POETRY.
IN LAST YEAR'S CAMP.
THEY stole the gorse's glory, they scared the foals at play, They yearned for Tipperary on every woodland way ; Their tent peaks pricked the dawning, their bugles shook the
dew,
While the encamped Division became the men we knew.
The tents were struck at twilight, the pipers skirled a cry, The stars came out in Heaven to bid the lads good-bye, That night they took the Old Road, the straightest road that runs,
Deep with the dust of armies, and graven by their guns.
Now tentleas lie the moorlands, the glades most lonely are; But still the russet ponies stand solemnly afar ; And still I think they hearken, and know the sound of men- The marching tramp of heroes we shall not see again.
Now leave we to its glory the camp of yesterday, Vex not its echoes lightly—their souls may come this way, The lads who out the bracken when beechen leaves were red, And, ere the cuckoo's calling, were England's Deathless Dead!
M. ADAIR MACDONALD.
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