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; Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; '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, Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, 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. CCIV THE HINDU'S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES THE waves are dashing proudly down Unconscious roll the surges down, Canst thou forget the glorious past, With hands and heart unfettered yet, Thy sacred shore, before the blast O'er crumbled thrones thy waters glide, Ignobly sleep below; Sole remnant of our ancient pride, Thy waves survive the wreck of time, |