POETRY.

BACK TO. LONDON: A POEM OF LEAVE.

I nave not wept when I have seen My stricken comrades die; I lave not wept when we hove made The place where they should lie; My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still No tear came to my eye.

There is a time to weep, saith One, A season to refrain; How should it eye, this fount of tears, While I sato in the train, So that all blurred the landscape moved Outwith the window pane?

But one short day since I had left A land upheaved and rent,

Where Swim; brirgs back no bourgeoning,

As Nature's force were spent; Yet now I travelled in a train Tiro' the kindly land of Knott A kindly land, a pleasant land.

As welcome sight to me As after pnrgatorial pains The Plains of Myren might ha, When the wondrous Goodness that is Cod Draws a soul from jeopardy.

A pleasant land, a peaceful land Of wooded hill and would, Where kiss stand knee-deep in the grass, And sheep graze in the field; A blessial land, where a wounded heart Might readily he healed.

A wholesome land, where each white road Leads to a ruddy hearth; Where still is heard the sound of song And the kindly note of mirth: Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil And the dead sleep sound i' the earth.

I have not wept when I have seen afy chosen comrades die; I here not wept while we have Jigged The grave where they should lie; Rut now I lay my head in my band Lest my comrades see me cry.

The little children, two by two, Stand on the fire-barred gate, And wave their hands to waft us home Like passengers of state; My heart is very full, so full It holds no room for bate.

The children climb the five-barred gate And blow us kisses five, The little cripple in his ear Waves from the carriage drive: Blegsed are the dead, but blessed e'ea more We soldiers still alive!

Lo! we draw near to London town, The troop train jolts and drags, The friendly poor rouse forth mica mars Tu greet us in their ratta- n:, very linen on the line Flutters and flaunts like flags!

The girls within the fakery grim Smile at the broken pane; The seamstress in her lonely rosin Sighs o'er her task again; The servant shakes her duster forth To signal our speeding train; The station names go flitting past Like old familiar friends; The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft In wondrous fashion blends, And, lot we enter London town, To where all journeying aids.

I have not wept when I have seen A hundred comradee die; have not wept when that we striped The house where they must lie— But now I hide my head in my hand Lest my roMrades see me cry.

These are the scenes, then the dear souls, 'Mid which our lot was cast, To this loved land, if Fate be kind, We shall return at last.

For this oar stern steel line we hold—

Lord, may we hold it fast!

Sergeant Josses Ise, The Black Watch.