Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them;
Straight on they marched to the dread battle's brunt—
Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them,
Canada's call found them all at the front.
TO E. N. L.
THOU sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by
Who in the infinite dost walk to-day,
And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I
Lift up but lips of clay—