23 SEPTEMBER 1905, Page 17

[Many of the bodies of those killed in the Boer

War are being removed to the town cemeteries.]

WHAT is the cry that breaks in on our sleeping P Who is it cometh to trouble our rest, Coming to bear us away to the city, Crying our graves are apart and unblest ?

Is not our blood more than oil of anointing, Bullet-scored rock than the shade of a dome, More than the fairest of marble engraving, Praise of our country and tears of our home?

Are not the prayers that our comrades prayed o'er us While the shrill bullet sped fierce on its way More than the blessing a stranger can give us, More than the prayers that unmenaced ye pray ?

Leave us to lie where the bullet bath laid us, Valley or plain or the stony hillside, Deep in the trench that our comrades have made us,