By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 14

Now the eagle's wrath is burning, he is eager for the fray, And the robbers who aroused him long will rue the bitter day When he sweeps down from his aerie in the fury of his fire-- Sudden death will clutch the vitals of the victims of his ire!

Yea, the eagle's wings are spreading, n.o.bly spreading to the breeze, And their awful sweep shall bear him over land and over seas: Men and money move in millions where those mighty pinions rest, And G.o.d help misguided minions who have monkeyed with his nest!

Brave, determined northern neighbor, hold the "hills" so dearly won-- Hold the hills until the Eagle strikes with you to crush the Hun!

Courage! Allies, friends of freedom, in this war we're all akin-- Carry on! Old Glory's with you on the red road to Berlin!

IN MEMORY of DONALD McLEOD

Of North Hill, Lingwick, Who Died of Smallpox, at Flagstaff, Arizona, on the 2nd day of March, 1882.

The sun hath set and leaves the day, as when the soul hath left its clay, The pale soft tints of twilight spread from east to west.

The evening breeze that fans my cheek with mellow cadence seems to speak, Then sighing onward through the dusk it sinks to rest.

On nights like this my fancy strays, to loved ones lost in other days; Whom gold had tempted to the sunset land afar; Brave boys whose hopes of future wealth were blasted by thy power O Death, Whose mandates wage on old and young a constant war.

Among the lads so kind and true, who sought the land of golden hue, To meet amid its glittering hopes an early doom, Was Lingwick's strongest, lealest man, the joy and pride of all his clan, As brave a youth as ever graced a Compton home.

Dear comrade of my younger days, my muse is weak to sing thy praise, But love is strong howe'er so feeble be my strain; And though you're sleeping cold and still, on Flagstaff's distant pine-clad hill, Fond memory often flits to thee across the plain.

I loved e'er childhood's days were pa.s.sed: I'll love you on until the last; E'en when the clouds of death approach I'll think of thee; Oh, bitter fate! Oh, woeful hour! that cut thee down in manhood's power; Thrice bitter if death's chains could bind eternally.

But blessed promise, hopeful friend, that tells us death is not the end, That brighter prospects loom for all beyond the wave.

Oh, sing aloud the glad refrain, that friend with friend will meet again!

For love like this can ne'er be conquered by the grave.

What though the red men roam at will, from arid plain to cooler hill, Regardless of the mounds that lie amid the groves: What though our children find their graves with ghosts of long departed braves, The spot is one the G.o.d of nature dearly loves.

In Arizona's distant land, where cyclones drift the heated sand, And where the tall, majestic pine tree branches wave; Where gaunt coyotes prowl for prey, through storm and calm, by night and day, There in their midst there lies a lone, neglected grave.

Were eloquence immortal mine I'd sing of scenes the most sublime, Of any nature ever lavished here below.

G.o.d's majesty seems here unfurled as elsewhere not in all the world,-- An earthly paradise o'erspread by heaven's glow.

How fitting that thy sun went down, so near the spot that wears earth's crown,-- The Colorado Canyon country, weird and dim; No grander land beneath the skies in which to die, in which to rise; And nature's G.o.d will care for all who sleep in Him.

What though, alas, fond earthly hopes are buried in yon western slopes, And gentle mothers grieve for loved ones lying there: Though maidens sigh with sad unrest, for lovers true who died out west; The bitter heartache soon will cease and all be fair.

But Donald's manly voice still rings within our ears, and memory clings To all the charms that marked his life while still below: And often now our fancy's flight doth wing its journey to that night, That marks his lonely death amid the mountain snow.

The prairie wolves of stealthy tread already seemed to scent the dead; Their fitful howls were borne upon the midnight air; The western world was wrapped in gloom, from sandy waste to heaven's dome, When Donald closed his weary eyes and pa.s.sed from care.

The air within the mountain camp was uncongenial, cold and damp: And springtide gales were moaning dismally outside: No loving hand was there to press his fevered brow with fond caress, No gentle voice to whisper comfort when he died.

Dear Balloch Ban, thou'rt now at rest; thy sun went down far in the West.

Alas! no more to rise, until the Judgment Day; No truer heart e'er ceased to beat, no braver soul O Death did greet, Thy awful presence since the earth hath owned thy sway.

And now he sleeps beneath the sod, where grand old mountain pine trees nod Their lofty plumes beneath the far-off, distant dome!

Oh, stranger, should you linger near, drop on this lonely grave a tear, In memory of the boy that sleeps so far from home.

OVER THE TOP

A l.u.s.ty lad from Lewis,-- Bright gem from Britain's crown-- a.s.sailed by Huns with gas and guns In "No Man's Land" was down.

No power on earth can save him, 'Tis madness, then, to try; Still to the deed sprang forth with speed A balloch ban from Skye!

He volunteered to enter That zone of certain death, And unafraid went forth to aid, While thousands held their breath.

Thru all that h.e.l.l of fire He sped like mountain deer-- On sh.e.l.l-torn ground his comrade found, And bore him to the rear.

Their comrades gather 'round them To do what mortals can: But--cruel fate!--they found them Beyond the help of man.

One whispers, "Da mar ha u?"

"Gla vadh," the friend replied; Then rescuer and rescued "Went over" side by side!

How marred the manly beauty!

Now torn by shot and sh.e.l.l-- Ye Huns have done your duty And served your master well!

Poor bleeding, broken bodies To mother earth consign-- The spirit of the laddies Ye cannot more confine.

Over the top together-- Over the great gray host-- Homing like birds of freedom, Back to their rock-bound coast.

Over the top together!

Out from the fighting list: Home where the purple heather Blooms in the Highland mist.

Sons of mothers returning-- Souls from the clod set free: Back where the home guards, yearning, Pray that their eyes might see--

See through the veil between them, Though but a brief, brief glance, Into the eyes of loved ones, Dead on the fields of France!

Home where the curlew's calling Notes that are wild and free!

Home, where the mist is falling Into a storm-tossed sea.

Parents of brave, dead soldiers, Dear sisters, sweethearts, wives, Is there no balm in Gilead For all the dear lost lives?

Yes, there's a balm in knowing They died for you and me: Their precious blood bestowing, The price of liberty!

Dear l.u.s.ty lad from Lewis: Brave blue-eyed boy from Skye: In this great war you show us How bravely men can die!

THE ALKALI LAND