That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek, Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, O skylark, sing in the blue; Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, And my soul shall sing with you. Reprinted by permission of the author from her book, Songs of the Golden Gate, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Tipperary in the Spring Denis Aloysius McCarthy Denis Aloysius McCarthy was born in Ireland, July 25, 1870. He later came to United States and became an editorial writer for The Herald, Boston, and other publications. He devotes himself to editorials and to lecturing on literary, patriotic, and social topics. As in so much lyric poetry, the problem here is to maintain the proper balance between the music and the sense. The lines where there are syllables lacking to make up the verse should be studied carefully, in order that they may be made to fit in with the rhythm of the other, more regular lines. Ан, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, With their singing and their winging to and fro: ture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring, And the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, When mists are rising from the lea, When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling, And the Suir goes crooning to the sea; And the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers That the lavish hand of May will fling; Where in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, When life like the year is young, When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom breaking, And love words linger on the tongue; When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, And love dreams cluster and cling Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, half of pain Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! Reprinted by permission. Copyrighted by Little, Brown and Company. The Drum Edward Forrester Sutton Edward Forrester Sutton lives at 248 Central Park West, New York City. He has written much verse for current magazines. As yet his poems have not been published in book form, but a collection is being contemplated. This is a selection that would delight the old-time elocutionist. Do not carry the imitation of the drum too far. Bring out the import of the poem as you go along. Cast the message of each sort of drum in a different key. Do not forget to slow down the rate of utterance when the muffled drum is reached. Use all the elocution you possess, but use it sensibly, not grotesquely. THERE'S a rhythm down the road where the elms overarch Of the drum, of the drum, There's a glint through the green, there's a column on the march, Here they come, here they come, To the flat resounding clank they are tramping rank on rank, And the bayonet flashes ripple from the flank to the flank. "I am rhythm, marching rhythm," says the drum. "No aid am I desiring of the loud brazen choiring "Of bugle or of trumpet, the lilt and the lyring, "I'm the slow dogged rhythm, unending, untiring, "I am rhythm, marching rhythm," says the drum. "I am rhythm, dogged rhythm, and the plodders feel me with 'em "I'm the two miles an hour that is empire, that is power, "I'm the slow resistless crawl in the dust-cloud's choking pall, "I'm the marching days that run from the dawn to set of sun, "I'm the rifle and the kit and the dragging weight of it, "I'm the jaws grimly set and the faces dripping sweat, "I'm the how, why, and when, the Almighty made for men," Says the rhythm, marching rhythm, of the drum. "Did you call my song 'barbaric?' Did you mutter, 'out of date'? "When you hear me with the foemen then your cry will come too late. "Here are hearts a-beating for you, to my pulsing as I come, "To the rhythm, tramping rhythm, "To the rhythm, dogged rhythm, There's a clashing snarling rhythm down the valley broad and ample Of the drum, kettledrum, There's a low, swelling rumor that is cavalry a-trample, Here they come, here they come, To the brassy crash and wrangle, to the horseman's clink and jangle, And the restive legs beneath 'em all a-welter and a-tangle. "I am rhythm, dancing rhythm," says the drum. "White and sorrel, roan and dapple, hocks as shiny as an apple, "Don't they make a splendid showing, ears a-pricking, tails a-blowing? "Good boys-bless 'em-well they're knowing all my tricks to set 'em going "To my rhythm, clashing rhythm!" says the drum. "I am rhythm, clashing rhythm, and the horses feel me with 'em. "I'm the foray and the raid, I'm the glancing sabre blade. "Now I'm here, now I'm there, flashing on the unaware, "How I scout before the ranks, how I cloud along the flanks, "How the highway smokes behind me let the faint stars tell that find me "All night through, all night through, when the bridles drip with dew. "I'm the labor, toil, and pain, I'm the loss that shall be gain," Says the rhythm, clashing rhythm, of the drum. "Did you speak of 'useless slaughter'? Did you murmur 'Christian love'? "Pray that such as these before you, when the war cloud bursts above, |