horrors that beneath held sway. 
 
 The watchers on the crest looked down again 
 Where late the village was, but now is not ; 
 
 A thousand gory corpses strew the plain, 
 And black and smoking ruins mark the spot 
 Upon the beauteous vale — a horrid blot, 
 
 Where Christ's Armenians cried for help, but cried in vain. 
 
 Massacred in the Sultan's holy name ! 
 
 Dishonored, mutilated, every one ! 
 Nay, hold ! sweet childhood yet hath power to tame 
 These fiends — their hearts have yet some jot of shame, 
 
 See ! scores of infants live, tho' now the butchery's done. 
 
THE KURDS. 75 
 
 And look ! the little ones are gently led 
 (A sight at which the Devil almost weeps) 
 
 To a clear space that is not swimming red, 
 
 And is not littered with the staring dead, 
 
 Apart from murdered kindred thrown in bloody heaps. 
 
 The Powers look on. Quoth Russia, " It is clear 
 These Kurds are slandered in the public press," 
 
 (Whereat the Devil gives a sidelong leer) 
 11 Some bowels of compassion they possess, 
 
 I scarcely should have thought it, I confess — 
 E'en to the hardest hearts the innocent are dear ! " 
 
 Her sisters bow assent as maids beguiled ; 
 
 And now the Innocents are in a row, 
 All lying on the green sward, child to child 
 
 With even heads. Quoth Satan, bending low, 
 
 II Please give your best attention ; this, you know, 
 Is the rare sport I spoke of, Oh ! ye Powers mild." 
 
 And now the bandits, boisterous in their joke, 
 
 Draw off a space, to gallop down the line, 
 And he who at top speed, with sabre stroke 
 Most heads can sever Not a Nation spoke, 
 
 And not a sword leaped forth, O Christ divine, 
 To avenge the unmatched wrongs of these poor babes of 
 Thine ! 
 
 January 12th, 1896. 
 
76 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 n\i^h& 
 
 A SCOTCH ENGINEER'S ADDRESS TO SPAIN.* 
 
 Oh, aye, I gar my engines shine, 
 An' industry wi' brains combine, 
 My wages — aye, they suit me fine — 
 
 The job's a' richt ; 
 But, Maister Spain, it's no my line 
 
 Wi' kith to ficht ! 
 
 A'll stay an' dae hael-herted wark 
 
 'Gainst Rooshian, Gearman, French, or Turk, 
 
 An' nae stern duty wull a' shirk 
 
 To gar Spain win ; 
 But in ma breist soft feelins lurk 
 
 For my ain kin. 
 
 * See Note II. 
 
A SCOTCH ENGINEER'S ADDRESS TO SPAIN. 77 
 
 'Tis true the Yankee mayna' be 
 
 A Presbyterian like me, 
 Nor diz he speak sae pearfeckly 
 
 Oor mither tongue ; 
 But fecht wi' him — I canna dae 
 
 A thing sae wrang ! 
 
 There's maybe pints a' dinna lo'e, 
 An' ithers that fair gar me grue 
 Aboot his government, it's true — 
 
 Things far frae guid ; 
 But then, ye ken, there's ithers, too, 
 
 That show his bluid. 
 
 His flag is no juist like oor ain — 
 
 A' mean the Breetish, Maister Spain — 
 
 No' juist sae simple-like an' plain, 
 
 Wi 'ts strips and stars ; 
 But wi' oor Jock for Richts o' Men, 
 
 The breeze it shares ! 
 
 Na', na', a' see the day's at han' 
 When Saxons maun thegither stan' 
 In Leeberty's maist holy ban' 
 
 'Gainst banded foe ; 
 An' there, thegither in the van, 
 
 Thae flags maun flow !. 
 
 Sae, Maister Spain, a'll need tae gang 
 Frae this auld Ian' o' dance an' sang, 
 An' drop the job a've had sae lang, 
 
 A'm greatly fearin'; 
 Yer ain folk maun juist get the hang 
 
 O' engineering. 
 
78 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE TOUCH OF NATURE.* 
 
 Off 'Ell on Earth, trim and well manned, 
 
 Our 'andsome cruiser lay — 
 That's what we calls the Sultan's land 
 (A chap as I can't 'ardly stand 
 
 From wot I've 'eard 'em say). 
 
 The wind was off the bloomin' shore, 
 
 And blow'd across the town, 
 All day long we 'eard a roar 
 That some'ow made our in'ards sore 
 
 And kep' our spirits down. 
 
 And every now'n agin a squeal 
 
 Would cut right through the noise : 
 
 " It sounds like killin' pigs," ses Bill, 
 
 " A job as alius make me ill, 
 I 'ate to 'ear it, boys ! " 
 
 " Ole Abdul 'e don't eat no pork," 
 
 Ses little Jimmy Briggs, 
 " 'E's sech a 'ellish pious Turk, 
 Them squeals you 'ear means bloody work, 
 
 But they ain't killin' pigs ! 
 
 * See Note III. 
 
THE TOUCH OF NATURE, 79 
 
 The Sultan's set them Kurdish blokes 
 
 To 'ave a massacree ; 
 Them devils or the Bash Bazooks 
 Is butch'rin' the Arminyin folks, 
 
 That's 'ow it sounds to me ! " 
 
 And Jimmy 'e was right, by Jove, 
 
 For, as 'e spoke the words, 
 We see a boat 'longside us shove, 
 Rowed by a pore old, ragged cove, 
 'Oo 'ollered out " the Kurds ! " 
 
 'E 'ad three wimmin in that boat, 
 Besides three hother men ; 
 
 I never seed sech guys afloat ; 
 
 It fetched a lump up in my throat 
 As wouldn't down again ! 
 
 They didn't 'ave no clothes but rags, 
 
 And«they was bruised and cut ; 
 Wot broke our 'arts, though, was their heyes 
 Were 'ope and terror and surprise 
 Was fairly blazin' out. 
 
 Our Capt'in talks their lingo, so 
 
 'E chivvied to the game ; 
 Take 'em aboard and safe below ! " 
 Ses 'e, and we was not so slow 
 A-doin' of the same. 
 
80 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Tho' it was not a heasy job, 
 
 For they would 'ug our knees, 
 And lawff, and kiss our 'ands, and sob, 
 Till we could 'ear our own 'arts throb 
 As foolish as you please. 
 
 But that's the work a British tar 
 
 Is proud to take in 'and ; 
 'E's proud a British man-o'-war 
 Means 'elp for suff'rers near and far, 
 As tyrants understand ! 
 
 So down we pops 'em safe enough 
 
 In our good steward's care, 
 Wen up 'longside, a-looking rough, 
 A Turkish squad in gold and stuff, 
 Comes like a robbed she-bear. 
 
 Up spoke the cove as ruled the mess : 
 
 " Them people is aboard, 
 And by Mahomet's 'oly fez 
 You've got to give 'em up ! " 'e ses, 
 
 A-wavin' of 'is sword. 
 
 'E said them words in French, you know 
 
 Our Cap. made answer clear — 
 " Ma'omet's 'oly fez be blow, 
 Go 'ome and tell ole Abdul so : 
 Them folks will stay right 'ere ! " 
 
THE TOUCH OF NATURE. 81 
 
 The Turk was mad as blazes then, 
 
 And vowed 'e'd bring a force 
 And take 'em spite of all our men — 
 In 'arf an 'our 'e'd come again — 
 
 And steamed off with a curse. 
 
 A foreign cruser not fur off 
 
 We signall'd to for aid ; 
 'E signall'd back, the bloomin' toff, 
 It was'nt legal, or sech stuff — 
 
 The geezer was afraid ! 
 
 Just then, a-steamin' up the bay 
 
 A Yankee liner came, 
 A keepin' comp'ny on the way 
 'Long with a man-o-war so gay, 
 
 In Stars and Stripes the same. 
 
 11 Ha ! " cries our Cap, " 'ere's flesh and blood ; 
 
 Once more that signal set ! " 
 The Yank replied — we knowed 'e would, 
 And this is 'ow 'is signal stood : 
 
 " Right, Johnny Bull, you bet ! " 
 
 So up they comes and on our deck 
 
 The Yankee captain stands, 
 Ses 'e, " Friend John, there ain't a speck 
 O' diff'rence 'twixt us — blood is thick ! " 
 
 And so the two shook 'ands. 
 6 
 
82 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 That's w'y that blood-stained Turkish 'ound 
 
 Thought best to keep away ; 
 And w'y them pore Arminyins found 
 Theirselves aboard the liner, bound 
 
 For Yankee land that day. 
 
 And that is w'y I'm brimmin' full 
 
 O' curses good and 'ot 
 For any mortals knave or fool 
 'Oo'd talk of war 'twixt Sam and Bull — 
 
 The duffer should be shot ! 
 
PEACE. 
 
 83 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 O'er veldt and mountain of the blood- 
 stained land 
 Long dim with smoke of battle, 
 cometh June 
 Across the flowery meadows, hand- 
 in-hand 
 With white-robed Peace j and every 
 
 copse and dune 
 Awakes with melody ; and glorious 
 noon 
 Of summer breaks, and banishes the 
 spell 
 Of War's drear, dark and heavy-laden 
 days ; 
 Welcome the blessed Maid with pealing bell, 
 
 And songs, and garlands and triumphant bays ; 
 And reverent kneel, and offer up to God the praise ! 
 
 Well timed, sweet June ! for doubtless thou dost bring 
 
 The angel of the olive branch to share 
 The Coronation fete of Britain's King, 
 
 And of his consort, Alexandra fair, 
 
 To give new splendor to that pageant rare ; 
 
 Yea ! Peace enthroned above the royal car, — 
 
84 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Her heavenly radiance, like the moon's mild beam, 
 
 Falling upon the serried ranks of war, 
 Will typify Humanity's fond dream 
 Of that blest day when hostile swords no more shall 
 gleam. 
 
 With healing in thy wings thou comest, Peace, 
 T<* hearts long racked with fever of unrest ; 
 
 The toils, the tramplings and the tumults cease ; 
 Victor and vanquished now alike are blest, 
 And honor's badge disdains not either breast, 
 
 For both were valiant ; for the slain we weep, 
 -And for the living pray, that now thy balm 
 
 May, by heaven's blessing, heal the rancors deep ; 
 And so, in time, as brothers, palm-in-palm, 
 These foemen twain may grow to one 'mid freedom's 
 calm. 
 
THE CHARGE AT DARGAI RIDGE. 
 
 85 
 
 THE CHARGE AT DARGAI RIDGE. 
 
 October 20, 1897. 
 
 The standards of the tribesmen waved 
 
 On Dargai's rocky Height, 
 Eight thousand dark fanatics raved 
 
 In triumph and delight, 
 And hurled defiance at the foe — 
 The thwarted British far below. 
 
86 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 What ! take the Ridge ? Well, devils could, 
 
 Who wore a ghostly shape j 
 But it is not in flesh and blood 
 
 To dare it and escape ; 
 To climb in Indian file and gain 
 The top — 'tis not in mortal men ! 
 
 But up the trail, man after man, 
 
 The swarthy Ghurkas rushed, 
 And closely following their van 
 
 The English regiments pushed — 
 The Dorsetshires and Devonshires, 
 Right gallant sons of gallant sires. 
 
 Up, up the winding column crept, 
 
 While, at the Ridge's base 
 The batt'ries covered them and swept 
 
 The foeman's hiding place ; 
 Bravo ! they've struggled half the way — 
 But halt ! no further ! there they stay. 
 
 Why not advance ? the list of dead 
 Is grimly growing, true ; but that 
 
 They reckoned on — nay, push ahead, 
 What are our heroes halting at ? 
 
 A wide dip yawns across the path, 
 
 A veritable vale of death. 
 
 A fire-zone of a hundred yards — 
 Fit shambles for a slaughter dire — 
 
 Which no artillery-shelling guards, 
 And open to the tribesmen's fire ; 
 
 The swarming foe in triumph scream ; 
 
 The cliff-top bursts into a flame ! 
 
THE CHARGE AT DARGAI RIDGE. 87 
 
 Down stream the bullets, hissing hot, 
 
 A shrieking hurricane of death 
 Upon the unprotected spot, 
 
 And the most daring holds his breath ; 
 Has British valor, then, decayed 
 Since Balaclava's Light Brigade ? 
 
 No ! " On, brave Ghurkas ! " At the word 
 
 The pigmies dash into that hell, 
 Their ranks are shattered, while the horde 
 
 High in the rocky trenchments yell — 
 Dorsets and Devons forward run, 
 But leaden tempests mow them down. 
 
 The dip is piled with corses stark 
 
 And drenched with blood ; the onrush stayed ; 
 The leader signals, frowning dark, 
 
 " This devil's-passage can't be made ! " 
 Then cries the General — " Gordons, cross 
 And take that Ridge whate'er the loss ! " 
 
 The Kilties fall in with a will, 
 
 Each soldier steady in his place ; 
 " Our orders are to take yon hill," 
 
 Matthias cries, " though hell's to face — 
 We'll cross the dip tho' demons rake it, 
 The Gordon Highlanders will take it ! 
 
 " Forward ! " and with a whirlwind force 
 
 The Gordons swarm up to the dip, 
 And o'er its verge, their dauntless course 
 
 Unstayed across the gory strip, 
 The skirling pipes still lilting forth 
 The nerving strain, " Cock o' the North ! " 
 
IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Five sturdy pipers lead the way 
 Facing the withering bullet-gale, 
 " Cock o' the North " they pipe away, 
 Scorning the swish of leaden hail — 
 Then one pipe for an instant stops, 
 One piper, sorely wounded, drops. 
 
 But scarcely does he cease the strain — 
 A wavering drone, a yell, a shake, 
 
 Then high and wild and clear again 
 The air bursts forth without a break, 
 
 The piper propped against a stone 
 
 With both legs shattered, so plays on ! 
 
 Yes, there, while heroes round him fall 
 And rushing comrades, sword in hand 
 
 Breast the terrific storm of ball 
 Across the narrow neck of land, 
 
 He sits like shepherd free from care 
 
 Piping the regimental air. 
 
 The honor of the Highland name 
 
 Could not in safer keeping be ; 
 " Cock o' the North," man, but you're game ; 
 
 You've piped the lads to victory ; 
 For now, behold, they've scaled the Height, 
 And the stern foe is in full flight ! 
 
 Men of the Gordons, proud and bold, 
 That day will be remembered well, 
 
 And that wild charge shall e'er be told 
 When of great deeds the grandsires tell — 
 
 And " Cock o' the North " shall be an air 
 
 To stir men's pulses everywhere ! 
 
HlMscellaneoue, 
 
IRELAND'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 91 
 
 IRELAND'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 Sure, it's proud and concaited we are then to hail ye, 
 
 No spring time in Erin was iver so green, 
 In castle and cabin 'tis " caed mille failthe," 
 
 'Tis "God bless the woman and God save the Queen ! " 
 
 Our warm Irish hearts, ever full iv devotion 
 
 To all iv your sex, be they lofty or low, 
 Greet you, gracious Lady, wid holy emotion 
 
 That speaks not in words, but in tears that o'erflow ! 
 
 You are Queen in our realm, an' 'tis proudly we own you, 
 For where is the match for the sceptre you sway ? 
 
 Yet 'tis Queen iv our bosoms this day we'd enthrone you, 
 Wid no crown but your hair, dear, so rivrend an' grey. 
 
 'Twas yourself, God presarve you, that taught a fine lesson 
 To dunces in office, dull, witless an' blind, 
 
 Whin you spoke the small word that turned cursin' to 
 blessin', 
 An' showed that thrue wisdom is ivermore kind. 
 
 The eye iv the dullard sees nought in a symbol 
 But the symbol itself, be it ribbon or flower ; 
 
 But the soul iv the poet is all iv a trimble 
 
 At the meanin' beneath it — its pathos an' power. 
 
92 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 'Tis only a plant very humble an' lowly, 
 
 The little green shamrock — but well did you know 
 
 To us 'tis the emblem iv memories holy, 
 Iv laughter an' sorrow, iv triumph an' woe. 
 
 Sure, Scotchmen an' Welshmen were niver forbidden 
 To wear in your army the thistle an' leek ; 
 
 But the poor Irish soldier — his badge must be hidden, 
 His shamrock was bann'd by those autocrats weak. 
 
 An' 'twas your royal lips that proclaimed he should wear it ; 
 
 You gave the word boldly to all the wide world, 
 An' the winds, that were whisperin' your praises, did bear it 
 
 Whereiver your conquerin' flag is unfurled. 
 
 An' so on St. Patrick's own day in the mornin' 
 The sun that arose on your realm in the east 
 
 Saw all through his course the sweet shamrock adornin' 
 Brave bosoms iv Irishmen holdin' their feast. 
 
 Beyant there in Africa, Roberts displayed it 
 
 O'er a heart that is kind as the heart iv' his Queen ; 
 
 An' on many a poor wounded Paddy they laid it — 
 Sure, the sick an' the well were all wearin' the green. 
 
 An' Buller, brave lad, see the dacency iv him 
 
 Whin he marched into Ladysmith grandly that day 
 
 At the head iv' his army (may Belfast forgive him !) 
 He placed the home rulers — the Dublins so gay ! 
 
IRELAND 'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 93 
 
 An' now, bless your sowl ! you've braved the raw weather — 
 Tho' Italy's summer is temptin' your years — 
 
 An' come to our shores — sure, our hearts would be leather 
 Entirely if this did not touch them to tears. 
 
 An' why did you come, all the throuble endurin', 
 
 Wid age an' infirmity makin' it hard ? 
 Just to give to ould Ireland your tender assurin', 
 
 To thank her brave regiments, an' show your regard ! 
 
 An' the thought was your own — no Minister planned it, 
 It sprung from the heart iv you, gentle an' wise — 
 
 Distrust an' suspicion could not understand it, 
 The demon iv discord was dumb wid surprise ! 
 
 Wid this act is the spirit iv strife disappointed ; 
 
 At this touch iv wise love evil passions decline ; 
 'Tis the act iv a Queen an' a woman anointed 
 
 To rule by a right that is truly divine. 
 
 Then, " caed mille failthe ! " our arms they are open, 
 To our hearts an' our homes thousand welcomes, colleen ! 
 
 Hibernia embraces thee, prayin' an' hopin' 
 
 That Britain may yet be as kind as her Queen ! 
 
94 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 "IRONSIDES."* 
 
 " A regiment or two like the ■ Ironsides,' 
 
 Of Cromwell's strenuous day, 
 To leaven the army, and make our cause 
 
 Invincible in the fray ! " 
 'Tis the uttered high-aspiring wish 
 
 Of our brave Lord Wolseley. 
 
 And what, then, were those warriors like ? 
 
 Men of more graceful mien, 
 Of gentler breeding and fairer looks 
 
 Than any that serve our Qu een ? 
 With more brilliant dress and accoutrement, 
 
 Than our army since hath seen ? 
 
 And what was the leaven, then, they spread ? 
 
 The noble, patrician air ? 
 The courtly bearing, the kingly grace, 
 
 The gallantry debonnair ? 
 The subtle charm that gentlemen born 
 
 Are evermore known to wear ? 
 
 If this be the stamp of the " Ironsides " 
 
 Of Oliver's gray old land, 
 Why cannot our Wolseley have his wish, 
 
 And muster his regiments grand 
 From the rank and file of the choicest troops 
 
 Now under his own command ? 
 
 * See Note IV. 
 
" ironsides:' 95 
 
 Let him pass the plain Tommy Atkins by, 
 
 (Who does soldiering as a trade,) 
 He has dukes, earls, baronets, younger sons, 
 
 Enough for a whole brigade, — 
 Let him take his pick of ancestral homes, 
 
 And his " Ironsides " are made. 
 
 (Poor Tommy's a wonderful chap to fight, 
 
 But e'en Kipling would confess 
 He is not so handsome as one could wish — 
 
 Even in khaki dress, — 
 And his Cockney slang does certainly give 
 
 A delicate ear distress. ) 
 
 Ah, no ! 'twere not so simple a task ; 
 
 More rare is the stuff he needs 
 Than the grace of rank, and the culture free 
 
 From vulgarity's ugly weeds — 
 Though gallantly, too, your gentleman bred 
 
 As a soldier fights and bleeds ! 
 
 No ! the " Ironsides " old Oliver led 
 
 So oft in resistless might, 
 Whatever their rank by birth, were Men, 
 
 Men first, or in prayer or fight ; 
 Clear, earnest souls, who lived and died 
 
 As in God Almighty's sight. 
 
 They were Men who, like their Captain, held 
 
 A holy and high ideal ; 
 With soul and eye, whate'er befell, 
 
 Fixed straight on the True and Real ; 
 Not glamor'd by show, but in heart and mind 
 
 To God and their country leal. 
 
96 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Men to whom empty formula 
 
 Was a deadly sore offence ; 
 Who had a heartfelt, wholesome scorn 
 
 Of vanity and pretence ; 
 Who of the things of eternity 
 
 Had a deep, unspoken sense. 
 
 Men of broad-daylight piety, 
 
 Simple, grave, and sincere ; 
 To whom the teaching of the Christ 
 
 Was manifest, plain and clear ; 
 And in whose hearts the sacred word 
 
 Was a treasure living and dear. 
 
 Such were the Cromwell " Ironsides " 
 Who made our England free ; 
 
 And well may a clear-soul'd captain wish 
 Their like once more to see ; 
 
 With such we could front the world in arms, 
 Well said, gallant Wolseley ! 
 
PRIVATE MILLER. 97 
 
 PRIVATE MILLER. 
 
 Here's a story that is true — and comparatively new — 
 A story that my pen, I fear, of half its pathos robs ; 
 
 But tell it whoso will, with much or little skill, 
 
 It helps to make us understand why Tommy loves his 
 Bobs. 
 
 Private Miller, that is he, number thirty-two-nought-three ; 
 
 The giant of his regiment, and the strongest of them all 
 When they landed at the Cape, now a little out of shape, 
 
 As he lies there in the hospital a-staring at the wall. 
 
 A gaunt extent of bone, giving forth a casual groan, 
 His hairy arms a-lying on the cover, pale and weak ; 
 
 His skull cropped close and bare for the fever that is there, 
 And the thick and stubby beard upon his sallow, sunken 
 cheek. 
 
 Private Miller, true-born Scot, liked his fighting good and 
 hot; 
 
 At Wynberg it was to his taste, at Koodesburg the same, 
 And at Belmont even more, for of wounds some half a score 
 
 The surgeons found upon him after that red field of fame. 
 
 But enteric has him now, and the doctors can't see how, 
 
 Without a special miracle, his life is to be saved ; 
 Yet he rallies from each faint, and remarks in accent 
 quaint : — 
 " Is the little man no' comin' ? A' would like to hae a 
 shave." 
 7 
 
98 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Twice the death-screen has been brought and adjusted 
 round the cot, 
 
 And twice good Sister Potter has nursed him back to life. 
 No beauteous maiden this, but a tall, plain-featured Miss, 
 
 Tho' one who has the soul that makes a jewel of a wife. 
 
 "Is the little man no' come?" Those oft-used words the 
 sum 
 Of that poor, weak giant's mutterings in the fever's fitful 
 glow; 
 "No; he wouldna' come tae me — aweel, I want tae dee"; 
 And the nurse makes soothing promises and softy strokes 
 his brow. 
 
 Not mere idle words to soothe ; no, but words she hoped 
 were truth, 
 
 For she had sent a message to headquarters just before, 
 And now she notes a stir in the ward's still, solemn air, 
 
 And she sees the orderlies in line saluting at the door. 
 
 And she stoops and whispers clear : " Private Miller, he is 
 here ; 
 The little man is—" " Wha said that?" "The little 
 man, you know — " 
 "Na, na, it isna' true; I doot it wouldna' do; 
 
 Forby, I'm sair unkempt, ye ken — a' couldna hae it so." 
 
 Then a light of ecstasy shines within the sunken eye, 
 As he strives to rise beneath the sister's kind, restraining 
 touch ; 
 Then, lying flushed and mute, he essays a swift salute, 
 Tho' his massive hand falls helplessly — the effort is too 
 much ! 
 
PRIVATE MILLER. 99 
 
 For beside the private's bed stands a little man and red, 
 The greatest soldier of the age, and the kindliest Chris- 
 tian man ; 
 While the convalescents near sit up straight as if to cheer, 
 But a something seems to choke them all, and so upsets 
 the plan. 
 
 And Lord Roberts, with a smile, sits him down a little 
 while, 
 And takes the great, rough hand in his, and speaks a 
 friendly word ; 
 And the soldiers love to tell that poor Miller soon got well, 
 But to say 'twas Bobs that did it — that, of course, would 
 be absurd ! 
 
100 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 JUAN. 
 
 Up in the cab beside him the driver had his child, 
 
 Fair-haired, bright Juan, the pride of his home and heart, 
 And he showed him the shining levers that governed the 
 
 " Arrow," and smiled 
 As the boy, with earnest glance, said, " Dad, I could make 
 
 it start ! " 
 
 " Just stop here a moment, my laddie, I'm called ; I'll be 
 back just now," 
 Said Driver Bill, jumping down, and leaving young Juan 
 alone. 
 11 I could make it start and I'll do it." So with a proud 
 flush on his brow 
 He seized the lever and pulled it. " Ha, ha !" he laughed, 
 " it is goin'." 
 
 Yes, the grim, obedient monster responded at once to the 
 call; 
 The steam hissed loud in the pistons ; with a deep, 
 resounding throb 
 The cylinder shook j a puff of black was belched from the 
 smoke-stack tall, 
 The giant wheels revolved. " Ha, ha ! " laughed Juan, 
 " I've done the job." 
 
JUAN. 101 
 
 Yes ; a puny hand may start a force that no human power 
 can stay, 
 And with blanching face poor Driver Bill beheld what 
 his child had done ; 
 In vain the yardmen, shouting, ran wildly every way ; 
 " God save my boy ! " cried Bill; "he's lost, he's lost, 
 the engine's gone ! " 
 
 Swifter and swifter works the rod, and swifter spin the 
 wheels ; 
 With wild, defiant snort, and shaking out its mane of 
 smoke. 
 The " Arrow," like a conscious thing, its power and freedom 
 feels, 
 Leaps o'er the rails and jars and sways with every piston 
 stroke. 
 
 Poor Juan in the reeling cab has clutched a brazen bar, 
 And clings, half mad with terror, his face as white as 
 death ; 
 He thinks of home and mother, and gasps his little prayer, 
 For the wind the flying " Arrow " makes has robbed him 
 of his breath. 
 
 Swifter and ever swifter along the humming rails 
 
 The steaming monster dashes ; with a savage roar of 
 glee 
 
 It flashes past a station, where the lone flagman quails 
 At the tumultuous cyclone that's gone ere he can see. 
 
102 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 On, on in unchecked fury — God help the up express 
 If it has left Eureka just seven miles below, 
 
 Freighted with scores of passengers, who in their happiness 
 Are dreaming not of danger — thank God they cannot 
 know ! 
 
 With haggard face Bill rushes into the agent's room, 
 
 11 Wire, quick, Eureka station — hold train — and — open 
 
 switch ! 
 Quick — quick ! " and o'er his features there falls a horrid 
 
 gloom — 
 He sees his darling mangled 'neath the engine in the ditch. 
 
 " I give my son to save them," he whispers, hoarse and 
 white, 
 As the agent's nimble fingers rattle off the message brief. 
 '"Tis done; the train is held here; the switch is thrown ; 
 all right," 
 So comes the answer promptly. Bill shudders in his 
 grief. 
 
 For soon Eureka station sees the engine round the curve, 
 Growing bigger every moment as it comes enswarthed in 
 smoke ; 
 Then at the switch it swerves and reels, and men of iron 
 nerve 
 Turn and hide their eyes with horror as they hear the 
 awful shock. 
 
/[/AN. 103 
 
 A heap of twisted metals in a cloud of hissing steam, 
 
 And flames of red fire leaping from the openings in the 
 ruin, 
 And somewhere in the wreckage, where the cruel cinders 
 gleam, 
 Lies, crushed beyond all knowing, poor little darling Juan. 
 
 And Bill, the driver, mourns him in his humble, shadowed 
 home — 
 " Yet the train was saved, dear mother," he whispers to 
 his wife; 
 And they think how God gave up his Son to death and to 
 the tomb 
 That sinners might not perish but have everlasting life. 
 
104 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE DUDE IN THE LUMBER CAMP. 
 
 A Narrative of " Facks," by Josiah the Truthful. 
 
 d^A 
 
 *?^. ROUND the lumber shanty fireplace, one cold 
 and stormy night, 
 V, The boys were gathered to enjoy the genial heat 
 and light ; 
 And pipes of sundry shades and strengths were 
 
 sending forth a cloud, 
 That filled the place with fragrance blue and 
 nearly hid the crowd. 
 
 A rude and wholesome supper had, as usual, closed 
 
 the day, 
 
 And now for these big brawny chaps has come the 
 hour of play ; 
 And the special form of pastime to-night is spinning yarns, 
 At which the champion, sans dispute, is huge Josiah 
 Barnes. 
 
 Josiah had a giant form and a very solemn face, 
 
 And told the toughest stories that found utterance in the 
 
 place ; 
 But he told 'em as the gospel truth, with ne'er a ghost of 
 
 smile, 
 As "ackshell facks he'd know'd hisself," and air devoid of 
 
 guile. 
 
THE DUDE IN THE LUMBER CAMP. 
 
 105 
 
 " I guess I never tole you 'bout that dude we had up here, 
 A-livin' in the shanty as a hand the other year ? " 
 And looking slowly round the crowd he met a general shout 
 Of negatives, politely backed with cries of " Spit it out ! " 
 
 " Well," said Josiah the Truthful, "you see his Dandyship. 
 Pie came up to the limit that summer fer a trip, 
 And camped out with a party of other 
 
 dudes from town, 
 Jest nigh the river vender, to git their 
 
 skins done brown. 
 
 v,w \ 
 
 " You'd see 'em out a-fishin', or bathin' 
 
 — every one 
 A-holdin' up their faces and bare arms 
 
 to the sun; ' i ^\^\ W^ 7 ' 
 
 They on'y had a fortnight, and wanted ' * ^,1 ^'C^'^ ^^^ 
 
 it to 'pear ■>b^->< 
 
 They'd bin away a-roughin' it abroad fer 'bout a year. 
 
 " Well, in about two weeks or so they all went back 
 agin 
 
 Exceptin' this here rooster, a feller small and thin, 
 
 With legs jes like two matches and a little red mus- 
 tache, 
 
 A-wearin' a blazer jacket and a belly-band, or sash. 
 
 " He took a sort of notion he'd like the shanty work, 
 As it would be more helthy ner bein' a bank clerk, 
 So our foreman reely hired him — to let him have his 
 
 fling— 
 A-loggin' all the winter and a-drivin' in the spring. 
 
106 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " Fust night he said he liked it, tho' he did feel ruther tired, 
 But he was bound to stick it through all season now he'd 
 
 hired ; 
 And yit, tho' he was hungry es a wolf from extry work, 
 You'd ought to saw him squirmin' at the fat and salty pork ! 
 
 " He couldn't go it nohow, and the thick merlasses stuff 
 Was too many fer his feelin's, he sed 'twas ■ wather wuff,' 
 So he riz up from the table and went and told the chief, 
 He'd take some maple syrup, or tenderloin of beef. 
 
 " I grieve to state our fellers didn't seem to symperthise 
 With him, and frequent use to knock his eyeglass off his 
 
 eyes; 
 And when that fust night he sot down and lit a cigarette, 
 Jim Bludso held a pistol, boys, and made him swaller it ! 
 
 " Our chaps they didn't like his ways — too much of lawdy- 
 
 daw, 
 And it made 'em mad and vicious whenever he said 'aw!' 
 So they done their best to cure him and make him walk 
 
 aright, 
 By tossin' him in blankets and so forth every night. 
 
THE DUDE IN THE LUMBER CAMP. 107 
 
 " And then their efforts at reform in day-time didn't slack, 
 Out in the woods they'd frequent drop a snowball down his 
 
 back ; 
 Or set him hitchin' up the mules, not mentionin' their 
 
 tricks, 
 Which led, es they intended, to a few improvin' kicks. 
 
 " Now, thinkin' it all over I'm free to say that Dude 
 Was treated in a manner that bordered on the rude ; 
 And I can't help a-feelin' some pity in my heart 
 When I remember how he finally — sorter — went apart. 
 
 " He never was a favorit around the lumber camp, 
 Es you kin guess from what I've said — too much of ' swag- 
 ger ' stamp ; 
 But then agin the luck he had, jes like hisself, was slim, 
 And I am really sorry fer — wot is left of him. 
 
 " He's livin' in the city now, or leastwise his remains 
 Resides down there quite healthy, his body, head and 
 
 brains — 
 The rest of him is scattered round the limit more or less, 
 Tho' they've got a portion of him at the hospertal, I guess. 
 
 " The fust slight break he made was when he went to cut a 
 
 tree 
 And let the axe slip somehow and chopped a foot off, see ? 
 And as he lay a groanin' he didn't lay quite clear, 
 And another bit of timber fell and kinder took an ear. 
 
108 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " Yet still he did'nt leave us, he certainly had grit, 
 But about a fortnight later his skull got somewhat split ; 
 I can't tell how it happened, fer the facks got mixed, you 
 
 know, 
 With his losin' of the other leg by an accidental blow. 
 
 " And yet he stayed on with us and seemed to gain and 
 
 thrive, 
 Till in the spring we started down the river with the drive, 
 But when we struck the rapids the logs jammed, as they 
 
 will, 
 And he got both arms a-mangled in the mix-up and the 
 
 spill. 
 
 " They took him to the city, where them arms was ampu- 
 tated, 
 
 And subsequent he lost an eye — or so I've heerd it stated ; 
 
 There's nothin' left to tell about, so I will close right here 
 
 By statin' thet he hain't a dude no more sense that same 
 year." 
 
THE EMIGRATION OFFICIAL. 109 
 
 THE EMIGRATION OFFICIAL. 
 
 An Episode in the Annals of the Emigration Department 
 at Winnipeg. 
 
 Poets go for inspiration to the forest and the field, 
 
 The ocean, or the mountain, or the starry summer sky ; 
 
 The city with its sordid life is deemed unfit to yield 
 The true material of thought for real poesy. 
 
 Yet poetry is more than words of rapture and amaze, 
 And beautiful abstractions and figures fine and fit ; 
 
 He's not alone the poet who with enraptured gaze 
 
 Would shun the toil-worn paths of men, at Nature's feet 
 to sit. 
 
 For truly Mother Nature is more than sky and sea, 
 And all the glorious pageant of the Inanimate ; 
 
 Her grander realm is the heart, her nobler mystery 
 Where human beings gather, for only Man is great. 
 
 There's not a shop or office, a street, a lane, a square, 
 
 A palace or a hovel, a warehouse or a home 
 In all the teeming city, if the poet is but there, 
 That will not to his seeing soul give up the truest poem, 
 
110 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 You smile incredulous and point, perhaps, with doubtful 
 air, 
 To the dull, official building with the hard and formal 
 sign 
 Of " Emigration Office " and the Agent standing there, 
 And your eyes say : As, for instance, take that subject — 
 write one line ! 
 
 Well, not that I would claim to have the true poetic fire, 
 I take your challenge promptly. Mark well that figure 
 tall, 
 Clad in the rugged coon-skin coat, — which you may not 
 admire, 
 But which to me is beautiful for what it must recall. 
 
 The poem's this : One stormy night a telegram was sent 
 To yonder office — "Help at once, disease on coming 
 train — 
 Great crowd of emigrants," — and yonder very gent 
 
 Jumped on a special for the point, 'midst storm of snow 
 and rain. 
 
 Mile after mile he sped; the fated spot at length he gained. 
 Cars densely packed with foreigners upon a siding stood ; 
 In tongues that were unknown to him their troubles they 
 . explained, 
 But 'neath the coon-skin was a heart that felt and under- 
 stood. 
 
THE EMIGRATION OFFICIAL. Ill 
 
 'Twas dread pneumonia, he found ; and the extremest 
 case 
 Was the puny little infant of a young Galician pair ; 
 Death's mark already was upon the tiny anguished face — 
 One moment and the coon-skin coat enwrapped it round 
 with care ! 
 
 Then, snatching mufflers, woollen mits, shawls, aprons — 
 anything 
 That could be boiled in water as compresses, he got 
 The men, who quickly understood, to souse them and to 
 wring, 
 Using the little cooking range, where stood the steaming 
 pot. 
 
 From a whiskey flask he quickly poured a few reviving 
 drops 
 Between the infant lips that were already cold and blue ; 
 Then hour by hour the damp hot cloths, steadily, without 
 stops, 
 Upon the little naked chest he'd constantly renew. 
 
 For five long hours he knelt and worked — and prayed, no 
 doubt, as well- 
 As tenderly as if the stranger's baby were his own ; 
 And he thanked God for a victory over the sickness fell, 
 For in the morning light the mother's eyes with gladness 
 shone. 
 
112 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 All cramped and stiff and sore he rose from that young 
 mother's side, 
 Where he had knelt and worked all night with earnest 
 heart and hand, 
 Knowing the while that if he failed — if that frail baby died — 
 He would be blamed, so little did these people under- 
 stand. 
 
 That's all the poem. Ponder it, and its calm, love-light 
 glow, 
 And tell me if a sunset glow were fitter for a verse ; 
 Or if more meet for poesy is a noble river's flow, 
 
 Than the flow of human brotherhood in that right noble 
 nurse ! 
 
"IN TOUCH WITH NATURE* 113 
 
 "IN TOUCH WITH NATURE." 
 
 In Reply to a Critic who said the Writer was "Not so 
 
 Closely in Touch with Nature as Some of 
 
 His Contemporaries." 
 
 Face downward on the ground, I love to lie 
 In touch with nature close as I can get, 
 
 (I mean when winter's snows have all gone by 
 And when the grass is green and not too wet.) 
 
 So close that I can sniff the earthy smell, 
 And have a sort of microscopic view 
 
 Of creatures otherwise invisible, 
 
 And witness all the wondrous things they do. 
 
 Beneath my nose a tiny little ant 
 
 Goes scurrying off between the blades of grass, 
 To his mite-vision every blade a giant 
 
 Whose trunk he makes a wide detour to pass. 
 
 And next I see a shining bug so small 
 That I can only marvel in amaze ; 
 
 And pigmy tribes that through the forest tall 
 In fright or ecstasy now take their ways. 
 8 
 
114 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 An angle-worm nearby, till now unseen, 
 (An inch of him protruded, that was all), 
 
 Makes signal of adieu, and then serene 
 Slips instantaneously into his hole. 
 
 I revel in this elfin under-world, 
 
 And easily could spend the live-long day 
 
 Beneath a shady tree in comfort curled, 
 Or lying flat, face downwards, just this way 
 
 While in my breast poetic fancies burn — 
 What Titan I must be in insect eyes ! 
 
 And what still lesser insect in my turn 
 I am when I look upward to the skies ! 
 
THE DREAM AND THE AWAKING. 115 
 
 THE DREAM AND THE AWAKING. 
 
 The swart and bearded sleeper dreams his dream \ 
 His smiles betoken visions bright and gay; 
 
 He is a child again beneath the beam 
 
 Of the low westering sun's all-mellowing ray. 
 
 'Tis a June evening, and the meadow grass 
 Sweetens the air of the sequestered vale ; 
 
 And now the gold and purple tints, alas, 
 In twilight's soft approach are growing pale. 
 
 He trudges gay behind the slow-paced cows 
 Toward the pasture-field beyond the wood, 
 
 Noting the blackbirds flitting 'mongst the boughs, 
 And the red squirrel's shy but trustful mood. 
 
 His cows all safe bestowed, he homeward hies, 
 Dabbling with barefoot glee the tiny creeks, 
 
 Whereat the silvery miunow glittering flies, 
 And the green frog a sudden safety seeks. 
 
 The great moon rising in the east looks down, 
 And modest twilight's reign is nearly o'er ; 
 
 He sees his mother in her humble gown 
 Smiling upon him from the cottage door. 
 
116 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Now day is done, and gentle night is here, 
 
 In his wee attic peacefully he lies 
 And listens to the crickets chirping near, 
 
 And to the distant cat-bird's lonely cries. 
 
 The kiss his mother gave him still is warm 
 Upon his cheek — dear heart, when I'm a man 
 
 Twill be my joy to shield thee from all harm, 
 And for thy restful, happy age to plan ! 
 
 Tis morn again. Was it not mother's voice 
 That called just now ? Ah, this is father's hand 
 
 Upon his shoulder ; breakfast, boy, rejoice — ! 
 The sleeper wakes — he cannot understand. 
 
 He gazes wildly — faces pale with doom ? 
 
 What ! Father, mother — dead this many a year ? 
 Dark stony cell, not the old attic room — 
 
 My God ! the jailor and the hangman here ! 
 
COMMON" POSY. 117 
 
 A "COMMON" POSY. 
 
 A common posy standing there 
 Upon my table in a glass ; 
 
 Nasturtium, sweet pea, maiden hair, 
 Heliotrope and ribbon grass — 
 Common, you say ; alas, alas ! 
 
 That base, unmeaning word, O spare ! 
 
 These flowers, that bloom so fair and free 
 That we dare call them commonplace, 
 
 Consider, heart, their mystery, 
 
 Behold their pathos and their grace ; 
 In them I see God face to face ; 
 
 They draw strange, happy tears from me. 
 
 At their low altar, passing by, 
 
 I've bowed, in wonderment to melt ; 
 
 And motions of the soul too high 
 For human language, as I've knelt, 
 Have come to me, and I have felt 
 
 Flowers are God's music for the eye. 
 
118 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE DRINKING-WATER CART.* 
 
 In the autumn afternoon, 
 
 Up our quiet tree-lined street — 
 
 Looking through its silent stretch 
 
 Like a water-color sketch, 
 Free, artistic, incomplete, 
 In its wond'rous tint and tone — 
 
 Distant sounds the tuneless horn, 
 
 With its minor note forlorn — 
 Something melancholy sweet. 
 
 'Tis the drinking-water cart 
 
 On its philanthropic rounds, 
 And a lad (who thinks he's smart) 
 
 *See Note V. 
 
THE DRINKING-WATER CART. 119 
 
 Pertly acts the driver's part, 
 
 Perched — with terror in his eye — 
 
 Like inconsequential fly, 
 
 On the tank top, dizzy-high, 
 And anon gives forth the sound, 
 The tin-blown 
 Monotone — 
 That awakes the neighbors round, 
 Who, foregathering here and there — 
 Women plain and women fair, 
 Wives and kitchen-maids and cooks, 
 Motley as to style and looks, 
 Stately, podgy, short and tall, 
 Apron-clad or decked in shawl, 
 Youngsters also, large and small, 
 Faring forth, with now and then 
 Pliant, meek, round-shouldered men, 
 Who, to judge them by their looks, 
 Have been routed from their books — 
 All with pails and pots and jugs, 
 Pitchers, crocks, tin-cans and mugs, 
 
 Vessels heavy — vessels light, 
 
 Anything that's water-tight ! 
 
 And the hero of the play — the man 
 
 Who rules the cart and fills each pail and can, 
 
 The leading tenor of the civic play, 
 
 Romantic, gallant, gay ! 
 How generously he opes the tap and fills 
 Each vessel till the precious fluid spills 
 And runs away in rills ! 
 
 Despatching business promptly and dismissing 
 
120 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Each humble comer with a courtly blessing, 
 
 Till all are gone but one — 
 Matilda Ann, a plump and pretty creature, 
 With faultless form and really charming feature, 
 
 And full of artless fun — 
 Here, as I stand 
 With pail in hand 
 (For I am of those meek, domestic men) 
 What in the name of thunder 
 Makes such delay ? I ask. Matilda Ann 
 Has but a two-quart can. 
 
 And yet, 
 
 It's safe to bet 
 'Twill take a good ten minutes more 
 
 Before 
 The cart gets to my door ! 
 And then a calf-like blawt upon the horn 
 
 To me is borne 
 And seems to say in scorn : 
 
 What would you ? Has not love, that rules all hearts, 
 A right to fool around the water carts ? 
 Avaunt ! unfeeling man ! What sense have you ? 
 Can you not see this is a rendezvous ? 
 
THE PEELER AND THE TRAMP. 
 
 121 
 
 THE PEELER AND THE TRAMP.* 
 
 In the chill hours of the morning, up the city's darkened 
 
 street 
 The grave Policeman sauntered on his lone, familiar beat, 
 When toward him came a figure slouching aimlessly along, 
 A vagrant tramp in tatters — one of the homeless throng. 
 
 He would fain have slunk unnoticed past, but that was no 
 
 to be ; 
 The officer had stopped him. "You come along with me," 
 He said, when, in a quaver, the prisoner had told 
 The tale of want and poverty so common and so old. 
 
 * See Note VI. 
 
122 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Toward the near patrol box he slowly led the man — 
 "No doubt," (so thought the vagrant), "to signal for the 
 
 van, 
 And send me to the station-house to lie upon the floor 
 Behind the prison gratings, because I'm old and poor." 
 
 The box is quickly opened, and from its dark inside 
 The policeman takes a parcel, compact and neatly tied, 
 " My wife/' says he, " puts up a lunch when I'm on duty 
 
 late, 
 But you seem to need it more than me ; you'll find it good 
 
 to ate. 
 
 M And now go quietly along " — the box is closed again. 
 And the vagrant tries to speak his thanks, but seeks for 
 
 words in vain ; 
 Nor does the Bobby wait for thanks, he's half a block away 
 Before the tramp has gathered up his wits a word to say. 
 
HER ANSWER. 123 
 
 HER ANSWER. 
 
 " Say, aunty," cried our four-year-old, to the skittish maiden 
 lady, 
 
 Who on the subject of her age was always very shady. 
 " Well, dear ? " says she : 
 " Look here," said he, 
 
 " Are you 'n old maid, I heard you were, but are you, tell 
 me truly ? " 
 
 " Well — ef — my dear, that's rather frank, and presses me 
 unduly ; 
 
 But you may tell enquiring friends who seek an explana- 
 tion — 
 
 I'm a lady who enjoys — ahem — a splendid isolation. 
 
124 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 UNREQUITED. 
 
 Upon the roadside, in a death-like swoon, 
 A woman lies beneath the midnight moon. 
 
 Her pale, sad face is wet with recent tears, 
 But now she lies unconscious of her fears. 
 
 The unpitying stars look down, serene and still, 
 And silence broods abroad on vale and hill. 
 
 Broken at length by gentle, pattering sound, 
 As of a padded foot upon the ground. 
 
 Then ambling comes a wasted, mongrel cur, 
 A fellow-vagrant, ownerless — like her, 
 
 That in the moonlight passing stealthy by, 
 Casts on the silent form a curious eye ; 
 
 Then nearer draws with friendly canine heart, 
 Some humble meed of succour to impart. 
 
 With famished tongue he licks the woman's face, 
 Where want and care have left full many a trace, 
 
 And next her hands, and then her face again, 
 He licks and warms — this poor Samaritan. 
 
UNREQUITED. 125 
 
 And thus he serves, with tenderest regard, 
 Till life and motion his kind care reward. 
 
 And as the woman rises to her feet, 
 
 He wags his tail and whines in bliss complete ; 
 
 And looks up with brown, liquid eyes so proud, 
 And in unselfish rapture barks aloud. 
 
 Then, as the stranger takes her weary way, 
 He ventures meekly at her side to stay ; 
 
 Her pat and smile are warrant, so thinks he, 
 That she does not disdain his company. 
 
 So, deeming that her air a friend reveals, 
 Like trusty page he follows at her heels. 
 
 Slowly, towards the village sleeping near, 
 She plods along with new-reviving tear, 
 
 Till, overcome with weariness once more, 
 She fainting sinks beside a cottage door ; 
 
 Whereat the dog lifts up his head on high, 
 And sends a weird petition to the sky — 
 
 A prayer for aid it seems to Him above, 
 Who holds all creatures in a Maker's love. 
 
 The prayer is heard — that hollow, piteous howl, 
 Wakes the old cottager, a thrifty soul, 
 
126 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Who comes and opes his hospitable door, 
 And bears the stranger in — but not before 
 
 The unsightly dog has crept with thankful heart, 
 Into the kitchen, where he sits apart, 
 
 With look of pleasure on his honest face, 
 And thanks for timely help and resting place. 
 
 The woman to much-needed couch is borne 
 By sturdy man and wife ; the dog forlorn 
 
 Remains behind, his own uncertain fate 
 The subject of internal, deep debate. 
 
 The man, returning, sees the yearning wretch, 
 Steps to tKe door and grimly lifts the latch ; 
 
 The signal's noted ; he awaits no help, 
 The door's ajar — he slinks out with a yelp, 
 
 And roams about, forgotten in the dawn, 
 With human gratitude to think upon — 
 
 A theme too deep for any homeless cur, 
 A poor dumb brute, and no philosopher. 
 
 The sport of urchins later in the day, 
 Behold him flying through the village way, 
 
UNREQUITED. 
 
 127 
 
 With terror in his eye, a battered pail 
 Dangling and clanging at his shrinking tail, 
 
 And as God's sun sinks in the peaceful west, 
 His carcass lies beside the road at rest, 
 
 Broken and bruised, in silence and alone, 
 With sorry epitaph of stick and stone. 
 
 W ■ j-V I.', i /.. . ,, 
 
128 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE APOLOGY OF EDWIN MARKHAM.* 
 
 From boyhood's hour till now, deep in my 
 
 heart 
 Has burned the vexing paradox of Job — 
 Why, 'neath the heavy wheel of human life, 
 Some should be ground and broken, and go 
 
 down 
 To hopeless ruin ; others, perhaps more vile, 
 Be lifted on its circling ring to heaven ! 
 An endless problem ; but my heart the while 
 Has throbb'd at great Isaiah's sacred word, 
 Prefiguring the coming of a day 
 When Justice wedded unto Love shall reign, 
 And they who are the builders shall inhabit, 
 They who have planted, they alone, shall eat, 
 And spoilers be unknown ; this prophet-faith 
 Has fed my spirit in a world whose ills 
 Forced from the strong soul of the pitying Christ 
 His cry against the greed that would devour 
 Poor widows' houses, and with reckless feet 
 Walk over graves — wrongs still of Titan strength 
 Through all the centuries since the Carpenter 
 Proclaimed the Fatherhood of God, and taught 
 The Brotherhood of Man — wrongs that cease not ; 
 And so my faith has fought with horrid doubt. 
 Hath Christ, then, conquered death to be at last 
 Conquered by wickedness of mortal man ? 
 
 *See Note VII. 
 
THE APOLOGY OF EDWIN MARK HAM. 129 
 
 'Twere blasphemy to think it ; yet behold 
 This picture painted by a Christian brush, 
 In the high noon of Christian centuries-- 
 The Hoeman of the master, Millet ; this, 
 As thus I meditated, met my sight, 
 And, like an arrow to my soul, it struck 
 With lasting pain of truth — my God ! of truth ! 
 
 I kept the print upon my walls for years, 
 
 And in my heart the pain ; it was, to me, 
 
 Solemn, oppressive. As I looked it seemed 
 
 The august ruin leaning on the hoe 
 
 Was wrapped around with terror that appalled 
 
 More than the fearsome shapes of Dante's hell, 
 
 For he is here on earth, a living form, 
 
 And walks among us ! Long I stood and looked 
 
 Upon the picture ; breathing in its power — 
 
 The majesty of its profound despair, 
 
 The awful import of its eloquence, 
 
 Until it seemed to grow into my soul, 
 
 And hang there on the inmost sacred wall 
 
 A painted echo of my own life, too. 
 
 I saw the artist gave us here a type 
 
 Fitting all lands and labors. In this garb 
 
 Of stunned and stolid peasant I beheld 
 
 Betrayed humanity ; the worker scorned, 
 
 Despoiled of hope and adequate reward, 
 
 In every field and calling, farm or shop, 
 
 Office or factory, alley, shore or mine, 
 
 By deep injustice of our social laws. 
 
 The Hoeman is the man with hoe or pen, 
 Anvil, or plane, or needle — any tool 
 
130 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Or implement of useful human toil 
 
 Of brain or body, but of toil unblessed 
 
 By dignity and joy, because unlit 
 
 By hope's bright beam — not man so much as serf, 
 
 With no mind in his muscle, and no heart 
 
 In any handiwork he labors at ; 
 
 A symbol of the Disinherited, 
 
 Barred from the teeming land and shrunken up 
 
 By special privilege held by the few. 
 
 Work ? Nay, but aimless, abject drudgery ! 
 
 Man ? Nay, a hulk of lost humanity ! 
 
 Beneath the roving savage in estate, 
 
 Who, wild and ignorant, has yet a step 
 
 Of human dignity and poet tongue. 
 
 This dull eyed clod is not a remnant waif 
 
 Of prehistoric times ; no relic he 
 
 Of barb'rous ages, but the pagan boor 
 
 Of Christian civilization and to-day ! 
 
 The Hoeman is the effigy of man, 
 
 A being with no outlet to his life, 
 
 No uplift to his soul ; no time to rest, 
 
 To think, to pray, to nurse the mighty hopes 
 
 That make us men ; but the unhappy heir 
 
 Of slaves who toiled beneath th' Egyptian lash, 
 
 Who lifted wearily the walls of Troy, 
 
 Who carved the pillars of Karnak, and paved 
 
 The Appian way for brutal Emperors ; 
 
 To-day he stoops and leans upon the hoe, 
 
 Or bends in silence paving Paris streets, 
 
 Or building London's tombs and palaces. 
 
 Does shallow ignorance, or heartless greed, 
 
 With ready-tongued effrontery, deny 
 
THE APOLOGY OF EDWIN MARK HAM. 131 
 
 That such a shape exists ? Happy indeed 
 The day when shrug of shoulder can dispel 
 This form embruted, this portentous thing, 
 This Accusation wearing human guise ! 
 They who have eyes can see him everywhere ; 
 Nor will clear sight confuse him with the man 
 Whom simple poverty afflicts and thwarts. 
 The Pioneer is poor, but loves his work ; 
 Tis bracing and endurable — 'tis the soil 
 In which the flower of hope forever springs, 
 Because the Pioneer is Man, and free ; 
 He feels no degradation in his sweat, 
 For he is king of his hard circumstance, 
 And owns no master 'twixt himself and God, 
 Who made the land and gave it to his hands ; 
 So, though he delves and struggles in the vale, 
 He knows no bar across the sunlit path 
 Forever open to the heights beyond. 
 
 Is such the poverty of sweat-shop dens, 
 
 Of stuffy factories, of stifling mines ? 
 
 Or is this sturdy Pioneer akin 
 
 To the pale wretch who labors for a wage, 
 
 Hopeless, enervated, exploited, robbed 
 
 Of sweet ambition and of manhood's sense ? 
 
 Millet meant no disparagement of toil, 
 Himself a noble toiler all his days ; 
 This picture was the protest of his soul 
 Against the degradation of true work, 
 And the foul tyranny of man o'er man ; 
 He scorned the idler — tramp or millionaire — 
 As thrift must scorn the human parasite, 
 
132 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Instinctive sure of heaven's just decree 
 
 That they should eat not who do not produce. 
 
 Labor a curse ? Nay, 'tis a gift of God, 
 
 A humanizing power, a holy thing ; 
 
 Redemption for man's soul is in his craft 
 
 If he has grace to work aright. He makes 
 
 Himself who truly, nobly makes his house ; 
 
 He shapes his soul invisibly who carves 
 
 A cornerstone with godly honesty. 
 
 Labor ! 'tis a religious sacrament 
 
 Whate'er it be that's true — hoeing a field, 
 
 Guiding a plough, writing a true-born poem, 
 
 Ruling a nation — high and holy each ; 
 
 If the true spirit but informs the toil, 
 
 Such labor is not drudgery, but prayer. 
 
 Man does not live by bread alone, nor need 
 
 Bread chiefly, for he is a living soul, 
 
 And his soul-hunger cries for the Ideal, 
 
 The bread on which it lives. That man's a slave 
 
 And mate to this poor Hoeman who forgets 
 
 His soul, his higher self, and yields to things, 
 
 Whate'er his calling — who for gain or fame 
 
 Lets go his hold upon the spiritual, 
 
 And sinks beneath the weight of gross concerns 
 
 To spend his life for dross. 
 
 All this I read 
 Musing upon the print of Millet. Then 
 Compulsion was upon me ! I must speak 
 My spirit's awe and grief at this dread wrong, 
 This ruin of God's image, and the poem 
 Sprang from my pen, a lightning stroke of wrath 
 From a dark cloud of sorrow. I have borne 
 My witness. It is said ; it is the truth ; 
 So let it stand. 
 
THE SENTRY S PRAYER. 
 
 133 
 
 THE SENTRY'S PRAYER. 
 
 A True Incident of the Civil War. 
 
 'Twas in the wartime ; grim, serene, 
 Midnight brooded, full of gloom, 
 
 Darkness curtained o'er the scene 
 Like the shadow-form of doom. 
 
 Face to face in vale and wood 
 Ambushed the two armies lay, 
 
 Thirsting for each other's blood 
 In to-morrow's deadly fray. 
 
 At a far-out sentry post, 
 
 'Neath a gnarled and ghostly tree, 
 Stood a weary soldier, lost 
 
 In a troubled reverie. 
 
 Thoughts of death oppressed his mind, 
 For he felt vague danger near, 
 
 And each whisper of the wind 
 Brought a creeping chill of fear. 
 
 Brave was he and bronzed of face, 
 Yet a helpless child he felt 
 
 As when in the old home-place 
 At his mother's knee he knelt. 
 
134 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Then, as from that sacred past, 
 Out of memories sweet and dim, 
 
 Rose amid that silence vast 
 From his lips the olden hymn : 
 
 " All my trust in Thee is stayed, 
 All my help from Thee I bring, 
 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of Thy wing ! " 
 
 Weirdly rose the tremulous strain 
 In the silent midnight hour, 
 
 Full of pathos, tears and pain, 
 Full of tenderness and power. 
 
 " Cover my defenceless head," 
 Came the simple words and low, 
 
 Then a smothered whisper said : 
 " Ground your rifles, boys, and go ! 
 
 And a scouting party near, 
 Glad that whisper to obey, 
 
 From their ambush disappear, 
 Creeping silently away. 
 
 And the sentry's fears are fled ; 
 
 Mother's God has heard him sing, 
 " Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of thy wing ! " 
 
THE HERO .FISHERMAN. 135 
 
 THE HERO FISHERMAN. 
 
 Beyond the angry reef, where the mad waves 
 
 Toss high their foaming crests, as, thunderously, 
 
 They break upon the treacherous rock, far out 
 
 In the dark, weltering waters, helpless, lost, 
 
 Stumbles a ship, dismantled and forlorn ; 
 
 One tattered shred of fluttering white — the sign 
 
 And signal of despair or gasp of hope, — 
 
 Is dimly seen above the sinking hull 
 
 By the brave souls ashore, who man the boat 
 
 To wage a deadly warfare with the sea 
 
 And save, if God so wills, the souls in peril ; 
 
 And all the village, clustering round, upbear 
 
 With words of hope the stalwart fishermen 
 
 Who undertake love's errand — all save one, 
 
 Whose heart has failed her, and whose quivering arms 
 
 Are round her only son. 
 
 " Nay, Alec, nay ! 
 Spare rae, oh, spare me, Alec ; do not go ; 
 God asks not this of me, no, no ! let wives 
 Who have not given a husband to the deep, 
 And mothers who have not, like me, a son 
 Lost to their hearts on the wide sea — perchance, 
 Beside his father in the watery depths — 
 Unheard of till their hopes, like mine, are dead, 
 Let these give up at duty's call their sons 
 
136 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And husbands to this task ; but thou, my boy, 
 Sole comfort of my widowhood, my child, 
 Stay thou with me ! " 
 
 And the kind neighbors, moved, 
 Said, " She is right, good Alec, go not thou 
 On this thrice dangerous quest ; our sons will go." 
 " Nay, mother dear," cried he, and kissed her cheek, 
 " God will defend us ; neighbors, I must go ; 
 No man of all these gallant mates of mine 
 May take my oar ; have faith ; in God above 
 Put ye your trust, my mother, and my friends ! " 
 And so with hero-spirit he embarked, 
 And through her tears his mother watched him go, 
 And prayed to God, and all the neighbors prayed. 
 
 The heavy hours dragged on, and still the ship 
 Though lower in the waves yet kept afloat, 
 And beating hearts along the pebbly beach 
 Ceased not to pray. At last, thanks be to God ! 
 The life-boat rounds the reef, fighting the seas, 
 And plunges towards the landing-place, all safe, 
 And safely bringing half-dead mariners, 
 Who clasp their hands in joy and murmur " Saved ! " 
 
 11 All saved ! " So runs the tumult of delight ; 
 "No! all but one — we had to leave that one ; 
 'Twere certain death to all had we remained 
 Another moment." So they spake, and leapt 
 On the firm shore, with woman's tenderness 
 Bearing the famished sailors in their arms. 
 
 But Alec stayed behind and held his oar, 
 
THE HERO FISHERMAN. 137 
 
 And answered to his mother waiting there 
 With joyous arms outstretched to welcome him 
 Back to her widowed heart, " No, mother, no ; 
 One has been left to perish ; I return ; 
 He shall not perish if it be God's will 
 That my stout arms are equal to my hope. 
 Push off the boat ! Alone, if no one else 
 Will join me, I will face the death again 
 To bring him to the land ! " 
 
 " No, no, my son ! 
 Oh God, it must not be ; thou hast been brave, 
 And I can bear no more — nay, my sweet son, 
 Leave this to others ; some true heart is here 
 To take thy place. Think of thy father lost, 
 And thy poor brother whom I mourn as dead ; 
 Leave me not desolate, bereft of all 
 I have on earth, my son, my only child ! " 
 " Think of my brother ! yea, but every man 
 In peril is my brother, and this man 
 May have a mother dear as mine to me ; 
 I cannot stay, and every moment now 
 Is more than golden in its worth. Farewell ! 
 God keep thee, mother, and God prosper me ! " 
 
 So spake young Alec, sternly tremulous ; 
 
 Then on the sandy shore, as dead indeed, 
 
 The anguished mother swooned, for he was gone 
 
 And lustily against th' unwilling waves 
 
 He labored at the oars, and evening fell 
 
 And hid him in the distance from their eyes. 
 
 Then passed a silence on the villagers, 
 
138 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And pained suspense for Alec's fate so ruled 
 That rapture o'er the saved was hushed until 
 The slow-paced night was gone, and morning crept 
 Upon the lighted lanterns on the shore, 
 Where men walked to and fro as they had done 
 Through all the waiting hours. 
 
 Then clang'd the bell 
 In the old village steeple, for a lad 
 Was sent in haste to bid the verger ring 
 The happy tidings out o'er hill and dale, 
 The boat was seen ! Then eager ran the throng, 
 And at the landing clasped the widow's hand, 
 And rapture danced along the smiling marge, 
 For Alec now was nigh, his wasted strokes 
 Still splashing in the wave, till cheering men 
 Rushed through the shallows and with stalwart arm 
 On either side pulled the huge boat to land. 
 And Alec sat with pale and ghastly face, 
 And bended body, wearied nigh to death, 
 And at his feet, well wrapp'd, the sailor's form, 
 Weak as an infant, but alive ! alive ! 
 " Fall back, and let his mother pass alone, 
 Her's be the hand that first shall welcome him ! M 
 So cried a leader, and the throng fell back, 
 Then gathered near, with joy that overflowed 
 On every face in tears, to note her kiss, 
 And catch his words faint-spoken : 
 
 " God be praised, 
 I've brought him safe — his mother will rejoice 
 With mine — it is my brother — God be praised. 
 Your long-lost son, — receive him, mother dear ! " 
 
A COUNTRY GRAVEYARD. 139 
 
 A COUNTRY GRAVEYARD. 
 
 Upon a far green slope, 
 Sunlit and peaceful lies the burial place ; 
 The sacred spot whose consecrated stones, 
 Standing in holy silence, seem to be 
 A tended flock safe resting in the fold. 
 
140 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 4fr 
 
 THE ADOPTED BOY.* 
 
 There goes our neighbor, Robbins, and his 
 * m »\ wife, 
 
 A-driving home from town, and, 'pon my life, 
 
 They've got a little youngster with 'em, too. 
 
 Why, 'course ! they've done as they've long 
 meant to do, 
 I'll bet a penny — got a homeless boy 
 To 'dopt as theirn — well, well, I wish 'em joy, 
 But I can tell 'em it's a risky game, 
 And just as like to bring 'em grief and shame 
 As peace and comfort ; you can never tell 
 The breed that's in them waifs and strays — well, well ! 
 Now, I'm agoin' acrost this afternoon 
 To see this treasure — well, the little coon 
 He's been right lucky in the home he's got, 
 That's one thing sure, and if he goes to pot, 
 As 'dopted children very otten does, 
 'Twon't be fer want of trainin', ner becuz 
 His foster parents wasn't good and kind — 
 Fer better folks than them he'd never find. 
 
 Well, Hiram, I've been over ; I was right — 
 They've brung a child from town, a little mite 
 From what they call the Children's Home ; I guess 
 He must be six or seven, and I confess 
 
 * See Note VIII. 
 
THE ADOPTED BOY. 141 
 
 He's quite a bright and pretty little chap, 
 
 And set as cute on Mrs. Robbins' lap 
 
 As if she was his mother, quite content, 
 
 Eatin' a cookie ; and the great event 
 
 Has filled her and her husband, you kin see, 
 
 Jest full of pleasure ; both appears to be 
 
 As fond of Bertie — that's the youngster's name, 
 
 As if it was by birth and blood he came 
 
 To their lone dwellin' ; Robbins likes his eyes, 
 
 Cuz they're so blue and full of sweet surprise ; 
 
 And Mrs. Robbins likes his golden hair, 
 
 And his complexion, which it's very fair, 
 
 With rosy cheeks ; and both of 'em allows 
 
 There's somethin' fine and noble 'bout his brows — 
 
 And this is so, he's quite a likely child, 
 
 No doubt about it, tho' I ruther smiled 
 
 At their fond doin's ; and I wish 'em well — 
 
 But, as I said afore, no one kin tell. 
 
 Would you believe it, Hiram, how time flies ! 
 
 Dear me ! I scarcely kin believe my eyes — 
 
 But that tall chap you see acrost the way, 
 
 Is Bertie Robbins — he's of age to-day ! 
 
 Yes, twenty-one ; and he has turned out good ; 
 
 I seen him when he came, and know'd he would j 
 
 Fer enyone, to see his pretty face, 
 
 And lovin' ways to all about the place 
 
 As he grow'd up, a-doin' of his chores, 
 
 And readin' books or playin' out o' doors, 
 
 Could tell he'd be a blessin' to their heart, 
 
 As he has bin, and make it sad to part, 
 
 As they are goin' to do, fer so I'm told 
 
142 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Robbins is givin' him a purse of gold — 
 Two hundred dollars — and he's goin' West 
 To seek his fortune ; leaves the Robbins' nest 
 As I might say, to find some new employ ; 
 Well : he hes bin a good and faithful boy, 
 And I kin jine in all their hopes and fears, 
 And understand 'em sheddin' bitter tears. 
 
 Come to the winder, Hiram, there's the rig 
 At Robbins' gate — that trunk is good and big 
 Fer two of 'em to lift — poor Bert looks sad, 
 And Farmer Robbins — aint he feelin' bad ? 
 Why, you can see it, every move he makes ; 
 And there's poor 'Mandy, see, his hand she shakes, 
 And now she puts her arms around him tight 
 And kisses him ; no, I can't stand the sight — 
 Come with me to the gate to say God-speed 
 As he goes by, our cheery word he'll need. 
 
 True, Hiram, as you say, the ways of God 
 
 Are strange, and the afflictions of his rod, 
 
 And no respect of persons, that is true ; 
 
 Here we're enjoyin' comfort, me and you, 
 
 While our old neighbors, there, acrost the way, 
 
 Deservin' jest as much, as I may say, 
 
 Are bowin' down beneath the fearful gale ; 
 
 To-day they hev the mortgage auction sale, 
 
 And leaves the home they've lived in all these years, 
 
 To go I don't know where ; it brings the tears 
 
 To think of sech an endin' now they're old, 
 
 A driftin' on a shore so dreary cold. 
 
 But where's the son they reckon'd they hed got? 
 
THE ADOPTED BOY. 143 
 
 Gone and forgot 'em — so I alius thought 
 
 Would be the endin' of that foolishness ; 
 
 It mostly alius is — Bert is, I guess, 
 
 A-livin' well off in some distant spot, 
 
 And he's most likely jest about fergot 
 
 His 'dopted parents — so I alius say — 
 
 These picked up children either go that way, 
 
 Grow up and git ungrateful, or turn out 
 
 As downright rascals — so it's jest about 
 
 A six and half-a : dozen ; yes, indeed, 
 
 I say agin, you've got to know the breed. 
 
 Well, here's the folks a-flockin' to the sale — 
 
 Poor Robbins, he is lookin' old and frail, 
 
 And his poor wife ; you go acrost the way 
 
 And fetch her, Hiram, over here to stay 
 
 With me, while they're a-sellin' out the place — 
 
 She feels, I know, as if 'twas some disgrace. 
 
 Good gracious, 'Mandy — Mrs. Robbins, look ! 
 Don't set and cry no longer — why, they've took 
 The auction flag away ; the crowd is parted 
 Afore the sale has more'n half got started ! 
 And who is this a-coming in the gate 
 With Hiram and your husband ? Sure as fate 
 If it ain't Bertie — there, now, don't take on ; 
 God don't forsake His own, the cloud is gone ; 
 Here, let 'em in, the sun is shinin' bright, 
 And smilin' faces is a glorious sight ! 
 
 Yes, mother, it's our Bertie, hug him well ! 
 He's good as gold — and afterwards I'll tell 
 
144 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 The story how he came and stopped the sale, 
 And paid the mortgage right down on the 
 
 nail, 
 And saved our home ; God bless our faithful 
 
 boy, 
 Who gives our age a new and deeper joy ; 
 God only tried us, wife, to prove our trust, 
 For no good deed done in His name is lost. 
 
 . 
 
THE KING AND THE BEGGAR. 145 
 
 THE KING AND THE BEGGAR. 
 
 The King in purple vestments 
 
 And crown of shining gold, 
 Sat proudly gazing round him 
 
 As on his chariot rolled, 
 And scarcely deigned to notice 
 
 The homage that was paid 
 By thousands of his subjects 
 
 Each with uncovered head. 
 
 11 1 am their rightful master, 
 
 I am their sovereign lord, 
 And they do well to serve me 
 
 And tremble at my word ; 
 For not in earth there reigneth 
 
 So great a king as I ! " 
 So spake the lofty monarch 
 
 As his retinue moved by. 
 
 A beggar on the highway, 
 
 In garments all defiled, 
 Was stooping low in pity 
 
 Beside a little child ; 
 The crowd had rudely jostled 
 
 And bruised her in its rush, 
 And the beggar in compassion 
 
 Now sought her cry to hush, 
 
 1<) 
 
146 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " I am unknown and homeless," 
 
 Said he, " and old and poor, 
 My daily bread in sorrow 
 
 I beg from door to door ; 
 Yet I would aye be tender 
 
 And always seek to be 
 Helpful unto my fellows, 
 
 Even, dear child, to thee." 
 
 Then came a voice from heaven 
 
 Saying, " Behold, O men ! 
 Your thoughts of rank and station 
 
 Are false and mean and vain ; 
 He is most truly royal 
 
 Who doth most service bring ; 
 This king is but a beggar ; 
 
 This beggar is a king ! " 
 
THE MUDDLED PEDLER. 147 
 
 THE MUDDLED PEDLER. 
 
 There is a loud-voiced pedler man 
 
 Who haunts the neighborhood, 
 And twice a day comes round our way 
 
 With bawlings loud and rude ; 
 His matin cry pertains to fish ; 
 
 He does not blow a horn, 
 But shouts this dirge monotonous, 
 
 Unvaried and forlorn : 
 
 " Fr-r-r-esh fish ! Fr-r-resh fish ! 
 Salmon — trou' 'er w'ite fish ! 
 Fresh salmon ! fresh salmon ! 
 All alive — here ! " 
 
 And then he comes around again 
 
 In th ' stilly afternoon, 
 With new stage scenery and effects, 
 
 And an entire change of tune ; 
 His lamentation is of fruit, 
 
 And as he jogs along 
 Behind his jaded-looking nag 
 
 He warbles forth this song : — 
 
 " Strawb'ries ! Strawb'ries ! 
 Fine Oakville strawb'ries ! 
 Strawb'ries ripe ! Strawb'ries ripe ! 
 On'y — ten cents a box ! " 
 
148 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 I grieve to say this pedler man 
 
 One day got slightly " fixed," 
 Some purists might p'raps call it " tight,' 
 
 And so his songs got mixed. 
 'Twas very sad indeed to hear 
 
 The muddled fellow shout, 
 In such a thick-tongued sort of way 
 
 You scarce could make it out : — 
 
 " Fresh fish, ten a box ! 
 Fine Oakville salmon ! 
 Salmon ripe, w'ite fish ripe ! 
 Strawb'ries all alive ! " 
 
THE CHILD AND THE TOAD. 149 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE TOAD.* 
 
 A little child, with a pure, sweet face, 
 
 That wore the infinite Angel-grace 
 
 Of innocence — less than two years as yet 
 
 In this great, strange world, and whose tiny feet, 
 
 Clad in their wee, white shoes, caressed 
 
 The fresh green sward in the Field of the Blest 
 
 (As to him I know the city park seemed), 
 
 As he ran at my side, and with rapture beamed. 
 
 A little new soul in this world of ours 
 
 Akin to all beauty in birds or flowers, 
 
 He looked the seraph he really was 
 
 As he wandered and ran with scarcely a pause, 
 
 In his dainty dress and hood of white, 
 
 And carried my cane with a proud delight 
 
 That afternoon ; he had learned to walk, 
 
 But not in our human speech to talk, 
 
 Nor had he need — for the speech of love 
 
 That he brought, I ween, from the world above, 
 
 * See Note IX. 
 
150 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Was clear to us all in its smiles and tears, 
 And its looks and motions to tell his fears, 
 His joys and his wishes, and to express 
 That his mission below was the world to bless. 
 
 So, there in the restful park I strolPd, 
 Where the sunbeams fell in shifting gold 
 Through the moving leaves of the spreading trees, 
 And watched the Baby with thoughts like these. 
 
 Then something moved in the grass close by ; 
 
 'Twas a common, warty toad, and I 
 
 As it hopped at my feet and heavily sat, 
 
 Stolid and stupid and ugly and flat, 
 
 Said, " Look, oh Baby, see what is here ! " 
 
 And he came without a shadow of fear, 
 
 And I marked his mien of wondering awe 
 
 As he looked at the living thing he saw 
 
 For the first time. " What will his impulse be " ? 
 
 I said to myself, " I will wait and see ; 
 
 The human instinct of hate will rise, 
 
 No doubt, in his breast, and those blinking eyes 
 
 Of the toad seemed to say, ' I can but await 
 
 From the stick in the hands of this child the fate 
 
 Which is always mine and that of my race 
 
 At human hands ' " — but the Baby's face 
 
 Wore a look of pity and love instead, 
 
 That, plainly as spoken language said, 
 
 " Poor little brother of the earth, 
 
 Like me you have strangely come to birth 
 
THE CHILD AND THE TOAD. 151 
 
 In this beautiful world ; you have life like mine 
 From the self-same Maker — a gift divine ; 
 And though I'm exalted, and you in the dust, 
 You're my brother still, and so I must — " 
 (Here he stopped and knelt with hands outspread 
 And his face so close to the toad's brown head 
 That, had I not snatched him up, I wist 
 The reptile he would have tenderly kissed !) 
 
 I know not what the toad's thoughts were 
 As he hopped away in the grasses there ; 
 But for me, I felt as never before 
 That sacred scene of the days of yore, 
 When the Heavenly Teacher, wise and mild, 
 Set in their midst a little child, 
 And said, Whoso would my Father please, 
 Must become in heart like one of these. 
 
152 IN MANY KEYS 
 
 POLITE. 
 
 Plain-spoken, rough-tongued Mr. Truth 
 Said bluntly that the fellow lied ; 
 
 But Courtesy, the well-bred youth, 
 So calmly poised and gentle-eyed 
 In milder syllables replied, 
 I scarce would say the fellow lied, 
 
 Though he spoke falsely, to be sure ; 
 Perhaps, you know — hem — it may be 
 
 His — hem — imagination, er — 
 Er — overpowered his memory. 
 
WORD AND DEED. 
 
 153 
 
 WORD AND DEED. 
 
 11 Could you give me some help? I want some'pin to eat." 
 And the grave-looking gentleman stopped in the street. 
 
 He gazed at the lad with expression severe, 
 
 And the raggedy chap seemed to tremble with fear. 
 
 " You shouldn't be begging in this way, you know, 
 It's shiftless, and wretched, and lazy, and low. 
 
 " A boy of your age should be going to school, 
 Or learning to use some industrial tool. 
 
 " Want something to eat ? That's possibly true, 
 But we've places provided for paupers like you. 
 
154 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " It wouldn't be proper for me — 'twould be wrong — " 
 Just then a great hulk of a lad came along. 
 
 He'd a sandwich in hand, which he seemed to enjoy 
 With a zest that's peculiar to just such a boy. 
 
 He tore it in two and, with a shy laugh, 
 Sidled up and gave the poor hungry chap half. 
 
 And then he passed on ; not a word had he said — 
 
 But it left some queer thoughts in that gentleman's head. 
 
THE WHALING OF THE KID. 155 
 
 THE WHALING OF THE KID. 
 
 I set down fer to write a pome 
 
 (The afternoon was still an' hot) — 
 I waited for the words to come 
 
 To clothe my naked little thought, 
 When sudden like, an' loud an' shrill, 
 
 A yell my idle ear assailed, 
 It made me start and drop my quill — 
 
 The neighbor's kid was gittin' whaled. 
 
 Yes, sure enough, poor little chap, 
 
 For some new mischief, I suppose, 
 An' I could hear the bare hand slap 
 
 Jest where he didn't wear no clothes ; 
 He yelled, as crost that knee he lay, 
 
 An' tried to plead, but choked an' failed, 
 " Ma, I'll be good ! " he tried to say, 
 
 Poor kid, when he was gittin' whaled. 
 
 You know the sorter noise it wuz, 
 
 A raspin' roar, half drowned in tears, 
 That sometimes to a screech arose 
 
 An' filled you full of nameless fears ; 
 But still the welts fell hot an' fast 
 
 (Some wholesome truth was bein' nailed), 
 An' then the smackin' ceased at last, 
 
 The job was done — the kid was whaled. 
 
156 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 But yet, fer quite a spell I heard 
 
 The piteous after-sobs he made, 
 An' every passin' little bird 
 
 Quit chirping when near by it strayed ; 
 An' the old house-dog down below 
 
 Roam'd ill at ease an' droopy-tailed — 
 An' every critter seemed to know 
 
 The neighbor's kid had jest bin whaled. 
 
SYMPATHY. 157 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Beside the grave's new-rounded sod 
 By some dear instinct close we come, 
 Heart draws to heart, tho' we are dumb, 
 
 And dumbly seeks to share the rod : 
 We do not know what is to be, 
 We cannot guess, we cannot see, 
 
 We can but stand and wait for God. 
 
 As when the winter tempests fall 
 
 With blinding snow-wreaths on the steep, 
 
 And clouds and darkness dread appall, 
 What can they do, th' unknowing sheep, 
 But gather close and silence keep, 
 
 And listen for the shepherd's call. 
 
158 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY.* 
 
 I. CHAIRLIE'S RETURN. 
 A Sketch from "The Days of Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 Drumtochty Glen is silent but for the falling leaves, 
 
 The pathos of October fills all the peaceful place, 
 And rests upon the heart of one who long since knew it 
 well, 
 And now comes up the cart-road with slow and saddened 
 pace. 
 
 * See Note X. 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 159 
 
 Old Peter at the Junction had marked the stranger's mien, 
 His pale and melancholy face, his clothing thin and poor, 
 
 His hair untimely frosted, but recognized him not 
 
 As Chairlie Grant the ne'er-do-well of twenty years before. 
 
 Back from his life of wandering, back to his childhood's 
 home — 
 
 A home well-nigh forgotten in all these idle years ; 
 Yet with a chastened spirit, and penitent at last, 
 
 At last — but now too late, too late — oh, unavailing tears ! 
 
 His pace is slackened at the grove, he rests beside the pool 
 Near by the olden clump of gorse he knew so long ago ; 
 
 To him it seems a holy place with piney incense filled, 
 He leans his head upon his hands in loneliness and woe. 
 
 A letter, old and worn away, he reads yet once again, 
 And once again it tells him in words unchanged and 
 hard, 
 That those who loved him dearly through all his wasted 
 life— 
 His granny and his sister — are in the old kirk yard. 
 
 " Deid, deid," he sadly mutters, "aye, and the lave as weel 
 O' a' the generation that kent me to their shame ; 
 
 No ane o' them is leevin' to tak' me by the hand, 
 
 And say ' Forgiven ' to me an' bid me welcome hame ! " 
 
 He rises and resumes his way, emerging at the hill 
 
 Above the Tochty bridge, a spot where 'tis the exile's wont 
 
 To stand and brood in reverie o'er all the landmarks dear, 
 Each scene which ghostly memory doth ever seem to 
 haunt. 
 
160 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 His eyes now rest upon the Glen, and through a misty veil 
 
 Of tears he marks the old kirk spire still pointing up to 
 
 God, 
 
 The unforgotten hills and trees, the well -remembered roofs, 
 
 The winding village street that years and years ago he 
 
 trod. 
 
 "Yonder is Hillock's hoose," he says, "would I might see 
 his face"; 
 And so he crosses o'er the bridge and climbs the sloping 
 way, 
 And now he's in Drumtochty and stands by Hillock's gate, 
 But sees no old familiar form known in an earlier day. 
 
 Now to'rds his birthplace he has turned, the cottage on the 
 hill, 
 Hard by the old kirk wall, alas ! what desolation's here ! 
 The ancient thatch has fallen in, the gate is torn away, 
 The garden once so trimly kept is now unkempt and 
 drear. 
 
 He passes through the unlatched door, but first removes 
 his hat, 
 And in the kitchen weather-worn a moment musing 
 stands, 
 While memory lights the ruin up as once it used to be, 
 As it was always in the dreams he dreamt in distant 
 lands. 
 
 The hearth-glow is reflected from the dishes on the wall, 
 The table's set, he sees again the porridge-pot and spoon, 
 
 As, lying prone upon the floor, a laddie rosy-cheeked, 
 He glowers at the fire and hears his granny gently croon, 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 161 
 
 The grander room, the M ben " beyond, recalls past Sabbath 
 days, 
 
 With horse-hair chairs and sofa, and carpet blue and red, 
 The mantel with its china dogs and shells of curious shape, 
 
 The drawers with the Bible beside the " Pilgrim " laid. 
 
 He feels the old-time Sabbath hush ; he's newly-dressed for 
 kirk, 
 And hears his mother's warning 'gainst " rumpling his 
 claes," 
 So, burdened with his grandeur, yet proud beyond all 
 words, 
 He listens to the morning bell that calls the Glen to 
 praise. 
 
 From out a secret corner of yon old chest of drawers 
 A woman's hand, one later day, brought forth her scanty 
 hoard, 
 And gave it to a ne'er-do-weel — e'en now he feels the touch, 
 And hears his granny's blessing, and is pierced as with a 
 sword. 
 
 He wakes — the present lives again, the vision fades away, 
 This squalid wreck no more is home : all light and love 
 
 are fled ; 
 His heart-beats break the silence that grimly mocks him 
 
 here, 
 The kirkyard now is home to him, for everything is dead ! 
 
 So, silently he leaves the place, and now alone he goes 
 From grave to grave, with heavy step, and reads with 
 many a start 
 11 
 
162 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 The stony missives which to him are scattered journal 
 leaves 
 With news related of the dead whose names were in his 
 heart. 
 
 On no high obelisks they're carved; no monuments are 
 here, 
 O'erhung with weeping willow or shapely cypress bough ; 
 Plain, time-worn stones, aslant or flat, o'ergrown with 
 tangled grass, 
 Bear names in simple letters of those who sleep below. 
 
 The sun goes down behind the hills so silent and so far, 
 The gloaming spreads through all the vale, and in the 
 shadowy trees 
 
 A wind of sorrow murmurs, and so the day is done, 
 And night obscures the vision of Chairlie on his knees. 
 
 II. DOMSIE. 
 
 Some hand unknown, but one inspired of God, 
 Built Domsie's schoolhouse in the old pine wood, 
 Just where the cart road takes its westward rise 
 And seems to vanish in the lambent skies — 
 A house that showed no sign of builder's art, 
 But that rare touch which satisfies the heart. 
 Within, one ample room, with well-worn floor, 
 And desks much inked and carved and whittled o'er ; 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 1C3 
 
 A home-like fireplace at the further end, 
 
 Which glowed in winter like a genial friend, 
 
 Repaying boys and girls with cosy feet 
 
 For tribute daily brought of sticks and peat, 
 
 But which in summer had naught else to do 
 
 But by a silent ministry imbue 
 
 The youthful breasts with thoughts of home and love 
 
 (A ministry that's quite beyond a stove). 
 
 Through the one door, wide open all the day, 
 
 The scholars watched the rabbits at their play ; 
 
 Anon a bird, unterrified, flies in, 
 
 And, unmolested, flutters out again ; 
 
 Through open windows piney odors come, 
 
 And drowsy bees join in the studious hum. 
 
 Without, a very paradise of joys 
 
 For sonsy girls and lusty, ruddy boys, 
 
 In the pine grove that sheltered side and rear, 
 
 And gave a tonic virtue to the air, 
 
 A greensward strewn with fir cones, clean and light, 
 
 The ready weapon of the play-hour "fight"; 
 
 Or in the brake, where gorse and bramble grew, 
 
 Which from the school's front door you haply view. 
 
 There stands old Domsie now as evening falls 
 
 And listens to the merry shouts and calls 
 
 Of bairnies on their divers homeward ways, 
 
 Now faintly borne upon the passing breeze. 
 
 So gracious is the time, he shows so fair, 
 
 We'll take him as he lingers musing there. 
 
 A man of medium height, but stooping lower ; 
 
 A scholar's face, with lines of full three score 
 
164 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Of thoughtful years — and not all happy thought, 
 
 Tho' of soured spirit it betokens naught. 
 
 Hair grizzled gray, and bushy brows that shade 
 
 Eyes keen and shrewd ; linen that's something frayed, 
 
 But spotless white ; clothing the worse for wear, 
 
 But bearing signs of almost dainty care. 
 
 The coat distinctively a coat of mark — 
 
 The black-dress fashion of the old-time spark, 
 
 Of courtly cut, with a patrician caste 
 
 That plainly tells of glories in the past ; 
 
 Drumtochty never learned its pedigree — 
 
 Melchesidek of coats it seemed to be — 
 
 But Domsie and his garment were as one, 
 
 And both had so into our thinking grown 
 
 We'd not have realized the man without 
 
 Learning's fit trappings — that scholastic coat. 
 
 Another work-day over, key in hand, 
 
 Thus at the door does Domsie musing stand. 
 
 His reverie is hedged with silence round, 
 
 For now there's but a shadow of a sound ; 
 
 The noise of homeward-trudging weans has failed, 
 
 And all the Glen is peaceful — school has skailed. 
 
 The rabbits from the darkening grove come out, 
 
 And in the open playground hop about ; 
 
 The mice in Residence, their terror o'er, 
 
 Now freely roam the school's deserted floor 
 
 And treasure-trove of oat-cake morsels munch — 
 
 The surplus of some lassie's mid-day lunch ; 
 
 And wee bit crickets in their elfin mirth 
 
 Come forth to chirp upon the empty hearth. 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 165 
 
 The evening light now mellows all the scene, 
 And the defiant Grampians grow serene, 
 As the red sun, descending in the west, 
 Touches and glorifies each towering crest ; 
 Afar and near there broods and interspheres 
 A pathos deeper than the source of tears. 
 
 On what does Domsie muse ? Perchance of days 
 
 Long past, and all their tender memories ; 
 
 It may be that, half-joyful and half-sad, 
 
 He has a vision of a gallant lad 
 
 Fresh from the schools, with laurels fairly won, 
 
 Whose honor-winning course is just begun, 
 
 But who has hardly started in the race 
 
 When some mysterious sorrow clouds his face, 
 
 And, pressing hand to heart, he quits the path 
 
 As though he mourned a cruel, untimely death ; 
 
 He sees him turn into a sheltered way 
 
 That leads far from Fame's temple, bright and gay, 
 
 To hide his pain in a sequestered glen, 
 
 'Mid humble labors for his fellow-men ; 
 
 His task the noblest that a man can find, 
 
 The nurture of the youthful heart and mind ; 
 
 He sees him toiling on from year to year, 
 
 With face that tells not of the secret tear, 
 
 Nor of the sorrow of the haunting wraith 
 
 Of olden pain, nor of the wreck of faith, 
 
 But brave and cheerful, as of one firm-stayed 
 
 On Him who is a very present aid, 
 
 Although for balm he searched not Scripture's page, 
 
 But the cold wisdom of the classic sage ; 
 
166 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Yet ever gentle, tender, sweet and true, 
 Living a broken life sublimely through. 
 
 Some vision like to this he now may see, 
 Himself the subject of his reverie ! 
 
 Or, since with him self plays so small a part, 
 
 And holds such slender tenure of his heart, 
 
 We'll guess again — and guess more near the truth — 
 
 If we suppose his mind is on some youth, 
 
 Some "lad o' pairts," some "scholar in the shell," 
 
 Whose raw Latinity he's tested well 
 
 A month or more, but who at length to-day 
 
 Has been " identified " undoubtedly ! 
 
 It must be so ; we've guessed it, sure enough, 
 
 For, see, he smiles and ladles in the snuff, 
 
 And, with a gleam of triumph in his e'e, 
 
 Snaps shut the lid and cries, He'll dae, he'll dae ! 
 
 With plans and projects of the future full 
 
 He hies him to his home, close by the school, 
 
 An old-time dwelling nestling in the grove, 
 
 Which flowering vines have smothered in their love, 
 
 And where auld Domsie lo, these many years 
 
 Has lived among the books that he reveres. 
 
 His home knows no sweet ministry of wife 
 
 Nor bairns to beautify and cheer his life ; 
 
 For these — the soul and essence of true homes — 
 
 He must find substitute in classic tomes, 
 
 And seek for consolation and content 
 
 In the companionship of voiceless print, 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 167 
 
 Through which he may, in silent hours and lone, 
 
 Commune with spirits kindred to his own. 
 
 Yet he's no hermit or recluse — not that ; 
 
 His linnet gaily sings, and the old cat 
 
 Purrs round his feet, with pressing, fond caress, 
 
 And the true love dumb creatures can express ; 
 
 Nor is all human fellowship denied, 
 
 For not in all the parish far and wide 
 
 Could there be found a soul more kind and sweet 
 
 Than aged Jean, who keeps his house so neat, 
 
 And gives him service full, ungrudged and true, 
 
 And the deep reverence she thinks his due. 
 
 And not unknown to this sedate abode 
 
 Are younger hearts, for it is Domsie's code 
 
 To punish lassies who have failed at school 
 
 In some set lesson, or transgressed some rule, 
 
 By keeping them beyond the closing time 
 
 With extra task to expiate the crime ; 
 
 (For boys he had more stern, Draconian laws, 
 
 And did not hesitate to use the taws) . 
 
 But justice in the case of girls he blends 
 
 With mercy, for the discipline aye ends 
 
 In taking the offender home to tea 
 
 (A brother being kept considerately 
 
 As escort to her, who, of course, must share 
 
 The meal which Jean provides with extra care, 
 
 Including always honey in the comb, 
 
 The special dainty of the master's home). 
 
 On such occasions, having passed the door, 
 
 The Dominie's the Dominie no more, 
 
 But the kind host whose subtle power to please 
 
 Puts the wee culprit quickly at her ease, 
 
168 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And fills her brother — awkward, hungry boy — 
 With mingled sentiments of awe and joy. 
 Old Jean's so good a second to the host, 
 Unstinted with the tea and buttered toast 
 And all the dainties on the snowy cloth, 
 That she quite captivates the hearts of both, 
 And when at last the honored guests depart 
 They're conscious of a tempest of the heart 
 Betwixt desire to please good Dominie 
 And to partake again of such a tea ! 
 
 But to the lad who's been "identified"; 
 
 From this great day he's Domsie's special pride ; 
 
 While none are slighted in the daily round, 
 
 From hulking youths of dullness quite profound, 
 
 Through boys and girls of intellectual shades 
 
 As various as the hair upon their heads, 
 
 Down to the youngsters, who, with bare, red feet, 
 
 Are shyly sitting on the lower seat — 
 
 While all receive a reasonable share 
 
 Of the old master's oversight and care, 
 
 The lad o' pairts gets his peculiar thought, 
 
 As such a Latin genius surely ought ! 
 
 No extra toil does Domsie think ill-spent 
 
 Upon the lad, and all his powers are bent 
 
 To compass the event that is to be — 
 
 A triumph at the University, 
 
 More glory to Drumtochty's widespread fame 
 
 And honor added to the master's name. 
 
 The minister who serves the village kirk, 
 A learned man, shares Domsie's extra work, 
 
ECHOES OF DRUM70CHTY. 169 
 
 And at the manse three evenings in the week 
 Coaches the coming scholar in his Greek ; 
 Meanwhile his Latin is in Domsie's hands, 
 With other subjects that the "pass" demands, 
 And round the entire course with steadfast mind 
 The patient master and his pupil grind, 
 As you have seen the horses plod the ring 
 Beside the thresher at the harvesting, 
 From day to day, from week to week, until 
 No doubt remains as to the laddie's skill, 
 With such a store of learning's golden grain 
 Thus winnowed out with diligence and pain, 
 To face the ordeal, and not merely pass. 
 But rank with honors in the freshman class. 
 
 Perchance the boy's the son of some poor cot, 
 Foredoomed by fate to but a ploughman's lot ; 
 Grim, stubborn fact and circumstance would seem 
 To mock this wild, fantastic college dream ; 
 Genius, no doubt, may have intentions kind, 
 But oft bestows her gifts in manner blind ; 
 A " scholar in the shell " should be hatched out : 
 To lose the bird would be a shame, no doubt ; 
 But surely it is idle wind or worse 
 To talk of college on an empty purse ! 
 Do such considerations daunt the heart 
 Of Domsie when they meet him at the start ? 
 Not for an instant. " He will no be sent 
 To the plough-tail, a' sweer, wi' my consent ; 
 The grass will never grow wi' my goodwull 
 Betwixt the college and Drumtochty school ; 
 
170 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Gin it were not A'm poor as Job masel, 
 
 And hae ma brither's bairns tae keep as well, 
 
 A'd never ask it from anither man ; 
 
 A' canna dae't, but I ken ane wha can ! " 
 
 So to some dour Macsenas of the place 
 
 With fervid eloquence he states the case, 
 
 And, when repulsed by shakings of the head, 
 
 Or by objections looked, tho' scarcely said, 
 
 The old man, in an instant growing young, 
 
 Discards his customary English tongue 
 
 As one would fling an empty scabbard by, 
 
 And flashes forth broad Scotch in anger high ; 
 
 To his swift thrusts of irony and scorn, 
 
 And ridicule and pleading, no man born 
 
 But must capitulate, and ere he's done 
 
 The battle of his protege is won ! 
 
 The course thus clear, now with unburdened heart 
 
 Domsie soon sees the hopeful youth depart ; 
 
 High confidence is swelling in his breast, 
 
 But to the Glen he says : " I've done my best ; 
 
 He'll maybe pass ; I'm hopeful that he will, 
 
 And, short of honors, he will not do ill; 
 
 He'll meet, of course, the lads from famous schools, 
 
 So to expect o'ermuch we would be fools, 
 
 But yet I think he's sure to hold his own. 
 
 We'll wait and see — ere long it will be known." 
 
 Anon he straightens with an extra pride 
 
 When runs the happy tidings far and wide, 
 
 " Drumtochty's lad has fairly whipped them a' 
 
 And carried a' the scholarships awa'." 
 
 "A'm no surprised," says Domsie, "no' a bit ; 
 
 A' kent the lad wes weel prepared an' fit." 
 
ECHOES OF DRUMTOCHTY. 171 
 
 Then while this scholar goes from term to term 
 The master seeks for others in the germ ; 
 And so go on his toils from year to year, 
 By all the parish honored and held dear. 
 
 His college boy, perchance, now, near or far, 
 Adorns the bench, the pulpit or the bar, 
 Or ably fills some learned college chair 
 Or lofty station in some other sphere ; 
 Whate'er he is, where'er his lot be cast, 
 His heart holds gracious pictures of the past, 
 And 'mongst them those that ever fondest rule 
 Are of old Domsie and Drumtochty school. 
 
 Perchance — this happened once in Domsie's time — 
 
 The bud of promise sees no fruitful prime. 
 
 One scholar quit the well-fought college field, 
 
 Borne like a dying Spartan on his shield ; 
 
 A noble lad, who held the master's heart 
 
 With steadfast love, from all the rest apart ; 
 
 Aye, led him by sweet touches back to God, 
 
 Whose way of peace thenceforth the vet'ran trod, 
 
 Till that dim, distant, sacred summer day 
 
 When the Glen, mourning, laid his form away, 
 
 Leaving upon his bosom in its place 
 
 An old worn locket with a maiden's face. 
 
 And so beneath the consecrated nave 
 
 Teacher and pupil sleep ; nay, we'll believe 
 
 Together in their Master's presence live, 
 
 In that blest kingdom where school never skails, 
 
 Nor happy work is done, nor vigor fails. 
 
personal. 
 
TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 175 
 
 TO QUEEN VICTORIA, 
 
 On Contemplating a Portrait of Her on Her 
 77tii Birthday. 
 
 In Moscow they have crowned the Russian Czar, 
 And through the ancient streets has slowly rolled 
 A river clogged with such magnificence 
 Of gold and gems and scarlet uniforms, 
 And flashing swords, and gaily stepping steeds, 
 And barb'rous royalties from all the East, 
 That the famed turrets all have dimmed their fires 
 And paled with envy at the spectacle ; 
 While all the world, breath-bated at the sight, 
 Has stood in rapt amazement, or perchance 
 Has found a tongue to join the Russian roar 
 That has acclaimed the head of Church and State. 
 
 The pageant has so dazzled our wide eyes, 
 And held our minds in such a thrall of awe, 
 That looking, wondering, cheering, we've forgot 
 All this is but a savage show and vain — 
 'Tis but a cloud of splendor rolling by, 
 An empty cloud, that has no blessed rain 
 For famished hearts of men ! 
 
 Well robed and sceptr'd truly is the Czar, 
 But he's an autocrat the loud-voiced throng 
 Though bowing down and worshipping, yet fear ; 
 
176 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 So, from the picture — e'en tho' it may be 
 History's long gallery of royal scenes 
 Can show not one to match it — we would turn 
 To rest our eyes and to refresh our souls 
 On this so simple, unpretentious print — 
 This picture of our Queen. 
 
 See here she sits alone in widow's black, 
 And rests her hand, not on the golden wand 
 Of Britain's universal monarchy, 
 But on the homely, serviceable staff, 
 Whose enviable office 'tis to help 
 Th' infirmities of her age. Her half-closed eyes 
 Seem fixed in reverie ; perchance the scenes 
 Of other years are passing in her thoughts : 
 It may be scenes that have made great her reign 
 Of more than sixty years ; or it may be — 
 If we translate aright the chastened look — 
 The sadder scenes through which her woman's heart 
 Has passed or still is passing ; griefs but less 
 Than that supreme calamity whose shade 
 Must to the end still linger o'er her throne — 
 That dire bereavement which had crushed her life 
 But for the grace of God and Britain's love. 
 
 Is not this aged face, this reverent mien, 
 More glorious to sane thought than any pomp 
 Of autocratic splendor and renown ? 
 Nought here, perhaps, to rivet curious eyes, 
 Nor to amaze the idle faculties, 
 But much that claims the nobler, higher sense. 
 
TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 177 
 
 Dear Queen, thou hast what rank cannot command, 
 Nor pageantry enforce — thy people's love ; 
 And to the utmost outpost of thy realm, 
 Where'er the happy shadow of thy flag 
 Falls on the earth to make it freedom's soil, 
 Brave men of every race who own thy sway 
 Give homage to thy office, and to thee 
 Their unbought hearts. 
 
 Nay, but the world's thy realm ; 
 For far beyond the farthest boundary line 
 Of thy great empire is thy name revered ; 
 Thy goodness and thy sorrows make appeal 
 To the wide human heart, and on this day 
 That adds another to thy numbered years 
 The spirit of Humanity draws near, 
 And like a gentle child enfolds thy form 
 With tender arms, to kiss thy wasted cheek 
 And call thee Mother, majesty's best name. 
 
 12 
 
178 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 FATHER O'LEARY. 
 
 Brave Father O'Leary, so bold an' so tender, 
 We welcome you, Sogarth, wid laughter 
 and tears 
 Safe back to your country, an' proudly we 
 render 
 To you a full share iv the honors an' 
 cheers. 
 
 On the voyage or march no voice was so cheery, 
 
 In camp your warm heart made you Tommy's best friend 
 
 Sure, the wit and the wisdom iv Father O'Leary 
 Was the theme iv all tongues from beginnin' to end. 
 
 Whin Lord Roberts gives praise to the illigant forces 
 We sint out to help him, he reckons not least 
 
 In our gallant contingent iv men, guns an' horses, 
 The power we supplied in our true-hearted priest. 
 
 No hero this war to our history has given — 
 Tho' many a name it has written in light — 
 
 Surpasses yourself, humble servant iv heaven, 
 
 In the deeds that make hero-names glorious an' bright. 
 
 'Twas theirs to storm kopjes, or hould out in sieges, 
 An' prove British valor the thing we all knew ; 
 
 But 'tis wid the loving emotions iv lieges, 
 Dear Father O'Leary, Canadians greet you. 
 
FATHER O'LEARY. 179 
 
 'Twas yours not to fight, tho' in many a battle 
 Your khaki-clad form wid the fighters was seen ; 
 
 No weapons you bore 'mid the musket's wild rattle, 
 Tho' no soldier more nobly served country an' Queen. 
 
 'Twas yours to kneel down by the poor fellows dyin' — 
 A father and mother in one, so you were — 
 
 An' wid lips that wud trimble because you wor cryin', 
 Say o'er thim the words iv the Catholic prayer. 
 
 But your heart was too big in its pity an' kindness 
 To know in such moments the limits iv creed ; 
 
 You were equally ready, in charity's blindness, 
 The Protestant prayer o'er an Orangeman to read. 
 
 An' 'twas yours by the hospital cots to stand daily 
 An' cheer the pale lads that were wounded an' sick ; 
 
 This you did wid your humor, so wisely an' gaily, 
 That your face there was better nor sunshine, avick ! 
 
 Then welcome, your revrince, safe back from your labors, 
 God grant you a long life iv comfort an' peace ; 
 
 May your name unite Catholic and Protestant neighbors 
 In a mutual respect that will never more cease. 
 
180 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF GEN. WAUCHOPE.* 
 
 At Magersfontein, when the " thin red line " 
 
 In pitchy darkness and wild lashing rain 
 
 Crossed the wide veldt to charge the fortress'd heights, 
 
 The Highland regiments held an honored place, 
 
 And strode with sturdy limbs beneath the flags 
 
 That told a glorious story of the past 
 
 For Gordons, Seaforths and the old Black Watch. 
 
 Straight for the Heights they press thro' the dense night. 
 
 When, at their feet, ere the first slopes are gained, 
 
 A blazing fusilade from an ambushed trench 
 
 Springs unexpected, as if earth had split 
 
 With deafening roar athwart the column's front, 
 
 And hell had belched a storm of flaming death 
 
 Into their faces ! Mortal men, not gods, 
 
 The Highlanders are staggered, dazed, dismayed ; 
 
 Their broken ranks, stampeded and confused, 
 
 Become a horrid shambles — gallant souls, 
 
 The glory of our forces, shattered, torn, 
 
 Are piled in bloody heaps ; their noble chief, 
 
 The trusty Wauchope, falling in their midst. 
 
 The Afric sunset painted heaven's west 
 With quiet splendors on a peaceful eve 
 
 * See Note XI. 
 
THE BURIAL OF GEN. WAUCHOPE. 181 
 
 After the slaughter of that woeful night. 
 
 Upon the veldt, face upward, grim and stern, 
 
 Lay fifty Highland soldiers — great hands clenched 
 
 In the last agony, and brows still knit 
 
 With the stern lust of strife as they had fallen, 
 
 But wearing, as it seemed with conscious pride, 
 
 The tartans of their clans. Then from afar 
 
 Sounded the wailing pipes and the dim noise 
 
 Of slow-paced steps ; clearer each swelling strain, 
 
 And nearer yet each heavy-footed tread : 
 
 It was the General on his reverenced bier 
 
 Coming to join his men in burial. 
 
 There, right beneath the frowning kopje's front, 
 
 Where stood the foeman, sternly looking down, 
 
 Moved slow and solemn all that now survived 
 
 Of the fine Scots Brigade, with arms reversed 
 
 In token of their loss ; in front of them 
 
 The chaplain, with bared head and in his robes, 
 
 Bearing the Holy Book ; the gallant dead 
 
 Borne by four chosen comrades ; so they came ; 
 
 That olden tune, which clutches Scottish hearts, 
 
 " Flowers o' the Forest," like a mountain wind 
 
 Now swelling wild and high, and calling forth 
 
 Haughty defiance in the soldier's mien 
 
 As heads went back and eyes flashed bright thro' tears 
 
 Like light that glints on steel ; now sinking low 
 
 Into the moaning wail of woman 'reft 
 
 Of first-born child, until the proud heads drooped 
 
 Upon the heaving chests, and the held tears 
 
 Through overmastering grief broke their constraint 
 
 And rolled down faces wan and scarred, while sobs 
 
 Confused the rhythm of the march of death. 
 
182 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 So came they to the grave ; then moved away 
 
 In companies — silent, while a lesser guard, 
 
 The pipers and a square of reverent men, 
 
 Laid their loved General down and heard the words 
 
 Of hope and resurrection. 
 
 Then reformed 
 In rank and file, they took the campward march, 
 And pealed the pipes again — the anguished cry 
 Which but the Scottish pipe can voice for woe 
 In " Lochaber No More " — the searching strain 
 Which seemed the wail of that new-widowed heart 
 In the far Highland home which never more 
 Would welcome back brave Wauchope. 
 
 Then as one, 
 Touched by the magic of a common thought, 
 The soldiers turned their tear-damp'd eyes and glared 
 Towards the heights where Cronje and his Boers 
 Still stood ; and anger's red drove sorrow's white 
 From every cheek, jaws set like steel, the veins 
 Swelled on the hands that clasped the rifle stocks 
 With fervor of the grip, and on each face 
 Vengeance was writ ; the deadly look that speaks 
 The clansman's feud undying — blood for blood ! 
 
KIPLING. 183 
 
 KIPLING. 
 
 ^^^ Here's a bit from a lady's letter from Portland 
 
 ^T J out on the front, 
 
 Where stands a hospital quiet, away from the 
 J(C£ battle's brunt ; 
 
 fc > Where soldiers lie in their hammocks, or luckier 
 Tommies loll 
 On the smooth, green lawn for an airing, where 
 the healing sunbeams fall ; 
 Its talk is not of the surgeons, nor groaning, nor cries of 
 
 pain 
 (Though such we may guess at Portland, as a tender minor 
 
 refrain) — 
 No ; the letter gossips of laughter, of joking and jollity 
 
 rare, 
 The Tommies are having a picnic — for Kipling is visiting 
 there ! 
 
 1 When the fellows talk to their poet," this smiling matron 
 
 affirms, 
 " They're neither shy nor suspicious — no picking and 
 
 choosing of terms — 
 They just rattle away in their freedom, and Rudyard just 
 
 rattles away, 
 It's a joke-firing battery of Maxims, everyone happy and 
 
 gay-" 
 
184 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 The poet laughs at their sallies and the boys are convulsed 
 
 at his, 
 As he lies there sprawling among 'em, with his slouch hat 
 
 over his phiz ; 
 There's mother wit in these fighters, and they say some 
 
 jolly good things, 
 And they catch the point of Kip's sparkle, and the place 
 
 with merriment rings. 
 
 11 ' Lawfter is better'n physic,' I've read in the almanac," 
 Says a corporal of the Lancers, holding the small of his 
 
 back — 
 11 But, sister, if 'e'd a stopped 'ere — I've lawfed so bloomin' 
 
 much — 
 I'd 'ave 'ad a relapse, I'm certain, or needed the 'elp of a 
 
 crutch !" 
 'Twas a sight worth something to see him, the writer world- 
 renowned, 
 As he sat there, a centre of interest, with the lads close 
 
 circled around, 
 Like a queer little god they worshipped, in the tent or 
 
 under the trees, 
 Hutched up in a careless posture with his arms anursing 
 
 his knees. 
 
 A little round man apparelled in the ugliest of reach-me- 
 down suits, 
 
 A brown slouch hat as a head-piece, and dust-colored 
 spring-side boots ; 
 
 His face all crumpled with humor when, hat pushed back, 
 it was seen, 
 
 And the eyes that flashed 'neath the glasses with strength 
 and intellect keen ; 
 
KIPLING. 185 
 
 A world of deep understanding and human sympathy there, 
 That charms the heart with its magic and conquers men 
 
 everywhere ; 
 'Tis the soul that dwells there triumphant and sets the 
 
 small body at naught, 
 The power of divine and human that only true genius has 
 
 caught. 
 
 Would you name me the Laureate of Britain, the poet true- 
 laurelled to speak 
 
 For the millions dumb but aspiring, for the peoples, power- 
 ful or weak, 
 
 Of the divers tongues and traditions, of the varied com- 
 plexions of face, 
 
 That make up our world-spreading empire 'neath the flag 
 of the English race ? 
 
 Seek not in the courtly seclusion of manor, with book-laden 
 wall, 
 
 Where scholarly talent is sitting to write for you odes upon 
 call; 
 
 But ask for a sick-room silent, whose vigil all Saxondom 
 shared, 
 
 And name me the patient who lay there — but whose life, 
 thank God, was spared ; 
 
 Or look at this picture and see him, not studying books, 
 but men, 
 
 That queer little genius, Kipling— his is the Laureate's pen ! 
 
186 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 TO IAN MACLAREN. 
 
 God's blessin' on ye'r cannie pen, 
 " Maclaren," ye'r a prince o' men — 
 Wi' Burnbrae, ye maun be " far ben " 
 
 To write like yon ; 
 A bonnier book a' dinna ken — 
 
 God bless you, John ! 
 
 C& 
 
 MARGET AND GEORDIE HOWE. 
 
 A've read it sax times o'er a' sweer, 
 
 An' ilka time a' lo'ed it mair, 
 
 Tho' whiles it made my hert richt sair 
 
 An' gar'd me greet, 
 An' whiles a' lauched until a' fair 
 
 Row'd aff ma seat ! 
 
TO IAN MAC LA REN. 
 
 187 
 
 A day, an' in ma dreams at nicht, 
 A'm wanderin' wi' renewed delicht 
 An' feastin' on each bonnie sicht 
 
 In yon sweet Glen ! 
 Conversin' aye wi' a' thae bricht 
 
 Drumtochty men. 
 
 A'm fair in love wi' Marget Howe, 
 An' truly feel for puir Drumsheugh, 
 An' aye a'm there at Whinnie Kuowe 
 
 Ilk' eventide, 
 For there the Bonnie Brier Bush grew, 
 
 An' Geordie died. 
 
 DOMSIE. 
 
 BURNBRAE. 
 
 Puir Domsie ! he's as real tae me 
 As ony leevin' man can be, 
 Whuppin' the thistle heids in glee 
 
 While on his way 
 To tell o' Geordie's victory 
 
 Yon glorious day ! 
 
 An' Burnbrae, elder o' the kirk, 
 An' Hillocks' type o' honest work, 
 An' Soutar, wi' sarcastic quirk, 
 
 An' big Drumsheugh, 
 Wha'd maybe haggle o'er a stirk, 
 
 But aye wes true. 
 
188 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 HILLOCKS. 
 
 An' Donald Menzies, " mystic " chiel 
 (A Celt was he frae heid tae heel), 
 Wha warstled awfu' wi' the Deil 
 
 For mony a day, 
 Wi' him a' canna help but feel, 
 
 An' groan and pray. 
 
 An' Lachlan Campbell, wha wes ca'd 
 " Censorius "; wha regairded God 
 A sovereign rulin' wi' a rod, 
 
 An' no wi' grace, 
 An' wha the very session awed 
 
 Wi' ghaist-like face. 
 
 Him suffering sair male's meek an' mild, 
 As shadows veil the Grampians wild, 
 Till, " like unto a little child " 
 
 He comes tae be, 
 An' o'er the erring and defiled 
 
 Bends tenderly. 
 
 An' Archie Moncur, leal and true, 
 An' " Posty," aye a thingy fou, 
 An' Hopps, wi' bonnie suit o' blue, 
 
 An' Chairlie Grant ; 
 An' Elspeth, sermon taster, too, 
 
 An' Milton quaint. 
 
 JAMIE SOUTAR. 
 
TO IAN MAC LA REN. 
 
 189 
 
 Wi' these an' mair, in godly fear, 
 We sit yon Sabbath day an' hear 
 " His mither's sermon " frae the dear 
 
 Young preacher lad, 
 An' wi' them shed a- secret tear 
 
 That isna' sad. 
 
 An' wi' them on anither day, 
 When kirk is oot (tho' wi' dismay), 
 We join tae mak' a bold display 
 
 An' cheer Maclure, 
 Oor doctor, wha wi' little pay, 
 
 Serves rich an' poor. 
 
 DRUMSHEUGH. 
 
 LACHLAN CAMPBELL. 
 
 No to forget the auld mare, Jess, 
 
 A beast o' human tenderness, 
 
 Wha wrought tae win his fond caress 
 
 Mair than her feed ; 
 Wha's conscious hert brak wi' distress 
 
 When he lay deid. 
 
 Aye, dear Maclure ! him maist o' a' 
 We lo'e, an' thro' the drifts o' sna', 
 Unmindfu' o' the north wind raw, 
 
 We tearfu' come ; 
 Wi' a' the mournin' Glen we draw 
 
 Near-haun' his tomb ; 
 
190 
 
 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 An' barm' there oor heids, we pray 
 That we may so live ilka day, 
 That when we come tae pass away 
 
 Frae a' things here, 
 Truth may the tribute tae us pay 
 
 O' love-wrung tear ! 
 
 DONALD MENZIES. 
 
 Ay, " Ian," ye're " a lad o' pairts, 
 An' maister o' the winsome airts, 
 Ye'r bookie by its ain deserts 
 
 Wull live for aye, 
 The benediction o' oor herts 
 
 Ye hae the day ! 
 
 DR. MACLURE. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 191 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 On the Unveiling of His Monument at Toronto, 
 July 2ist, 1902. 
 
 Here stands the glorious Peasant 'neath the sky 
 Of free and wholesome Canada ; could Art 
 
 But gift with vision power that matchless eye, 
 And touch to life again that poet-heart, 
 What words of wonder from those lips would start 
 
 In strain melodious to salute the scene : 
 A city — youthful, hopeful, puissant, fair, 
 
 Set in an age of liberty serene, 
 
 And Robert Burns with his high genius there, 
 Its work and play, its peace, and growth, and rest to 
 share ! 
 
192 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Aye ! give but breath to this so life-like form, 
 And down among us, with full eager stride, 
 
 He'd come, the sturdy man of passions warm, 
 And human sympathies unbounded wide, 
 To be our country's paragon and pride ; 
 
 A nobler Burns, because more nobly placed, 
 And kindlier environed by his time j 
 
 His muse less wanton, but as richly graced 
 With ode, and song, and elegy, and rhyme, 
 And o'er the gold of his true wit no ribald grime. 
 
 in. 
 
 So much is man the sport of Circumstance 
 Whate'er his powers, that gentle Charity 
 
 Will judge and weigh his life beside his chance, 
 Remembering that the errors in't may be 
 Flaws in the potter's clay ; and she may see 
 
 In the starved peasant lad of Alloway, 
 
 Constrained and curbed, and robbed of youth's desire, 
 
 Nature's supreme and just apology 
 
 For Dumfries' wastrel with the heart of fire ; 
 
 The thwarted Child in time's revenge, the Rebel's sire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No drear Mount Oliphant of early years, 
 
 No narrow Lochlie with its sordid ways, 
 No Mossgiel term of fruitless toil and tears, 
 
 No heartless drudgery of later days, 
 
 And so, perchance, no squalid pot-house lays, 
 No passion base to mar a noble soul, 
 
 No wild remorse, and wilder riot of shame, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 193 
 
 No manhood curs'd by the enslaving bowl, 
 No sad, untimely death, no tarnished name, 
 No shade to dim th' unfading glow of his great fame. 
 
 Yet, as the sunlight, genial, pure and kind, 
 
 Falls on the bronze of Burns's mortal mould 
 To mark its virile beauty, not to find 
 
 The dust in crevice or in mantle-fold, 
 
 So let our thought fix on his spirit bold, 
 His broad humanity, his love of truth, 
 
 His scorn of meanness and ingratitude, 
 The things that give his work immortal youth, 
 
 And henceforth stand, as they have ever stood, 
 To give him place in good men's hearts amongst the good. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not that we'd be of those who fain would read 
 
 Our milder times into the poet's page ; 
 The sculptor were as sane and wise, indeed, 
 
 To dress him in the costume of our age 
 
 As they to make him modern saint or sage : 
 We take him "in his habit as he lived," 
 
 And love him most being the Burns he was : 
 The poet in whom his Scottish race received 
 
 The tables of the Doric poesy's laws ; 
 
 The Bard in whom all earlier Bards converge and close. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet Scotia may not claim more than her share 
 In him, the foremost of her famous ones; 
 13 
 
194 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Enough that she the lark-voiced Plowman bare, 
 And proudly counts him 'mong her peasant sons ; 
 That in her speech his peerless measure runs \ 
 
 The rest is all Mankind's — so large the plan 
 Of this prodigious birth, the jealous race 
 
 Will know him not as Scotsman, but as Man, 
 And 'neath the dialect exultant trace 
 The common tongue of every age and every place. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 By such wide claim, and bond of kin as well, 
 
 We hail his effigy in this fair land, 
 Where Justice, Right and Liberty e'er dwell, 
 
 And honest worth and clear-brow'd manhood stand 
 
 Unawed by power, by tyranny unbanned ; 
 A country such as he but knew in dreams 
 
 In his dark day ; and tho' the bronze be dumb, 
 To Fancy's ear from those cold lips there seems 
 
 A sigh of rest and happiness to come, 
 
 As tho' he said, " I've found at last my spirit's home ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Right welcome, Rab ! (for to our hearts 'tis vain 
 To think this form mere metal deftly wrought,) 
 
 Right welcome, Rab ! we hail thee citizen, 
 
 To adorn our home and to inspire our thought ; 
 Long stand in reverie on this favored spot, 
 
 Musing upon the daisies shy and sweet, 
 As was thy wont, and, haply, pitying, too, 
 
 Some cow'ring, timid beastie at thy feet, 
 
 And gathering to thy breast so leal and true 
 
 The young, the old, the rich, the poor within thy view. 
 
TO THE POET WILLIAM WATSON. 195 
 
 TO THE POET WILLIAM WATSON * 
 A Reply. 
 
 Beneath the night, o'erarching all, 
 Beside the rapt and gloomy bard, 
 
 The spirit of triumphant Paul 
 
 Stands, faithful servant of his Lord, 
 
 And hears the murmur, sad and awed, 
 
 The Unknown God ! The Unknown God ! 
 
 Then, with a gentle grace he speaks, 
 As once on Athens' hill of Mars, 
 
 Nay, Poet, not found of him who seeks 
 Among the cold and distant stars, 
 
 Yet not unknown is God the True, 
 
 Yea, Him declare I unto you ! 
 
 God's footprints in the field of time 
 Are plain ; His ruling hand is there — 
 
 From man's weak childhood to his prime 
 Present has been the Maker's care. 
 
 Abate thy pride, O bard, the Book 
 
 Is not unworthy of a look. 
 
 * See Note XII. 
 
196 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 That Word transcribed by prophet's pen 
 Thou mayest scoff in unbelief, 
 
 But what of Him whom sons of men 
 Acknowledge as their Lord and Chief- 
 
 The Word of God made flesh, the Man 
 
 Who walked our earth a little span ? 
 
 Art thou a pagan in some far 
 
 And unlit jungle, whose dark mind 
 
 Must vainly scan the insensate star 
 Some mystic "sense of God " to find ? 
 
 And dost not know, O hopeless one, 
 
 That God hath spoken by His Son ? 
 
 Or art thou truly of that land 
 
 Whose life is rich and sweetly spiced 
 
 With priceless good on every hand 
 
 Because this earth hath known the Christ ? 
 
 Then raise not on that sacred sod 
 
 An altar to the Unknown God ! 
 
TO ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES. 197 
 
 TO ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES.* 
 
 Britain does well to love thee, Princess high, 
 
 And justly is the homage of mankind 
 Laid at thy feet, for not beneath the sky 
 
 Shall simple hearts or gilded courtiers find 
 
 Within a form so fair, so fair a mind ; 
 So sweet a harmony of beauteous grace — 
 
 So clearly matched a royalty divine, 
 As that thou showest us in heart and face ; 
 
 The queenly right by Nature's choice is thine, 
 
 E'en were thy blood not from the Dane's pure kingly line. 
 
 Where is the throne thy beauty would not dower 
 With nobler prestige ? Where the earthly state 
 
 That would not deem its dignity and power 
 Made more illustrious, however great, 
 If for its sovereign, by some happy fate, 
 
 It boasted thee, our Alexandra? Yet 
 Little of thee were known or understood 
 
 Within the circle of a coronet ; 
 
 Thou'rt chiefly queenly, being chiefly good ; 
 
 More than high birth and beauty is thy Womanhood. 
 
 *See Note XIII. 
 
198 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Here comest thou with gentle woman-heart, 
 Bearing a wreath inscribed by thine own hand, 
 
 For the dear dust of one who had no part 
 In the recorded peerage of the land ; 
 Ah ! thou art wise and sane to understand 
 
 That she was truly noble and of kin 
 To all the true nobility ; and so 
 
 From all choice souls of humankind must win 
 Honor and love ; nor dost thou, Princess, know 
 Nor feel that thus and at this tomb thou bendest low. 
 
 And the sweet words that thou hast written speak 
 The deep, clear sense and truth that is in thee ; 
 
 High station has not made thee false nor weak, 
 Thy thought is often of eternity — 
 " The white set face, the little strip of sea," — 
 
 And thou dost find, even 'midst palace joys, 
 Moments to meditate and look abroad 
 
 Into the mystery past all human toys — 
 
 Into the depths profound of life and God — 
 
 Thy faith assured, thy heart at rest, thy Spirit awed. 
 
TO J. W. L. FORSTER. 199 
 
 % 
 
 TO J. W. L. FORSTER, 
 On Seeing His Portrait of Dr. Milligan. 
 
 Well, Forster, hast thou done thy part ; 
 'Tis he to th' life — if heaving breast, 
 And speech, and glances ne'er at rest, 
 
 Transcended not the reach of art. 
 
 The eye of eloquence is there, 
 
 Caught in its quiet, studious gaze ; 
 But for its twinkle and its blaze, 
 
 Art has not found the pigment rare. 
 
 The form is still, serene, sedate, 
 As resting in a reverie, 
 For gesture bold and motion free 
 
 Are things the brush cannot translate. 
 
 But all who've known and loved him well 
 In all these long, laborious years, 
 Can add the laughter and the tears, 
 
 And weave at will the olden spell. 
 
 'Tis much to have this pictured form, 
 
 But more — and God, we give Thee praise- 
 To have the man ; grant Thou his days 
 
 Be long and blest through calm and storm. 
 
200 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 r 4PP^ 
 
 CARLYLE'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 What seest thou, Carlyle, in that deep gaze 
 
 Of melancholy-mystic, shadowed eyes, 
 Beneath thought-wrinkled brow? A dumb amaze, 
 A brooding wonderment and rapt surprise 
 That seems to pierce the veil of forms and lies, 
 Is in thy look. The loud-voiced world's acclaim 
 Passes, a thing thou dost not know nor prize, 
 Nor art thou conscious of its loud-voiced blame ; 
 There dost thou sit deaf to all sounds of scorn or fame. 
 
 Deaf as thy picture, which still gazes on 
 Silent, unmoved, with far-enchanted look 
 
 Into the region whither thou art gone 
 
 From them that followed thee or that forsook, 
 For prophet held thee or for madman took ; 
 
 Thou and thy shadow answer not ; but clear 
 Speaks yet thy spirit from the vocal book, 
 
 Saluting quaintly my attentive ear 
 
 In human tone with homely Scottish accent dear. 
 
 " What see I ? " (thus the picture makes reply, . 
 Finding an utterance through the printed page) 
 
 11 Nay, brother, rather ask what is this ' I ' ? 
 Whence came it ? Whither goeth it ? Engage 
 To answer me these problems old as age ; 
 
CARL VLB'S PORTRAIT. 201 
 
 Or tell me hast thou never in the strife 
 Of so-named living, felt a noble rage 
 To win some knowledge of the thing called Life, 
 With fantasies and semblances so darkly rife ? 
 
 " What faculty but Wonder may beseem 
 A conscious creature in this universe, 
 
 Here floating, a light-sparkle on the stream 
 Of being ? Man were surely mad or worse, 
 And would his nature impiously asperse 
 
 Who do not marvel, worship and adore ; 
 Or gave his soul to stomach or to purse — 
 
 Here with eternity behind, before, 
 
 An atom on a nameless sea without a shore ! 
 
 u But Use and Wont and Custom with their spell 
 Bewitch man's native reason ; here he stands 
 
 In Nature's vast sublime cathedral 
 
 'Mid mysteries miraculous on all hands, 
 
 With eyes that see not ; landscapes are but lands ; 
 
 Sun, moon and stars ; sky, tempest, cloud and sea, 
 Which child-man worshipped — these he understands- 
 
 For has not Science named them? Mystery? 
 
 Nay, with a name dismiss them all — so wise is he ! 
 
 " Such see not 'neath the outward clothes of things ; 
 Who has no Wonder has no soul that feels, 
 
 And no right spirit to his seeing brings ; 
 Yet this wide nature-garment that conceals 
 God from us is the garment which reveals 
 
202 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Him to our knowledge — man its noblest part ; 
 And thou that thinkest chiefly on thy meals, 
 Or on thy ballots, hucksterings or art, 
 Might'st wonder, too, if thou could'st know thy own deep 
 heart. 
 
 11 But thou'rt the sport of mere Appearance here, 
 And dost not pierce below into the true, 
 
 Chimaera governing thy eye and ear, 
 And Formula bedizening thy view — 
 Thy guiding law, To do as others do ; 
 
 The Real, sincere, thou wilt by no means try, 
 'Tis useless pain — Hearsay is simpler, too ; 
 
 Thy choice is tinsel ; gold thou passest by — 
 
 Life a vain farce, enjoy thy day, to-morrow die ! 
 
 " Yet thou dost worship — or perchance but mock — 
 One who on earth a Real pathway trod — 
 
 With peasant fare and rough-knit peasant smock ; 
 Who taught thee Man must be no idle clod, 
 But e'en as earnest Hero armed and shod. 
 
 Would'st thou not justly worship such a One — 
 Crying, Yea, Thou art godlike — Thou art He 
 
 Who wept and labored, Man's all-perfect Son ; 
 He whom the ages waited long to see, 
 The Truth of God, who was, and is, and is to be ! 
 
A LAMENT. 203 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 On the Departure of Rev. William Patterson. 
 
 Here in my lonely room I sit tonight, 
 Feelin' as if the crape was on my heart ; 
 
 Our friend and pastor's left our blessed sight — 
 God knows we felt it sorrowful to part, 
 An' manny a humble bosom long will feel the smart. 
 
 I'm in the ranks of them that lives down town, 
 A friendless bein' in a boardin'-place : 
 
 There's hundreds in this life so dull and brown, 
 Widout a touch of homelike love an' grace, 
 Livin' jist on the thoughts of Sunday an' his face. 
 
 All through the week we work, if God so wills 
 We have a chance ; we thank Him for a job 
 
 To earn an honest penny ; — sure it kills 
 A man's respect to sit apart an' sob 
 For work to do, and tempts his soul to steal an' rob. 
 
 We work an' pay our way, an' thank the Lord 
 If we've the health, but 'tis a dreary mill ; 
 
 Wid scarce a friend, an' seldom anny word 
 Of hope an' cheer to warm our bosoms till 
 The Sunday mornin' came, an' then our hearts he'd 
 thrill. 
 
204 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 But, no ; I'm wrong — sure, in the week time, too, 
 We'd see him sometimes on the city street, 
 
 Passin' along wid some kind deed to do 
 For poor or sick, — he'd niver fail to greet 
 Us wid warm Irish heart an' hand when thus w'd meet. 
 
 I sometimes feared we idolized the man 
 
 An' worshipped him, forgettin' the command, 
 
 An' maybe that he's takin' is God's plan — 
 
 But who could help it that once grasped his hand ? 
 The tender cratur — if you knew you'd understand ! 
 
 If we down in this dry an' dusty part, 
 
 Where trees are few an' birds are seldom seen, 
 
 Have still some flowers an' songbirds in the heart, 
 An' through the dust still see the heavenly green, 
 'Tis that so oft, through his sweet words, wid Christ 
 we've been. 
 
 An' manny a dyin' stranger, poor an' lone, 
 An' manny a churchless wanderer distrest, 
 
 His consolation day an' night has known, 
 An' been by his unwearied service blest, 
 Or soothed in death, and laid by him away to rest. 
 
 An' now he's left us — cried jist like a child, 
 
 I'm tould he did, dear sowl — I'm sure, I'm sure, — 
 
 An' so did we, — his tears wor undefiled 
 An' so wor ours, yes, undefiled an' pure — 
 'Twas hard to part, — he our loved guide, we his loved 
 poor. 
 
A LAMENT. 205 
 
 Well, God attend him wid our kind farewell, 
 An' bless him, ivery one of us will pray, 
 
 Wid power the message of his heait to tell ; 
 An', till he greets above, the perfect day, 
 May he find friends, an' love, an' faith in Bethany. 
 
206 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 m 
 
 TORTHORWALD.* 
 
 To John G. Paton, D.D. 
 
 From the " Bank Hill " in memory I look 
 
 With youth's wide eye of wonder, and behold 
 What is to me Auld Scotia's fairest nook — 
 A picture worthy of a frame of gold, 
 With something in it that can not be told 
 Of spirit-touching pathos and of power, 
 
 Beyond all words, beyond all reach ot art — 
 Something unseen until in age's hour 
 One sits in holy reverie apart 
 And muses on the treasures of his inmost heart. 
 
 A thriving village nestles at your feet, 
 Each cottage in its little garden plot, 
 
 And sending up, from homely fire of peat, 
 The reeky cloud that melts, but does not blot 
 The wholesome air of that beloved spot ; 
 
 The happy households these of honest folk, 
 Industrious, independent, frugal, kind, 
 
 Patiently bearing labor's weighty yoke, 
 Yet no mute Samsons, grinding dull and blind, 
 But men of speech and earnest thought and virile mind. 
 
 * See Note XIV. 
 
TOR THOR WA LD. 207 
 
 There 'midst its ancient trees in calm repose 
 The manse is seen, beneath the quiet skies, 
 
 The house which every reverent cottar knows, 
 As that of God's man, and beside it lies 
 The parish school, our crowning enterprise, 
 
 Where rich and poor meet on a common plane, 
 To learn that character alone is grand, 
 
 And true nobility's in heart and brain, 
 In gentle purpose, and in helping hand ; 
 The parish school ! the glory of our Scottish land ! 
 
 Yonder the village kirk, our sacred shrine, 
 Stands solemnly amid its mossy stones, 
 
 Whose crumbling inscriptions seem divine, 
 And speak to us in ever hallowed tones 
 Of olden days, and faithful, sainted ones; 
 
 And further, on its hill, Torthorwald Tower, 
 Stern sentinel above our peaceful vale, 
 
 Stands as the relic of Kirkpatrick's power, 
 
 And broods o'er many a wild and bloody tale — 
 Its giant walls defying still the futile gale. 
 
 Beyond it, snail like, crawls the Lochar stream, 
 And still beyond the spires of old Dumfries 
 
 Across Nith's beauteous valley glint and gleam, 
 A rustic scene the poet-soul to please, 
 Varied with farmstead and majestic trees 
 
 To the dim verge, where the old Galloway hills, 
 Gloomy, far-tumbling, bound the trancing view ! 
 
 Such is the vision which my memory fills ; 
 
 Such the dear vale my boyhood springtime knew, 
 Fit setting for the home, in which love ever grew. 
 
208 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 In a thatched cottage past the " miller's house " 
 
 As you go up the village gate, abode 
 A worthy pair — my father and his spouse, 
 
 By pious forbears to the Lord avowed, 
 
 And humbly walking daily with their God ; 
 Their weans around them — five lads full of life 
 
 And six wee lassies — but in heart all one, 
 To serve best and obey their only strife, 
 
 To see each duty well and truly done, 
 
 And have their parents' smile as set each evening's sun. 
 
 Our cottage had, beside a "but" and "ben," 
 
 A mid-room with a tiny light of glass, 
 And daily when our father entered in, 
 
 By instinct taught, each little lad and lass 
 
 The shut-to door would reverently pass 
 On silent tiptoe and with downcast eye, 
 
 Hearing perchance the trembling words of prayer, 
 And knowing that before the Loid on high 
 
 Our household priest for us was pleading there, 
 
 With head bowed low beside the plain and simple chair. 
 
 And as we grew we learned the secret source 
 Of that blest light that rested on his face, 
 
 And what it was that, e'en in garments coarse, 
 Gave him as true nobility and grace 
 As monarch ever wore in gold and lace ; 
 
 We learnt at length it was the nature new 
 
 That Christ imparts, whereby the worldly clod 
 
 Has heaven opened to his raptured view, 
 And bears with heart unfailing gift or rod, 
 And wins alike the praise of men and smile of God. 
 
TORTHORWALD. 209 
 
 And the dear mother of that vanished home ! 
 
 Bright- hearted, patient-toiling, tender, wise, 
 Ever her almost worshipped form will come 
 
 With all its olden charm before my eyes, 
 
 And ever, in such moments, I arise 
 And call her blessed, and the unbidden tears 
 
 That come when thus on her I ofttimes dwell, 
 Baptize with joy the old remembered years 
 
 In which she lived and wrought and loved so well, 
 
 And voice for my deep heart what words can never tell. 
 
 And chiefest of my life-scenes I recall 
 My parting from that cottage in the glen ; 
 
 My bundle, the long road, and, best of all, 
 The converse of my father, prince of men ; 
 Six miles he walked with tearful counsel, then 
 
 Blessed me and stood, while I ran swiftly on 
 
 Lest I should play the child with one more word, 
 
 And looking back I saw him carved in stone, 
 With head uncovered, and my spirit heard 
 His prayer for me as he looked up and spoke to God. 
 
 Talk you of rank — of people nobly born, 
 
 Of caste and gentle breeding ? These may be 
 
 But empty forms and names but meet for scorn 
 Unless redeemed by virtue ; as for me, 
 I crave no better, nobler ancestry 
 
 Than I may boast by accident of birth 
 
 In the poor peasant cottage I have claimed ; 
 
 Nor grander heritage than the true worth 
 
 Of toil-worn saints — not widely known and famed, 
 But living, blessed, and dying, mourned and fondly 
 named. 
 14 
 
flDemorial. 
 
QUEEN VICTORIA'S BURIAL 213 
 
 LINES FOR QUEEN VICTORIA'S BURIAL. 
 
 A herald down from Osborne sped, 
 Cleaving the throng about the gate — 
 Th' unwelcome messenger of fate — 
 
 And passing spake — " The Queen is dead ! " 
 
 The words, caught from his pallid lips, 
 Drape half the world, Britannia's realm, 
 In mourning black, and overwhelm 
 
 All alien peoples with eclipse. 
 
 Nay, none are alien in this scene ; 
 
 Flags droop, and boundaries melt away ; 
 
 Rulers and nations mourn to-day 
 For her who was to all — The Queen. 
 
 And she is dead ! Plain words and few ; 
 Yet they confuse our ears; and seem 
 Words heard in some fantastic dream, 
 
 That mock us and can not be true ; 
 
 As if they meant the Windsor vale 
 Is gone — the hawthorne is no more ; 
 The Dover cliffs, the Home-land shore 
 
 Have vanished, and the nightingale. 
 
214 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 And nevermore the English May 
 Shall blossom for her natal morn, 
 As it has done since we were born, 
 
 Who now ourselves are old and grey. 
 
 For how from mingling thoughts of her 
 Shall we dissever thoughts of these 
 In our accustomed reveries, 
 
 When fond, pathetic musings stir ? 
 
 Twas her felt presence, august, pure, 
 That lent the pensive charm we felt 
 Now she is gone — the visions melt, 
 
 And memory's sky is clouded o'er. 
 
 Aye, she was greater than her Crown, 
 And more to us than Majesty ; 
 The best within us bowed the knee 
 
 With more than fealty to the throne. 
 
 It was the touch of Motherhood 
 That turned our loyalty to love ; 
 The human note, that is above 
 
 All claims of rank and kingly blood. 
 
 So not to-day as Empress brave 
 We think of her, as the poor clay 
 Of kindred, frail humanity 
 
 Is borne to the all-ruling grave, 
 
QUEEN VICTORIA'S 1WRIAL. 215 
 
 'Midst warships turned to things of peace, 
 Riding upon a sea of tears, 
 And mournful lines of drooping spears, 
 
 And funeral guns that never cease, 
 
 And stately pageantry ; our thought 
 Flies onward to the burial place 
 That held her heart, and bore the trace 
 
 Of love bereaved, — the sacred spot 
 
 Where graven is her promised tryst — 
 " Here, Albert, will I come at last 
 To join thee, and, our rest o'erpast, 
 
 Together we shall rise in Christ." 
 
 And so she comes. Sweet Queen, farewell ; 
 
 Grief mocks thy bliss ; we must not weep ; 
 
 God giveth His beloved sleep ; 
 Peace, booming gun ! peace, tolling bell ! 
 
 Now may Victoria's God still be 
 The God of her true son, our King, 
 To whom our Empire's millions bring 
 
 Their equal faith and loyalty. 
 
 And to our new Queen o'er the waste 
 Of ocean, from this wide, true North, 
 We send, as symbol of her worth, 
 
 A wreath of Maple, sweet and chaste. 
 
216 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF GLADSTONE. 
 
 "Amen!" in Response to the Litany Read by His Son, 
 was Gladstone's Last Word. 
 
 " Amen," his final word on earth, 
 
 " Amen," low and serene ; 
 And so his long and great career, 
 A benediction and a prayer, 
 
 Closed, in that peaceful scene. 
 
 A scene that was fit epilogue 
 
 To such a classic play ; 
 Hawarden's ancient, grateful shade, 
 Love and devotion round the bed, 
 
 And England's full blown May. 
 
 " Amen," as rose the morning sun 
 
 Sank this great orb to rest, 
 Leaving a character sublime, 
 A splendor to the end of time, 
 
 To glow in History's west. 
 
 " Amen," the scholar of his age 
 Goes from his studious nooks, 
 Leaving his busy, toiling pen, 
 That wrought the noblest good for men, 
 And his beloved books. 
 
THE DEATH OE GLADSTONE. 217 
 
 " Amen," the golden tongue is still 
 
 That Britain thrilled and awed, 
 And that oft stirred the wider world, 
 When 'gaint oppression's brow it hurled 
 
 The thunderbolts of God ! 
 
 " Amen " — the statesman passes out 
 
 From council room and hall, 
 
 Bequeathing to the nation's tears 
 
 The work of sixty strenuous years, 
 
 Matchless and spotless all. 
 
 11 Amen " — the Tribune of the race 
 From care and toil is free ; 
 The war drums hush for tolling bell, 
 And side by side the nations kneel 
 With kin beyond the sea. 
 
 " Amen " — the homespun, gentle squire 
 
 Ends life's allotted span ; 
 No star or ribbon on his breast, 
 No title, but that fondest, best, 
 
 Great Britain's grand old man. 
 
 " Amen " — the calm believer sinks 
 
 Into the arms of death, 
 For this was that which made him great 
 In study, forum, home and state, 
 
 His holy Christian faith. 
 
218 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 This was the sacred fire that warm'd 
 
 And glorified his mind ; 
 And sanctified his genuis high 
 To service of humanity — 
 To love of human-kind. 
 
 " Amen " — so ends the litany, 
 And Gladstone falls on sleep ; 
 So rest in peace, great soul, thy name 
 Within our hearts, a living flame, 
 A heritage, we'll keep, 
 
HENRY GEORGE. 219 
 
 HENRY GEORGE. 
 
 When roared the turmoil of the fight, 
 While loudest raged the din and clash, 
 A hush fell sudden like a flash 
 Of dazing light, 
 The message ran— He's dead who fought so val- 
 iantly but yesternight ! 
 
 The Seer of our age, whose pen, 
 
 Like Moses' rod, cleft through the sea 
 A path to life and liberty 
 For toiling men, 
 Lies on the mystic mountain-top, but knows the hosts shall 
 enter in. 
 
 Dead — white — appareled for the grave — 
 Not dressed for honors all but won, 
 He silent lies, the cause undone 
 He strove to save ; 
 A pale, cold corse, with empty hand, like sculptured mar- 
 tyr, pure and brave. 
 
 Yes, empty hand ! But, God of grace, 
 
 Would'st Thou but one sane moment grant, 
 That Dives, fed and breathing scant, 
 Prone on his face 
 Might fall and groan in self-contempt, and worship in this 
 holy place ! 
 
220 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Beside the immortal riches stored — 
 A treasure more than gold refined — 
 In heart and memory of mankind, 
 This man's reward — 
 Dross, idle dross in truth are all the millions of the money- 
 lord. 
 
 But Dives' heart's insensate stone, 
 He comes not ; but within the room 
 A spirit hovers, ere the tomb 
 Shall claim its own, 
 To kiss the dead and tell the love of all the Poor of every 
 
 As that lone child of Afric blood 
 
 Kissed the firm lips of him who died 
 A felon's death, and sanctified 
 John Brown the Good, 
 So Labor kisses Henry George, who 'gainst a blacker 
 slavery stood. 
 
 His cause undone ? nay, sprung anew ! 
 His cause was God's — his prophet call, 
 " God made this fruitful earth for all, 
 Not for the few ! " 
 The sun is up and lights the world, and men have seen, 
 and truth is true ! 
 
 And as the blood-red tempest rose 
 
 From John Brown's tomb, to rave and rend 
 And sweep the land and make an end 
 Of Freedom's foes, 
 So from this grave the avenging storm 'gainst hoary wrong 
 already blows. 
 
FRANCES E. WILLARD. 221 
 
 FRANCES E. WILLARD. 
 
 Saint Frances of the Veil, 
 
 Dear penitential maid, 
 Like waxen lily delicate and pale 
 
 In the deep cloister shade ; 
 The world, with all its pageant and its din, 
 
 Well lost beyond the wal;, 
 And thy meek soul shrived all its days for sin, 
 
 Till God shall call. 
 
 To thee, devoted saint, 
 
 We fain would bow the knee, 
 Nor feel our pious reverence attaint 
 
 With strange idolatry ; 
 For in thee we would worship Him whose face 
 
 In thine we seem to view, 
 Our love to thee a prayer that by His grace 
 
 We may be holy, too. 
 
 Saint Frances of the Fray, 
 
 A nobler saint wert thou, 
 No veiled nun, immured in cloister gray, 
 
 Self-chained to fast and vow ; 
 Nay, but a sister of the race, who stood 
 
 With toilers in the strife, 
 A radiance of pure, helpful womanhood, 
 
 A human Christly life. 
 
222 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 A spotless lily, too, 
 
 But growing in the light, 
 In the free winds, 'neath heaven's expansive blue, 
 
 And blooming full in sight 
 As bloomed the Rose of Sharon, making sweet 
 
 The work-worn, earthly day, 
 So that the world seems dark and incomplete 
 
 Now that thou art away. 
 
 Saint PVances of the Sword, 
 
 Yet devotee of peace ; 
 Long, selfless service, valiant deed and word, 
 
 Battle that did not cease 
 For God, and home and every land, was thine, 
 
 And now thy gentle fame 
 Is as an ointment, precious and divine, 
 
 Poured forth in Woman's name ! 
 
REV. D. J. MACDONNELL. 223 
 
 
 REV. D. J. MACDONNELL. 
 
 Beside Macdonnell's grave we stand and mourn, 
 So rare a soul in him has passed away ; 
 Yet 'twas alone for this, his climax day, 
 
 That, in his own accounting, he was born. 
 
 The day foreset of God when he should die 
 And stand immortal at the judgment bar, 
 That day shone on him like the northern star ; 
 
 It was the point of light he helmed by. 
 
 And so he bravely sailed life's changeful sea, 
 And kept his prow due north in foul or fair ; 
 In all his course he had one only care — 
 
 To compass man's chief end and destiny. 
 
 Ambition's kingdoms spread before his eyes — 
 His gifts made tempting offer of wide fame, 
 And earthly honor and far-sounding name ; 
 
 But he had seen the Christ, and he was wise. 
 
 His soul arose and said : " My days are few, 
 But past the bourne of yon approaching grave, 
 Eternal powers and glories I shall have, 
 
 How much of useful labor can I do ? 
 
224 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 " Give me, O God, some noble task for Thee 
 To fill my eager hands, and heart, and mind ! 
 Grant me some worthy sphere of work to find, 
 That on the earth Thy servant I may be. 
 
 " These powers of mine, set them on fire with love, 
 And let me spend them for my fellow men ; 
 Give me the spirit of the Nazarene, 
 And keep Thou me, that I may faithful prove. 
 
 1 ' Men's souls are strangled in the market-place, 
 Thy poor ones cry for help and sympathy ; 
 Give me, O God, to set the captives free ; 
 Make me the almoner of Thy heavenly grace ! " 
 
 He that shall lose his life shall find it. So 
 Spurning the prizes of the earthly marts, 
 He won the dearer prizes of our hearts, 
 
 And found the fame he had not sought to know. 
 
FATHER EDWARD AT GLYNN. 225 
 
 FATHER EDWARD McGLYNN. 
 
 Farewell, dear, kindly spirit — fare thee well ! 
 Thy giant form, that held so great a soul ; 
 Thy face, so eloquent in every line, 
 Translating to the world thy Christian heart, 
 Have passed the darkened portals, hence to be 
 But sacred recollections ; dust to dust, 
 Thy mortal part has vanished from the earth, 
 As melts the evening cloud, no more to bless 
 Bodily eyes, yet nevermore to fade 
 From memory's clear vision in the breasts 
 Of those who knew and loved thee. 
 
 Noble priest ! 
 Whose lips the living fire of God had touched 
 With consecration holier than the hand 
 Of Pontiff could bestow ; whose spirit large 
 No narrow churchly limits could restrain, 
 In thee the brotherhood of man's bereaved. 
 Sincere in faith, thou did'st the work of Rome ; 
 Her vestments thou did'st wear, her rites perform, 
 Devout and reverent, but thy priesthood reached 
 Beyond the Papal bounds ; this God-given earth 
 Was thy true altar, thy evangel clear 
 The Father's table free to every child. 
 Thy parish was the world of toil and pain ; 
 The disinherited, the weak, the mass, 
 15 
 
226 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Submerged in hellish slums by social wrong, 
 Were thy parishioners, and in their cause 
 Thou didst not shrink from obloquy and loss, 
 Ending in spoiled career and martyrdom ; 
 In the true priestly spirit thou did'st turn 
 From deaf and hardened Mammon unto God, 
 And, with thy latest breath, whisper thy faith 
 That Truth shall triumph, and His will be done 
 On earth as 'tis in heaven. 
 
JOHN MARK KING. 227 
 
 
 JOHN MARK KING.* 
 
 Not worthier was the Friend whose death 
 Wrung from the Poet of our Age 
 " Memoriam's " immortal page — 
 
 Not nobler, nor of purer faith — 
 
 Than he who late that page did con 
 
 That we with him its sweets might share, 
 And learn its meaning, subtle, rare, 
 
 And note the tears that in it shone. 
 
 And though less gifted pens essay 
 
 To tell his worth, Thou know'st, O God, 
 Our tears, that fall upon the sod, 
 
 Are not less bitter than were they ! 
 
 * Dr. King's last work was a volume of lectures on Tennyson's " In Memoriam. 
 
228 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 DR. McDIARMID, OF SCARBORO'.* 
 
 McDiarmid, tender, grave and pure, 
 Oor ain esteemed and lo'ed Maclure, 
 For mony a day wull rich an' poor 
 
 Thy praises tell ; 
 Farewell, thy noble life is o'er, 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 We mourn thee mair than words can say, 
 An' nae dry herts are here the day, 
 As throngs o' youthfu' an' o' grey 
 
 Foregather noo, 
 Within the kirk -yard auld to lay 
 
 Thy coffin low. 
 
 The blacks we wear are no vain dress 
 O' formal grief or feigned distress, 
 But mutely to the world confess 
 
 Oor darkened herts, 
 An' the deep sense they would express 
 
 O' thy deserts. 
 
 We lay thy form beneath the sod, 
 Thy soul redeem'd we yield to God ; 
 In auld familiar paths ye trod 
 
 We'll ken nae mair 
 Thy cheery word, thy kindly nod. 
 
 Thy spirit rare. 
 
 * See Note XV. 
 
DR. HTDIARMID, OF SCARBORO. 229 
 
 But every word and deed o' thine 
 We'll treasure as a thing divine, 
 That wi' the grace o' Christ did shine 
 
 Through a' thae years ; 
 We'll dream o' thee an' Auld Lang Syne 
 
 Wi' smiles an' tears. 
 
 Aye ! in oor dreams ye'll live again 
 We'll see ye in the snaw an' rain 
 Hastin' to ease some neebor's pain 
 
 Wi' lover's speed, 
 Gi'ein' a loose an' coaxin' rein 
 
 To thy tired steed. 
 
 We'll see ye sit wi' thoughtfu' mein 
 Beside the cot o' some puir wean, 
 Wha's mither stands wi' brimmin' e'en 
 
 To hear ye'r word, 
 An' looks mair happy than a queen 
 
 When she has heard ! 
 
 Ye'r presence ever lent a grace 
 
 O' goodliness to sic a place ; 
 
 Tho' aye they smiled to greet yer face 
 
 In stately ha', 
 Ye were a lover o' ye'r race 
 
 An' lo'ed by a'. 
 
 So rins oor dream o' the yestre'en, 
 O' winters white an' simmers green, 
 For a" the years you've 'mang us been, 
 
 Oor steadfast friend ; 
 Doon to the sweet and gentle scene 
 
 O' thy calm end. 
 
230 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 Oor reverie will melt an' fade 
 
 Wi' yon last glimpse, when ye were laid, 
 
 Like wearied wean, 'mid gloamin' shade, 
 
 For a bit rest, 
 E'er still anither round wes made 
 
 O' service blest. 
 
 An' as ye lie in silence there, 
 Oor fancy sees an angel fair, 
 Wha radiant comes an' says, " I bear 
 
 Thy summons home ; 
 Well done, good servant, thou shalt share 
 
 Heaven's glory — come ! " 
 
 An' thou wert gone — thy form alone, 
 Thy image in white waxen stone 
 We found, and in the kirk-yard lone, 
 
 Wi' love sincere, 
 That form we lay, but thou'lt live on, 
 
 McDiarmid, dear ! 
 
THOMAS KIRKLAND. 231 
 
 THOMAS KIRKLAND.* 
 
 Upon his coffin, heaped with tender flowers, 
 
 Make place for this white blossom I would bring 
 From his old pupils, for we claim him ours 
 By sanction of sweet memories that cling, 
 Like odors of some far-off, mystic spring, 
 To hearts that loved him in the days of yore, 
 Albeit knowing scarcely anything 
 Of his great soul of virtue and of power, 
 As now we know, with sight and judgment more mature. 
 
 In those dim days, when study was a task 
 
 Set by stern Fate, and Play the saving sun 
 That lit our world ; when School wore Terror's mask, 
 
 And sore we grieved when holidays were done ; 
 
 'Twas then there came to be our teacher, one 
 Who, in his gentle dealing, made anew 
 
 The lesson-time ; the books we used to shun 
 Were now no longer irksome in our view, 
 Love rose where fear had reigned, and there forever grew. 
 
 To what was noblest in us he appealed, 
 
 Not in set, formal phrase, but by the air 
 Of kindliness he spread ; we could but yield 
 
 A glad obedience to a guide so fair ; 
 
 The rein he held was lighter than a hair, 
 
 * See Note XVI. 
 
232 IN MANY KEYS. 
 
 But it was tethered to our inmost hearts, 
 
 A cord of love ; his stern rebuke was rare, 
 For rarely needed ; mild persuasion's arts 
 He knew, and the good-will which gentleness imparts. 
 
 Thus from the page of boyhood I recall 
 
 This man of golden worth, whose later days — 
 
 Still given to the work that did enthrall 
 
 His glowing mind — have won a wider praise, 
 And crowned his name with Reputation's bays. 
 
 The monuments he built himself to-day 
 Adorn our land wherever we may gaze, 
 
 In consecrated teachers, who display 
 
 His zeal, his wisdom and his helpful ways, 
 
 And honor him as no vain shaft that we could raise. 
 
 We called him " master " in the long ago, 
 
 And spoke the title as if we said " friend " ; 
 He called Another " Master, Friend," we know, 
 
 Through all his course unto the peaceful end. 
 
 Christ-taught was this our teacher ; grace did lend 
 His character its beauty in our eyes, 
 
 And in his soul did strength and sweetness blend, 
 Making him loving-kind as well as wise ; 
 And so his work was done, and lives — such work ne'er 
 dies ! 
 
motes. 
 
NOTES 
 
 I. The Poem of Pretoria Day. — The capture of Pretoria, the 
 Capital of the Transvaal Republic by the British under Lord Roberts, 
 was reported in Canada on the evening of May 30th, 1900 (prematurely 
 by some days as it eventually turned out). This victory, being accepted 
 as a signal of the 'end of the South African War, gave rise to an out- 
 burst of popular joy that was without a precedent in the history of the 
 country. The poem is an apologetic of the enthusiastic display which 
 continued in Toronto for nearly twenty-four hours. 
 
 II. A Scotch Engineer's Address to Spain. — It was stated 
 in the public prints that the inactivity, of the Spanish fleet at Cadiz at 
 the opening of the Spanish- American war, was accounted for by the 
 difficulty of replacing the Scottish engineers who resigned their posts 
 rather than fight against the United Slates. 
 
 III. The Touch of Nature. --The incident treated in this verse 
 was reported in the cable despatches at the time (1896), and is but 
 slightly embellished in the version here given. The speaker is sup- 
 posed to be one of the English blue-jackets. 
 
 IV. "Ironsides." — Lord Wolseley, in a letter to Sir George 
 Williams, said : "I wish we had a few regiments now like Cromwell's 
 ' Ironsides ' ; they would leaven the army and make it the finest in the 
 world." 
 
 V. The Drinking Water-Cart. — Owing to an accident to the 
 conduit pipe connected with the water- works of the City of Toronto, 
 the citizens were, during a summer season, supplied with drinking 
 water by means of the tank carts used for sprinkling the streets. 
 Regular visits were made by these vehicles, and the scene described in 
 the poem became a very familiar one (minus the romance). 
 
 VI. The Peeler and the Tramp. — This is a true incident. 
 The policeman was a member of the Toronto force. 
 
 235 
 
236 NOTES. 
 
 VII. The ApoloCxY of Edwin Markham. — This is in effect a 
 transcription of the account written by Edwin Markham of the origin 
 of his celebrated poem, " The Man with the Hoe." 
 
 VIII. The Adopted Boy. — The incident here dealt with is vouched 
 for by Mr. J. J. Kelso, Superintendent of Neglected Children for 
 Ontario, who has supplied the portraits of the hero as child and man. 
 
 IX. The Child and the Toad. — This little incident occurred 
 at Centre Island Park. A portrait of the small hero of the occasion is 
 given as an accompaniment to the story. 
 
 X. Echoes of Drumtochty. — These are metrical transcrip- 
 tions of the sketches in Ian Maclaren's "Beside the Bonnie Brier 
 Bush." The beauty of the originals will be accepted as sufficient 
 excuse for the length of the poetic versions. 
 
 XI. The Burial of Gen. Wauchope. -These lines are based 
 upon the prose description of Gen. Wauchope's burial, by the special 
 correspondent of the London Daily News in South Africa. 
 
 XII. To the Poet William Watson. — In reply to a poem 
 entitled " The Unknown God," which he had published immediately 
 after the appearance of Kipling's "Lest We Forget," and which was 
 manifestly intended as a rebuke to the faith expressed in that beautiful 
 Recessional. Watson's poem began : 
 
 " Unmeet to be profaned by praise 
 
 Is He whose coils the world enfold, 
 The God on whom I ever gaze, 
 
 The God I never once behold ; 
 Above the cloud, beneath the clod ; 
 The Unknown God ! The Unknown God !" 
 
 XIII. To Alexandra, Princess of Wales.— Amongst the 
 tributes paid to the memory of the late Mrs. Gladstone was a beautiful 
 wreath sent by the then Princess of Wales, our present beloved Queen. 
 Appended to the wreath was a card on which the following inscription 
 was written by the sender's own hand. The poem, written at the time, 
 of course addresses the royal lady under the title she then bore. 
 
 " In Memory of Dear Mrs. Gladstone. 
 
 " It is but crossing with a bated breath, 
 A white set face, a little strip of sea, 
 To find the loved ones waiting on the shore, 
 More beautiful, more precious than before." 
 
NOTES. 237 
 
 XIV. Torthorwald. — This is a translation into verse of Dr. John 
 G. Paton's description of his early Scottish home in his recently- 
 published autobiography. 
 
 XV. Dr. McDiarmid, of Scarboro'. — " Seldom in the history 
 of any place has there been observed a more touching scene than that 
 witnessed in the Township of Scarboro' on the occasion of the funeral 
 of the late Dr. McDiarmid. For more than a quarter of a century Dr. 
 McDiarmid has occupied a very unique position in the township. Ian 
 MacLaren's description of Dr. Maclure finds its realization in a veiy 
 marked degree in the life and character of Dr. McDiarmid. Free 
 from everything that savored of the spirit of show or parade, actuated 
 by a lofty ideal, animated with noble impulses in life, he was wholly 
 unselfish. He lived in the lives and won the affections of the people. 
 Absolutely free from the mercenary spirit, he was pre-eminently the 
 friend of the poor. The closing scene of his life was touchingly beauti- 
 ful. The forenoon of the day on which he died he was out visiting the 
 sick. After dinner, his horse harnessed in the stable, he thought he 
 would lie down for a few minutes' rest before going out. He lay down 
 on the sofa in his surgery. In the course of half an hour or so his wife 
 entered the room and found him dead. The high esteem in which Dr. 
 McDiarmid was held was evidenced by the vast multitude of people 
 that attended his funeral from all parts of the township." — Toronto 
 Globe. 
 
 XVI. Thomas Kirkland, who died on the last day of the year 
 1898, was Principal of the Normal School at Toronto, and was recog- 
 nized as one of the foremost educationists of Canada. In earlier years 
 he occupied the position of Head Master of the Grammar School at 
 Whitby, Ont. , in which the author was for some time a pupil. 
 
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