So I walked in the warm wet by-ways, not daring to

lift my eyes,

Lest love should drive me to singing my star supreme

in the skies,

And the world cried out, "We will crown him, he sings of the lights that are,

Glories of marshlight and glow-worm, not visions vain of a star!"

I said, "Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold,

I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold.

It is time to sing of my star!" for I dreamed that my star still shone,

Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone.

Drake's Drum.

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock, till the great Armadas come,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',

They shall find him ware an' wakin, as they found him long ago!

A Ballad of John Nicholson.

It fell in the year of Mutiny,

At darkest of the night,

John Nicholson by Jalandhar came,

On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalandhar came,

He thought what he must do,

And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,
To try if he were true.

"God grant your Highness length of days,
And friends when need shall be;
And I pray you send your captains hither,
That they may speak with me."

On the morrow through Jalandhar town
The captains rode in state;

They came to the house of John Nicholson,
And stood before the gate.

The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,
He was both proud and sly;

His turban gleamed with rubies red,
He held his chin full high.

He marked his fellows how they put
Their shoes from off their feet;
"Now wherefore make ye such ado,
These fallen lords to greet?

"They have ruled us for a hundred years,

In truth I know not how,

But though they be fain of mastery

They dare not claim it now."

Right haughtily before them all,
The durbar hall he trod,

With rubies red his turban gleamed,
His feet with pride were shod.

They had not been an hour together,
A scanty hour or so,

When Mehtab Singh rose in his place
And turned about to go.

Then swiftly came John Nicholson
Between the door and him,
With anger smouldering in his eyes,
That made the rubies dim.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,"
Oh, but his voice was low!

He held his wrath with a curb of iron
That furrowed cheek and brow.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh.
When that the rest are gone,
I have a word that may not wait
To speak with you alone."

The captains passed in silence forth.
And stood the door behind;

Το

go before the game was played Be sure they had no mind.