HE Church believes God will not bless
A crowd that comes in evening dress.
Of worldliness the antidote,
Our “Arch.” proclaims the morning coat.
What folly!—since God’s only care
Is what we are, not what we wear.
Alone in London.
(Dizain.)
HE dust blows through the empty street,
The low skies gather grim and gray,
The raindrops on the windows beat
This cold and cheerless August day.
And all my friends are far away
Across the moors or by the sea,
But I must linger, woe is me!
Since cruel fortune so doth choose
Then, friends who read the Referee,
Forgive me if I get the blues.
The Volunteer.
T was a gallant Volunteer,
He woke one wintry night,
The long-expected sound to hear,
“The foe is now in sight.”
He leapt from out his cosy bed,
He kissed his frightened wife,
Then put his helmet on his head,
To fight for home and life.
He gaily donned his uniform—
Such portions as he had—
And then went out into the storm;
The night was very bad.
The snowflakes fell as large as eggs,
The blast his bosom smote;
He had no trousers on his legs,
He had no overcoat.