Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky

Little they cared as they marched from the barrackroom,

Willing and ready, if need be, to die.

Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets;
Firm and erect was each man in his place;
Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans;
Smiling and fearless was every face;

Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them;
Never a fear of war's terrible scenes;

'Brave as the bravest,' was stamped on each face of them;

Half of them boys not yet out of their teens.

Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him,

Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them, Seeing the lover from whom she must part; Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.

Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them,
Beat as it never had beaten before;

Every voice of us, choked though it may have been,
Broke from huzza to a deafening roar.

Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us,

Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight;

Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all, Eager to battle for her and the right.

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky

Little they cared as they filed from the barrackroom,

Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die,

Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of

them;

Straight on they marched to the dread battle's

brunt

Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, Canada's call found them all at the front.

Stuart Livingston.

VI

INDIA

CCIV

THE HINDU'S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES

THE waves are dashing proudly down
Along thy sounding shore;
Lashing, with all the storm of power,
The craggy base of mountain tower,
Of mosque, and pagod hoar,
That darkly o'er thy waters frown,
As if their moody spirit's sway
Could hush their wild and boist'rous play!

Unconscious roll the surges down,
But not unconscious thou,
Dread Spirit of the rolling flood,
For ages worshipped as a God,
And worshipped even now,
Worshipped, and not by serf or clown,
For sages of the mightiest fame
Have paid their homage to thy name.

Canst thou forget the glorious past,
When mighty as a God,

With hands and heart unfettered yet,
And eyes with slavish tears unwet,
Each sable warrior trod

Thy sacred shore, before the blast
Of Moslem conquest hurried by,
Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh?

O'er crumbled thrones thy waters glide,
Through scenes of blood and woe;
And crown and kingdom, might and sway,
The victor's and the poet's bay,

Ignobly sleep below;

Sole remnant of our ancient pride,

Thy waves survive the wreck of time,
And wanton free as in their prime.