Death Song Of The Enfants Perdus.

'Tis here we invade the valley,
Away from the realms of breath,
And, in most successful sally,
We enter the gates of death;
So, stand in the last line steady,
'Tis here our true glory lies;
Hurrah for the dead already!
Three cheers for the next who dies!

Though here, the wet eyes of woman
Will fill with the falling tear,
Yet, facing old Death, our foeman,
We shout our reviving cheer.
Though high beat the hearts we cherish,
The dead we most highly prize:
Hurrah for the first to perish!
Three cheers for the next who dies!

The earth we now leave behind us,
The heavens now beckon before,
Though dust of the dead may blind us,
We march for the shining shore;
No more can our Hope deceive us,
Our heart to it now replies,
Hurrah for the first to leave us!
Three cheers for the next who dies!

A. H. Laidlaw

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A. H. Laidlaw

Tears, Tears.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

The Dying Soldier To The Nightingale.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

With A Ho-Ho-Ho! And A Hi-Hi-Hi!

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

Jock And Jean.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

English

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Song Of Death.

Air - "Oran an Aoig."


Scene - A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:


I.

    Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
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II.

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III.

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The Song Of The Dead

Hear now the Song of the Dead, in the North by the torn berg-edges,
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South, in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sere river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East, in the heat-rotted jungle-hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof, in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.

Song of the Dead in the West in the Barrens, the pass that betrayed them,
Where the wolverine tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-rnound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!

I

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
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The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
From camp and church, the fireside and the street,
She beckons forth - and strife and song have been.

A summer night descending cool and green
And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
And radiant faces look upon, and greet
This last of all your lovers, and to meet
Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean . . .
The ways of Death are soothing and serene.



***



We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and cold,
And we know not why?

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The Custer Wail.

Dead! Where the bold and brave
Blend in one bloody grave;
Dead! With no coward clay
Weltering in gore that day.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.

Dead! With his boys in blue,
Baptized in bloody dew.
Dead! Where his enemy
Fled from his fearless eye.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.

Dead! Like a meteor,
Flashed o'er the field of war.
Dead! With immortal pride,
Glorious and glorified.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.

Dead! Where the captives sing
Saved by his rifle's ring.
Dead! Where the painted brave
Bled by his gory glaive.
Dead! Dead! Ah! - Dead to me.

Dead! Where the feathered game
Fell at his deadly aim.
Dead! Where the buffalo
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A. H. Laidlaw

The Dead

Hail and farewell to those who fought and died,
Not laughingly adventurous, nor pale
With idiot hatred, nor to fill the tale
Of racial selfishness and patriot pride,
But merely that their own souls rose and cried
Alarum when they heard the sudden wail
Of stricken freedom and along the gale
Saw her eternal banner quivering wide.

Farewell, high-hearted friends, for God is dead
If such as you can die and fare not well
If when you fall your gallant spirit fail.
You are with us still, and can we be adread
Though hell gape, bloody-fanged and horrible?
Glory and hope of us who love you, Hail!

John Le Gay Brereton

Dirge. (Brisbane.) "A Little Soldier Of The Army Of The Night."

Bury him without a word!
    No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
    And the blind spring's breath.

Nature slays ten, yet the one
    Reaches but to a part
Of what's to be done, to be sung.
    Keep we a proud heart!

Let us not glose her waste
    With lies and dreams;
Fawn on her wanton haste,
    Say it but seems.

Comrades, with faces unstirred,
    Scorning grief's dole,
Though with him, with him lies interred
    Our heart and soul,

Bury him without a word!
    No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
    And the blind spring's breath.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams