WHEN LONDON BURNS
WHEN London burns, the Iron Duke
Will tremble ’neath his pall,
In dread of the Mailèd Fist’s rebuke
And the Huns’ red carnival.
When London burns, our Admiral High
Will drop from his pillar tall,
And the Death’s Head riders trampling by
Will mock him in his fall.
When London burns—in a madman’s brain
Such dreams alone befall;
But England flames on the land, on the main,
To the Duke and the Admiral’s call.
WITH BERTHA UP THE RIVER
THE day we rowed to Mortlake
The skies were all of blue;
The dainty house-boats mocked us,
But we didn’t care a sou;
For you had a new frock, pet,
And Bertha, I had you.
The eve we rowed from Mortlake
The air was all a-tune.
’Twas reaping time for kisses
Beneath the harvest moon,
And you were sweeter far, dear,
Than roses plucked in June.
The night we rowed from Mortlake
Is far away as Spain.
Brown fog is on the river,
And the wind beats up for rain;
But we shall row to Mortlake
When the summer comes again.
THE ISLAND OF A DREAM
To T., M. P.
THE street is dark and drear to-night,
The rain comes rushing down;
In gusty red the lamplight flares
Within a nimbus brown.
God pity now the homeless ones
Within the cruel town!