THE DRUMMER.

A BLOOD RED battle sunset stains

The lurid winter sky : What spirit stirs within our veins And lifts our hearts so high?

Gives youth no peace, gives age no sleep, For listening to the roll Of the smitten parchment sounding deep Its tocsin to the soul: Rataplan I Its rolling, rhythmic, rude alarum to the listening soul.

For yester-noon, the folk that rid Their thresholds from the snow, Saw through the still streets ermine-hid

The dwarfish Drummer go—

A. war-worn ancient, travel-stained Beating a weird tattoo, Whose cunning lilt its hearers chained And caught them, ere they knew : Rataplan!

That straight they sprang from shop and stall, and followed

ere they knew.

For here the blear-eyed smith forsook His forge-fire just aflame ; And from his leathern apron shook The cinders as he came.

He left his clinking anvil dumb On noisier business bound, Shrill treble to the booming dram His mighty blows resound : Rataplan !

The clashing, clanging music of his mighty blows resound.

And there unwonted ardour lit The trader's wrinkled face, Till wondering neighbours saw him quit The crowded market-place ; The tinkle of the gathered pence Forgotten, as he heard, Athwart the rending veil of sense, The tambour's master-word : Rataplan !

In sudden stern staccato, the drum's imperious word.

Ere the slow priest his blessing said, The bridegroom left the bride.

The mourner left the cherished dead His love had watched beside.

Pressed close and fast through lane and street The ever-thickening throng ; All stepping to the measured beat That marshalled them along : Rataplan!

The teasing, tripping measure that led their lines along.

Red sunset shot with sanguine stains : A sword across the sky : What sacred fever swells our veins, And lifts our hearts so high ?

Gives youth no peace, gives age no rest That hears the throbbing roll That knocks so hard against the breast And shakes the hidden soul: Rataplan !

That strikes the heart within the breast, and wakes the sleeping soul. EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.