The "Grey Horse Troop" The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, All silent stood the Rebels. 2219 No unresponsive soul had heard Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, Or cold or warm, his native skies Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, But Memory, waked by Music's art, And fair the form of Music shines- John Reuben Thompson [1823-1873] THE "GREY HORSE TROOP" ALL alone on the hillside Larry an' Barry an' me; Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain, Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain, Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux, "Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; All alone on the hillside Larry an' Barry an' me; Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead— Larry beside him, as white as death; Indians galloping, galloping by, Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky! "Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Second Dragoons!" groans Larry; Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop! Whoop! ye divils-ye've got to whoop; Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I— "Cheer for the troop that never shall die!" All alone on the hillside Larry an' Barry an' me; Two of us livin' and one of us deadShot in the head, and God!-how he bled! "Larry's done up," sez Barry to me; "Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!" While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view, Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux. Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Cheer-" an' he falls on Larry. Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop! The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop; Danny Deever Two out of three lay dead, while I Cheered for the troop that never shall die. All alone on the hillside Larry an' Barry an' me; An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head, I stumbled and fell. Then over the hill There floated a trumpeter's silvery call, 2221 An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all. Drink to the Greys,-an' Barry! Second Dragoons, an' Larry! Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop! DANNY DEEVER "WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. “To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on Parade. “I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear 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 Fileson-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files on-Parade. “A touch o’sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Sergeant said. They're 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' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'—you must look 'im in the Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, "What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard fur life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-onParade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. Rudyard Kipling [1865 GUNGA DIN You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter Gunga Din You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippey hitherao! Water! get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!" The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, 2223 Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eye-brows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E was dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done; An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, |