POETRY.
A PLIGHTING NIGHT.
ON a fighting night when the shore-winds blow And the birds are hurrying fast and low, When the curlews wail on the white waves' crest When the peewits fly from the fading West; When the waders drift from the Northern shore And the tide sweeps in with a sullen roar— The moon shines glimmering cold and bright On a fighting night, on a fighting night!
On the low, bare flats where the sand bars rise, The long grass rustles, the reed-stem sighs, The wind-blown shingle lies cold and grey, The waves are calling a mile away.
The brent come sailing along the wind, The divers and dunlins flock behind, The gulls go wheeling in circles white, On a fighting night, on a fighting night !
Over the flats the widgeon cry As they rush like a gale through the darkling sky, Over the shingle the wildfowl glide To meet their prey in the shore-borne tide.
Over the ridges the hooded crow Follows the gunner to and fro, His keen eye searching to left and right, On a fighting night, on a fighting night !
On a fighting night the gunner hears The sough of the wind as it shifts and veers, The sting of the spray his forehead whips, The salt of the ooze is on his lips ; And the joy of the storm-driven, churning tide, As it seethes on the sand-wastes far and wide, Beats in his blood with a fierce delight On a fighting night, on a fighting night !
MARY BRADFORD WHITING.
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