who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame —   Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame, Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came. He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth —   E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth, In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth. So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high And made him place at the banquet board — the Strong Men ranged thereby, Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die. Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled, Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled, Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world. 

  

       BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS     

      To T. A. 

          I have made for you a song, And it may be right or wrong, But only you can tell me if it's true; I have tried for to explain Both your pleasure and your pain, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! O there'll surely come a day When they'll give you all your pay, And treat you as a Christian ought to do; So, until that day comes round, Heaven keep you safe and sound, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! R. K. 

 DANNY DEEVER     “What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade.   “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.   “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.   “I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square — they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.    “What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?” said Files-on-Parade.   “It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.   “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.   “A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound —       O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!    “'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.   “'E's sleepin' 

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