Welsh Journals

SONGS OF THE DUG-OUT AT THE DUSK. In the dugout at the dusk the boys are singing And their voices filter faintly through the haze In every voice there comes an echo ringing, Telling softly of the things of other days. Ah, I cannot help but hearken, ay, and wonder And bethink me of those days and heave a sigh; For the guns can answer singing with their thunder And the fateful hours of life will soon flit by. A CALL. A call on the road,- A cheery hail in the gloom,- A march through the night to the thick of a fight; The flash and the cannon boom And never a goad. No infantile play, But work for the sternest men A fight to a fall and no mercy to call A fight but to fight again On another day. Ah, it's devils' work, Yet work for a man to do So stiffen the lip and no cowards' whip Is needed to see one through,- And no need to shirk. And if one goes down And dies, well, what are the odds ? To die in the trace is the heroes' place, The fashion of ancient gods. And not of the clown. SPARKS. The camp fire blazes in the night, The sparks fly upward to the trees Then drift away and fade from sight Upon the tender evening breeze. Frail sparks upon that wayward breath, First up, then down, now faint and then Dying and drooping-aoula of death, Are ye not like the souls of men? By D. HOWARD TRIPP ENGLAND. Something that's deeper far than all the sea, Something that's wider than mere vanity, Something more noble than the empty ring That links the words For England and the King," England What is that England that the name, Rising to heav'n, should stir the pulsing flame That burns in every breast and makes the land One mind and soul, one body, heart and hand ? Listen, when empires shake and foes assail, When bulwarks bend like forests in a gale And all the world is lit with war's red light, Strike, England, then, for England, God and right. England, the heroes-who have loved that name, Dyed it with their own blood, and for its fame Given their earthly all with willing heart, Given, not lent, no bargain of the mart,- Are calling from the tomb that each true man Do as they did, the most that true men can. The soil is red with blood and hearths are bare And many souls are homeless come, then, share With all the hapless ones your mite of strength, Thrust back the foe and when the day at length Dawns o'er a peaceful world, each man may say: 1 played my part to bring about that day,— Played it and helped to cast aside the phrase That England's dead and damned and run her days." "DESESPOIR." Lone in a strange, strange land, Under a starry sky Under the winds that fly Witless across the strand There while the seasons creep, While all the seasons roll Over his waiting soul, Must my love ever sleep. Ah, laugh, ye Gods of pain Laugh on and laugh again 1 Love's moon is on the wane, Love's soul is dead