English

Randy he is, all wire
where he walks on springs
of his ding toes, eagle-shouldering,
mincing up to a mark
(for the start of a spar or a sprint)
that stays just ahead of him.

One-man-parade and darling
of the regiment is Mister
Doodle (so-called since children
found he cries cock-a-doodle
instead of -a-doodle-do.)
He holds all ranks in a squadron

of three—two hens and him—
and is color sergeant,
most decorated veteran,
colonel, cornet and trumpeter,
bivouac and supply chief

Plain as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resigned;
Unflawed and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul.—
But, O, what symbol may avail to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear
By which thine urn, Euphemia , claims the tear!
Yet taught by thy meek sufferance to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,

The whitebait looks as if
The soul (colour) of the water moves.

Sounds from an unforgotten shore
And well remembered seas,
Wail of the waves that break and roar
Around the Hebrides!
Come with your low and solemn tread
And long, unmeasured roll,
Breathe for a dirge above the dead
The music of his soul!

Murmurs of that old Gaelic speech
From islands far away,
With your last echoes rise and reach
His parting soul to-day!
Dead hero! on whose brow appears,
In green immortal youth,
The laurel of a hundred years
Of constancy and truth!

Oh! the bills, Christmas bills!
What a world of misery
Their memory instills!
As the merchants with their quills
Stuck behind their “ears polite,”
So caressingly invite
Your kind and prompt attention
To their bills!
How they dun, dun, dun,
As they kindly urge upon
Your earliest attention their blessed little bills,
Little bills!

With a power of perforation,
And a maw that never fills,
What a sad dissimulation
To call them little bills!
While all the tin that tinkles

'Tis eve—and o'er the face of parting day
Quick smiles of summer lightning flit and play;
In pulses of brond light, less seen than felt,
They mix in heaven, and on the mountains melt;
Their silent transport fills the exulting air—
'Tis eve, and where is evening half so fair?
Oh! deeply, softly sobs the Indian sea
O'er thy dark sands, majestic Dharavee,
When, from each purple hill and polished lake,
The answering voices of the night awake
The fitful note of many a brilliant bird,—
The lizard's plunge, o'er distant waters heard,—

Dream of the West! the moor was wild
Its glens the blue Guadima ploughed
An August sunset rich & mild
Over the heath in amber glowed

Dream of the West! two thousand miles
Between me and the Gambia spread
Land of the sun! transcendant smiles
Like thine, his orb departing shed

Birth-place of gods! thy forests proud
Hung in the air their sea-green piles
Eden of earth!, the sunset cloud
Pourtrayed thee, in its golden isles

Now what shall tell the scene the sound
I wrought from eye's voluptuous gale

Sound a lament in the halls of his father
Waken the harp-string & pour forth a wail
The caves of the hill the sad echoes will gather
The chant will be sung by the wandering gale
Damp lies his corpse in the folds of the shroud
& low to the dust his bright forehead is bowed

Weep in thy chambers where music is sighing
Weep in thy palace fair bride of his heart
Thy love with the worms of corruption is lying
Thou from his bosom for ever must part
For ever, For ever, how sad is that word

Almighty hush the dying cries
That sound so sadly in mine ear
The sobs, the groans, the soul-breathed sighs
And wipe away the burning tear
That now wets many a gallant cheek
While pain wrings forth the wild death-shriek
From brave hearts steeled to fear

Voice of the solemn trumpet sound
Rend your dark mist-veil from the sky
Peirce through the war-shouts bursting round
And swell again triumphantly
For I would leave this mangl'ed clay
And pass to regions far-away
'Mid tones of victory

‘He set her on his bonnie black horse,
He set himsel on his good gray naigie;
He has ridden over hills, he has ridden over dales,
And he 's quite awa wi my bonny Peggy.

‘Her brow it is brent and her middle it is jimp,
Her arms are long and her fingers slender;
One sight of her eyes makes my very heart rejoice,
And wae 's my heart that we should sunder!’

His sheets were of the good green hay,
His blankets were of the brackens bonnie;
He 's laid his trews beneath her head,
And she 's lain down wi her Highland laddie.