Those Who Speak English 201

THE CHEER OF THOSE WHO SPEAK ENGLISH.*

HE playground is heavy with silence,
The match is almost done,

Our lads in the lengthening shadows
Work hard for one more run:
It comes; and the field is a-twinkle
With happy arms in air,

While over the ground

Rolls the masterful sound
Of victory revelling there:
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Three cheers, and a "tiger," too,
For the game we have won
And each sturdy son

Who carried the victory through!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
With clear voices uptossed
For the side that has lost,
And one cheer more

For those winning before
And all who shall ever win:

The cry that our boys send in—
The cheer of the boys who speak English!

The ships-of-the-line beat to quarters,
The drum and bugle sound,
The lanterns of battle are lighted,
"Cast off! Provide!" goes round;

* By kind permission of author.

But ere the shrill order is given
For broadsides hot with hate,
Far over the sea

Rings hearty and free
Defiance to every fate:
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Three cheers, and a "tiger," too,
For the fight to be won
And each sturdy son

Who'll carry the victory through!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

With the shout of the fleet
For foes doomed to defeat,
And one cheer more

For those winning before,
And all who shall win again:

This is the cry of our men

The cheer of the men who speak English!

The blare of the battle is over;
The flag we love flies on;
The sailors in sorrowful quiet
Look down on comrades gone;
The tremulous prayers are ended;
The sea obtains his dead;-
Or ever the wave
Ripples over their grave,
One staunch good-bye is said:
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Three cheers, and a "tiger," too,
For the men who have won-
For each gallant son

Who gave up his life to be true!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Not a Star Shall Fade

203

With the shout of the host
For the brothers we've lost,
And one cheer more

For those falling before,

And those who have yet to fall:

This is the cry of us all

The cheer of the folk who speak English!

Wallace Rice.

O

NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE.

CH! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore,
'Twas a bully ould flag, an' nice;

It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore— 'Twas the broth of a purty device.

Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far,
An' around it our bivouacs made;

An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar
From its azure field should fade.

Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue,

That was sworn in the souls of our Boys in Blue.

The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall,
An' the shells like a banshee scream;
An' the flag—it is torn by many a ball,
But to yield it we never dhream.
Though pierced by bullets, yet still it bears
All the shtars in its tatthered field,

An' again the brigade, like to one man swears,
"Not a shtar from the flag we yield!"

'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue,
They lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue.

Shure, the fight it was won afther many a year,
But two-thirds of the boys who bore

That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear
Returned to their homes no more.

They died by the bullet-disease had power,
An' to death they were rudely tossed;

But the thought came warm in their dying hour,
"Not a shtar from the flag is lost!

Then they said their Pathers and Aves through,
An' like Irishmen died-did our Boys in Blue.

But now they tell us some shtars are gone,
Torn out by the rebel gale;

That the shtars we fought for, the States we won,
Are still out of the Union's pale.

May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow
Who sing such a lyin' shtrain;

By the dead in their graves, it shall not be so-
They shall have what they died to gain!

All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through
The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue!
Charles G. Halpine.

B

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

REAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

Dixie

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

DIXIE.

205

Alfred Tennyson.

WISH I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,

Look away! look away! look away! Dixie Land! In Dixie Land where I was born in,

Early on one frosty mornin';

Look away! look away! look away! Dixie Land!
Den I wish I was in Dixie, hooray! hooray!
In Dixie Land I'll took my stand,

To lib and die in Dixie!

Away, away, away down South in Dixie,
Away, away, away down South in Dixie!

Old Missus marry "Will, de weaber,"

Willum was a gay deceaber;

Look away! look away! look away! Dixie Land!

But when he puts his arm around her

He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder,

Look away! look away! look away! Dixie Land!

His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But that did not seem to greab 'er;