No fires are lighted there—no battle songs they sing.
There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds,
A mother mourns—the silent tear-drops fall;—
She too had given to swell proud England's fame,
But, ah! she gave the widow's mite—she gave her all!
SPORT
AH! list the music of the whistling wings,
As westward sweeps the long-extended corps;
Our own Outarde revisits well-known haunts,