The Balaclava Heroes.
(JULY 2, 1890.)
PEN the workhouse doors to-day
To the men who fought in that fearful fray;
Weary and worn and scant of breath
Are the men who rode through the valley of Death;
But, clad in the pauper’s garb of shame,
They are getting the meed of their deathless fame.
These are the heroes our poet sang
When over the world their story rang;
These are the heroes, gnarled and bent,
With the tale of whose deeds the skies were rent;
These are the soldiers whose fame’s writ large
On the glorious page of that deathless charge.
Open the workhouse doors to-day
To the penniless heroes old and gray;
In each wrinkled face is a soldier’s pride,
They have won the guerdon so long denied,
And we honour their deed with—what do you think?—
A benefit at a skating rink!
A Child’s Idea.
IGHTLY holding her mother’s hand,
A little girl tripped o’er her father’s land;
Squire of all the acres he,
As far as the little one’s eyes could see,
And his wife and his daughter, his “Baby May,”
Were “seeing the folks” this Christmas Day.
Six years old was the baby girl,
And her brain was all in a dreamy whirl
With the puddings and pies and the Christmas-trees
And the bells and carols, and, if you please,
The night before had St. Nicholas been
With the loveliest dolly that ever was seen.
“How good of the saint, mamma, to leave
Such beautiful things upon Christmas Eve!”
She had cried, as against her baby breast
She hushed her dear little doll to rest.
And then the wonders of Christmas Day
Had almost taken her breath away.