And down in the street a bugle is blown,
        When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown,
        For it’s sixty seconds before the roar
        Reverberates o’er, and a second more
          Till the shell comes down with a whiz and stun
          From that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

        And men and women walk up and down
        The long, hot streets of Ladysmith town,
        And the housewives walk in the usual round,
        And the children play till the warning sound—­
          Then into their holes they scurry and run
          From the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.

        For the shells they weigh a hundred pound,
        Bursting wherever they strike the ground,
        While the strong concussion shakes the air
        And shatters the window-panes everywhere. 
          And we may laugh, but there’s little of fun
          In the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.

        Oh! ’twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay
        As they cleaned their steeds at break of day,
        But like a thunderclap there fell
        In the midst of the horses and men a shell,
          And the sight we saw was a fearful one
          After that shell from the six-inch gun.

        Though the foe may beset us on every side,
        We’ll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide;
        We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed
        And a thought be given to the gallant dead,
          Cut off in the midst of their life and fun
          By the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

Here’s to the Isle of the Shamrock,
Here’s a good English hurrah,
Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt,
Erin Mavourneen gobragh. 
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One where the bayonets bristle,
One when there’s duty to seek. 
Each has a need of each other,
Linked on the shore and the wave,
All for the sake of one Mother—­
Honour the Brave.

Here’s to the boys of the Shamrock,
Here’s to the gallant and gay,
Bearing the flag upon donga or crag,
Blithely as children at play. 
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One though the bullets may whistle,
One in a red grave’s repose. 
Each has a need of his fellows,
Sharing the glory or grave,
Each the same destiny mellows—­
Honour the Brave.

Here’s to the girls of the shamrock,
Here’s to the glamour and grace,
Laughing on all, in hovel and hall,
Ever from Erin’s young face! 
The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,
One in the face of a missile,
One when the batteries speak. 
Each of himself is delighted
To succour the serf or the slave,
And who can deny them united?—­
Honour the Brave.