THE VIOLET
As in the first pale flush of coming dawn
We see a promise of the glorious sun,
So in the violet's misty blue is drawn
A shadowy likeness of the days to be,
The days of cloudless skies and poesie,
When Winter's done.
THE TIN-CLADS[[3]]
The small gunboats captured from the Spaniards and facetiously called “tin-clads” by the men of the land forces, are of great value in the offensive operations against the insurgents along the coast.—[Manilla Dispatch]
Their draft is a foot and a half,
And a knot and a half is their speed,
Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt
And their boilers are wonders of greed;
Their rudders are always on strike,
Their displacement is thirty-two tons,
They are armored with tin—to the dishpan they're kin—
But their Maxims are A number ones,
(Ask Aggie!)
Their Maxims are murderous guns!
When from out the towns and villages, and out the jungle, too,
We have chased the Filipinos on the run,
Toward the river swamps they foot it—towards the swamps we can't go through—
And we're doubtful if we've lost the fight or won;
Then when all are safe in hiding in the slimy mud and reeds,
From the river 'cross the swamp we hear a sound;
It's the sputter and the rattle of the automatic feeds
On the tin-protected cruisers—how they pound—
(Sweet sound!)
They that save us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers!
Hear their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!
When the guns have done their work, and the Tagals come our way,
(I admit they much prefer us to the guns,)
Why, we finish up what's left—ten in every dozen lay
Dead as Noah, in the swampy pools and runs;
Then the Maxims stop their rattle and we know that midst the reeds,
Half a hundred Filipinos on the ground
Are a-looking at the sky, with a glassy, sightless eye,
And the other half—or most of them—are drowned.
'Twas the tin-protected cruisers—How they pound!
(Sweet sound!)
They that saved us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers!
How their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!
Their draft is a foot and a half
And a knot and a half is their speed,
Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt,
And their engines are wonders, indeed.
Their rudders are always on strike,
Their bunkers hold two or three tons,
They are armored with tin—to the meat-can they're kin—
'But their Maxims are A number ones,
(Ask Aggie!)
Their Maxims are murderous guns;
(Go ask him!)
Their Maxims are Death's younger sons.
[3]. Copyright, 1900, by the W. W. Potter Co.