COL. BADEN-POWELL : THE STORY OF A HERO.

ONE word of this weary war

All our hearts are waiting for, Of the hero, England bore, Kind and gay : The soul so calm whate'er befalls it; For no peril yet appals it.

And his ceaseless toil, he calls it Holiday.

Half an endless year ago, He was left amidst the foe, With some thousand men or so, As their chief.

For his country's arms miscarried, And across the desert arid Many a tedious noonday tarried The relief, But he knew his masters well ; And not fortune, nor Pall Mall, That is paven smooth as Hell, No man's word Trusted he, but God who made him, And his own good sword, to aid him ; And the soldiers that obeyed him Like his sword.

"Lo, what pigmy band, at bay On its ant-hill, bars our way?

These our guns shall sweep away In a trice."

So the scornful Dutchmen vaunted : But their braggart humour scanted, When that gallant troop undaunted Failed them thrice.

Came and went the Christmas feast, Yet the fight nor stayed nor ceased, Still the swarming foe increased; Help delayed.

And the great siege guns came, shelling

Spitfire fort and harmless dwelling, Young and old at random felling.

Man and maid. See our English Greatheart then, How he moved among his men, Gave each soul the strength of ten, Cheered and fired!

Till the famine-stricken, meagre Captives of that iron leaguer, As their colonel's self grew eager, Hope-inspired.

So, all hearts are longing for Tidings from the weary war,

Of the hero England bore,

Kind and gay: The soul so calm whate'er befalls it, For no peril yet appals it ; In his country's cause he calls it Holiday. EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.