POETRY. •
THE EXILES.* WATCH how the South-bound swallows go I
What manner of folk are they ?
Out of the sky they came to you,
Guests of a summer's day,—
Born in your sheltering thatch, and bred A fortnight's flight away.
But when your days are warm and bright, And God shall lend them weather, Their schooled battalions take their flight A thousand wings together ; Each year the native-born come back To flock with their own feather.
• This poem was written while the author was a prisoner of war at Pretoria. It first appeared in the manuscript paper circulated among the prisoners.
So, Mother-country, of thy sons
A many men there be
Whose lot hath cast them all abroad, Whose hearts have stayed with thee, Who yield thee praise from the skirts of the earth, And the fringe of the nether sea.
England, behold! our arms are strong, Our shoulders broad to bear; All that the Gentiles cast on thee Our birthright 'tis to share, And when thy legions face the field The exiles will be there !
From every continent and sea Our fancies homeward fly.
Grant, though we sojourned long abroad, We all come home to die, • Each, like a native Englishman, In English earth to lie !
PERCEVAL GIBBON.
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