| Whatever I do and whatever I say, |
| Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way |
| When she was a girl (forty summers ago); |
| Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. |
| |
| Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice! |
| But I like my own way, and I find it so nice! |
| And besides, I forget half the things I am told; |
| But they all will come back to me—when I am old. |
| |
| If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, |
| He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; |
| She would never endure an impertinent stare— |
| It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there. |
| |
| A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, |
| But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; |
| So I take a lad's arm—just for safety you know— |
| But Aunt Tabitha tells me they didn't do so. |
| |
| How wicked we are, and how good they were then! |
| They kept at arm's length those detestable men; |
| What an era of virtue she lived in!—But stay— |
| Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? |
| |
| If the men were so wicked, I'll ask my papa |
| How he dared to propose to my darling mamma; |
| Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows? |
| And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose? |
| |
| I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, |
| What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! |
| And her grand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sad |
| That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! |
| |
| A martyr will save us, and nothing else can, |
| Let me perish —to rescue some wretched young man! |
| Though when to the altar a victim I go, |
| Aunt Tabitha'll tell me she never did so! |
| Hats off! |
| Along the street there comes |
| A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, |
| A flash of color beneath the sky: |
| Hats off! |
| The flag is passing by! |
| |
| Blue and crimson and white it shines, |
| Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. |
| Hats off! |
| The colors before us fly; |
| But more than the flag is passing by. |
| |
| Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, |
| Fought to make and to save the State; |
| Weary marches and sinking ships; |
| Cheers of victory on dying lips; |
| |
| Days of plenty and years of peace, |
| March of a strong land's swift increase: |
| Equal justice, right and law, |
| Stately honor and reverent awe; |
| |
| Sign of a nation, great and strong, |
| To ward her people from foreign wrong; |
| Pride and glory and honor, all |
| Live in the colors to stand or fall. |
| |
| Hats off! |
| Along the street there comes |
| A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, |
| And loyal hearts are beating high: |
| Hats off! |
| The flag is passing by! |
| |
| H.H. Bennett. |
| The rivers of France are ten score and twain, |
| But five are the names that we know: |
| The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne, |
| And the Somme of the swampy flow. |
| |
| The rivers of France, from source to sea, |
| Are nourished by many a rill, |
| But these five, if ever a drouth there be |
| The fountains of sorrow would fill. |
| |
| The rivers of France shine silver white, |
| But the waters of five are red |
| With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight |
| For freedom that ever was shed. |
| |
| The rivers of France sing soft as they run, |
| But five have a song of their own, |
| That hymns the fall of the arrogant one |
| And the proud cast down from his throne. |
| |
| The rivers of France all quietly take |
| To sleep in the house of their birth, |
| But the carnadined wave of five shall break |
| On the uttermost strands of earth. |
| |
| Five rivers of France—see! their names are writ |
| On a banner of crimson and gold, |
| And the glory of those who fashioned it |
| Shall nevermore cease to be told. |
| |
| H.J.M., in London "Times." |