We strive at tennis, Harry, John, and I,
And my boy Charlie on a Surrey lawn ;
The rackets sweetly click, the swift balls fly, While "fault 1" and "deuce P' and "vantage!" are the cry. From the near village sounds the Coach-guard's horn, The air is soft and still, the sun is bright, The autumn beds are full of crimson flowers
And scent of mignonette. Ali, what a sight !
What gracious peace in this dear land of ours 1 And over yonder is another strife, A crimsoner garden and a crueller horn ; Yells on the terrible breeze of battle borne, Poor men ball-riddled, or, where yet is life, Spattered with mud and filth, swords broke, the breath Lost in hoarse whispers.* There the only cry , Is battle, murder, and most sudden death, While flame and smoke sully the autumn sky, Ah, what a acene for the all-pitying Eye! M.
* See Daily News Oorreopondalit, September 18, 1877 .
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