51. A little song,
Neither sad nor very long.
Barry Cornwall.
52. A voice of music in the rustling leaves,
When the green boughs are hung with living lutes,
Whose strings will only vibrate to His hand
Who made them.
Miss H. F. Gould.
53. The drums beat in the mornin', afore the scriech o' day,
And the wee, wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the morn is gray.