New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

Pathetic Recitations.

It is a common saying that the public speaker who can draw both smiles and tears from his audience is the highest type of orator. The same is true of the reciter. If you would awaken pathetic emotions in the hearts of your hearers, you must have recitations suited to this purpose, tender in sentiment and full of feeling. A charming collection of such pieces is here furnished.

Put yourself fully into the spirit of each selection. Do not deliver a pathetic recitation in a cold, unfeeling manner. Look well to the tones of your voice and facial expression. If you feel the words you are uttering, the subtle influence cannot fail to move those who hear you. You cannot put on an appearance of feeling; give reality to all the emotions your words express.

PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS.

Observe the Irish brogue in this selection.

I’m thinkin’ av the goolden head

I nestled to my breast;

They’re telling me, “He’s betther off.”

And sayin’, “God knows best.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play

Where the goolden head is buried low,

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the roguish eyes

Of tender Irish gray;

They’re tellin’ me, “He’s betther off,”

And, “I’ll thank God some day.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby’s eyes all closed in death

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the little hands

That’s fastened ’round my heart;

They’re tellin’ me, “Have courage,

Sure, life’s to meet and part.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby’s hands so stiff and cold

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the noble boy

That kissed my tears away;

They’re tellin’ me, “How brave he was,

And foremost in the fray!”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby and my soldier dead—

Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know you will,

Remembering he’s away—

My boy, who proudly marched with ye

On last St. Patrick’s Day.

Play softly, boys, I know ye will,

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And your comrade lying lonely,

Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know ye will,

And hush this pain to rest—

And soothe the bitter agony

That’s tearin’ at my breast.

How can ye march at all, at all,

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And the boy who loved ye lying cold—

Close to Manila Bay?

Teresa Beatrice O’Hare.

IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.

On a dark stormy night, as the train rattled on,

All the passengers had gone to bed,

Except one young man with a babe on his arm,

Who sat there with a bowed-down head.

The innocent one commenced crying just then,

As though its poor heart would break.

One angry man said, “Make that child stop its noise,

For you’re keeping all of us awake.”

“Put it out,” said another; “don’t keep it in here,

We’ve paid for our berths and want rest.”

But never a word said the man with the child,

As he fondled it close to his breast.

“Where is its mother? Go, take it to her—”

This a lady then softly said.

“I wish that I could,” was the man’s sad reply,

“But she’s dead in the coach ahead.”

Every eye filled with tears when his story he told,

Of a wife who was faithful and true.

He told how he’s saved up his earnings for years

Just to build up a home for two.

How, when Heaven had sent them this sweet little babe,

Their young happy lives were blessed.

In tears he broke down when he mentioned her name,

And in tears tried to tell them the rest.

Every woman arose to assist with the child;

There were mothers and wives on that train,

And soon was the little one sleeping in peace,

With no thoughts of sorrow and pain.

Next morn’ at a station he bade all good-bye.

“God bless you,” he softly said.

Each one had a story to tell in their home

Of the baggage coach ahead.

While the train rolled onward a husband sat in tears,

Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years,

For baby’s face brings pictures of a cherished hope that’s dead;

But baby’s cries can’t wake her in the baggage coach ahead.

THE MISSING ONE.

The deep pathos of these lines should be expressed by a trembling utterance. Put tears in your voice, if you can do this difficult thing. All the life and spirit are taken out of the old man as he thinks of the regiment returning without his son, whose desolate grave is somewhere on the Cuban shore.

I don’t think I’ll go into town to see the boys come back;

My bein’ there would do no good in all that jam and pack;

There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come

A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum—

They’ll never miss me in the crowd—not one of ’em will care

If, when the cheers are ringin’ loud, I’m not among them there.

I went to see them march away—I hollered with the rest,

And didn’t they look fine, that day, a-marchin’ four abreast,

With my boy James up near the front, as handsome as could be,

And wavin’ back a fond farewell to mother and to me!

I vow my old knees trimbled so, when they had all got by,

I had to jist set down upon the curbstone there and cry.

And now they’re comin’ home again! The record that they won

Was sich as shows we still have men, when men’s work’s to be done!

There wasn’t one of ’em that flinched, each feller stood the test—

Wherever they were sent they sailed right in and done their best!

They didn’t go away to play—they knowed what was in store—

But there’s a grave somewhere to-day, down on the Cuban shore!

I guess that I’ll not go to town to see the boys come in;

I don’t jist feel like mixin’ up in all that crush and din!

There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come

A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum,

And the boys’ll never notice—not a one of ’em will care,

For the soldier that would miss me ain’t a goin’ to be there!

S. E. Kiser.

IN MEMORIAM.

It was a strange coincidence, and a fitting end for a noble old seaman who had given his life to the service of his country, that Rear-Admiral W. A. Kirkland, U. S. N., and once commandant at Mare Island, should die the day peace was declared between our country and Spain. In strong tones give the command, “Cease firing!” Point to “the red flames,” “the gray smoke-shrouded hills,” “the weary troops,” “the armored squadron,” etc. On the first two lines of the last verse use Figure 11 of Typical Gestures.

“Cease firing!” Lo, the bugles call—

“Cease!” and the red flame dies away.

The thunders sleep; along the gray

Smoke-shrouded hills the echoes fall.

“Cease firing!” Close the columns fold

Their shattered wings; the weary troops

Now stand at ease; the ensign droops;

The heated chargers’ flanks turn cold.

“Cease firing!” Down, with point reversed,

The reeking, crimson sabre drips;

Cool grow the fevered cannon’s lips—

Their wreathing vapors far dispersed.

“Cease firing!” From the sponson’s rim

The mute, black muzzles frown across

The sea, where swelling surges toss

The armored squadrons, silent, grim.

“Cease firing!” Look, white banners show

Along the groves where heroes sleep—

Above the graves where men lie deep—

In pure, soft flutterings of snow.

“Cease firing!” Glorious and sweet

For country ’tis to die—and comes

The Peace—and bugles blow and drums

Are sounding out the Last Retreat.

Thomas R. Gregory, U. S. N.

THE DYING NEWSBOY.

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the news-boy, dying lay,

On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day;

Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the room,

Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume.

On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn page,

Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age.

Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept

With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept.

Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day,

Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away.

And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost,

“’Ere’s the morning Sun and ’Erald—latest news of steamship lost.

“Papers, mister? Morning papers?” Then the cry fell to a moan,

Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone:

“Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine ’em like an evening star.

It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!”

Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed;

Then poor Jim’s mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head.

“Teacher,” cried he, “I remember what you said the other day,

Ma’s been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way.

“He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care

When Jim’s gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there?

Black yer boots, sir? Shine ’em right up! Papers! Read God’s book instead,

Better’n papers that to die on! Jack——” one gasp, and Jim was dead!

Mrs. Emily Thornton.

“COALS OF FIRE.”

The coffin was a plain one—no flowers on its top, no lining of rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. “I want to see my mother,” sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. “You can’t: get out of the way, boy! Why don’t somebody take the brat away?” “Only let me see her for one minute,” cried the hapless orphan, clutching the side of the charity box. And as he gazed into that rough face tears streamed down the cheek on which no childish bloom every lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him cry, “Only once! let me see my mother only once!”

Brutally, the hard-hearted monster struck the boy away, so that he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with grief and rage, his blue eyes expanded, his lips sprang apart; a fire glittered through his tears as he raised his puny arm, and with a most unchildish accent screamed, “When I am a man I’ll kill you for that!” A coffin and a heap of earth was between the mother and the poor forsaken child; a monument stronger than granite built in his boy-heart to the memory of a heartless deed.

The court house was crowded to suffocation. “Does any one appear as this man’s counsel?” asked the judge. There was silence when he finished, until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look of strange recognition blended with haughty reserve upon his handsome features, a young man, a stranger, stepped forward to plead for the erring and the friendless. The splendor of his genius entranced, convinced. The man who could not find a friend was acquitted.

“May God bless you, sir! I cannot.” “I want no thanks,” replied the stranger, with icy coldness. “I—I believe you are unknown to me.” “Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you struck a broken-hearted boy away from his poor mother’s coffin; I was that poor, miserable boy.” “Have you rescued me, then, to take my life?” “No! I have a sweeter revenge: I have saved the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in my breast for twenty years. Go, and remember the tears of a friendless child.”

DIRGE OF THE DRUMS.

The effect produced by this selection will depend very much upon the manner in which you speak the constantly repeated word, “Dead!” It should be spoken with subdued force, rather slowly, and in a low tone. Show intense emotion, but not in a boisterous manner.

Dead! Dead! Dead!

To the solemn beat of the last retreat

That falls like lead,

Bear the hero now to his honored rest

With the badge of courage upon his breast,

While the sun sinks down in the gleaming West—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

Dead! Dead! Mourn the dead!

While the mournful notes of the bugles float

Across his bed,

And the guns shall toll on the vibrant air

The knell of the victor lying there—

’Tis a fitting sound for a soldier’s prayer—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

To the muffled beat of the lone retreat

And speeding lead,

Lay the hero low to his well-earned rest,

In the land he loved, on her mother breast,

While the sunlight dies in the darkening West—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

Ralph Alton.

THE OLD DOG’S DEATH POSTPONED.

Any one at all familiar with farm life knows that when the old dog becomes blind, toothless and helpless it is the sad but humane duty of the farmer to put an end to his sufferings; it is generally done by taking him off to the woods and shooting him. Although the new dog quickly wins his place in our affections, the old is not soon forgotten, and more than one story begins: “You remember how old Fide.” Give strong expression in the last verse to the old man’s sudden change of purpose.

Come along old chap, yer time’s ’bout up,

We got another brindle pup;

I ’lows it’s tough an’ mighty hard,

But a toothless dog’s no good on guard,

So trot along right after me,

An’ I’ll put yeh out o’ your misery.

Now, quit yer waggin’ that stumpy tail—

We ain’t a-goin’ fer rabbit er quail;

’Sides, you couldn’t pint a bird no more,

Yer old an’ blind an’ stiff an’ sore,

An’ that’s why I loaded the gun to-day

Yer a-gittin’ cross an’ in the way.

I been thinkin’ it over; ’taint no fun.

I don’t like to do it, but it’s got to be done;

Got sort of a notion, you know, too,

The kind of a job we’re goin’ to do,

Else why would yeh hang back that-a-way,

Yeh ain’t ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey!

Frisky dog in them days, I note,

When yeh nailed the sneakthief by the throat;

Can’t do that now, an’ there ain’t no need

A-keepin’ a dog that don’t earn his feed.

So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup;

Come along, old chap, yer time’s ’bout up.

We’ll travel along at an easy jog—

Course, you don’t know, bein’ only a dog;

But I can mind when you wuz sprier,

’Wakin’ us up when the barn caught fire—

It don’t seem possible, yet I know

That wuz close onto fifteen years ago.

My, but yer hair wuz long an’ thick

When yeh pulled little Sally out o’ the crick;

An’ it came in handy that night in the storm,

We coddled to keep each other warm.

Purty good dog, I’ll admit—but, say,

What’s the use o’ talkin’ yeh had yer day.

I’m hopin’ the children won’t hear the crack,

Er what’ll I say when I get back?

They’d be askin’ questions, I know their talk,

An’ I’d have to lie ’bout a chicken hawk;

But the sound won’t carry beyond this hill,

All done in a minute—don’t bark, stand still.

There, that’ll do; steady, quit lickin’ my hand,

What’s wrong with this gun, I can’t understand;

I’m jest ez shaky ez I can be—

Must be the agey’s the matter with me.

An’ that stitch in the back—what! gitten’ old too—

The—dinner—bell’s—ringin’—fer—me—an’ you.

Charles E. Baer.

THE FALLEN HERO.

He went to the war in the morning—

The roll of the drums could be heard.

But he paused at the gate with his mother

For a kiss and a comforting word.

He was full of the dreams and ambitions

That youth is so ready to weave,

And proud of the clank of his sabre

And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve.

He came from the war in the evening—

The meadows were sprinkled with snow,

The drums and the bugles were silent,

And the steps of the soldier were slow.

He was wrapped in the flag of his country

When they laid him away in the mould,

With the glittering stars of a captain

Replacing the chevrons of gold.

With the heroes who slept on the hillside

He lies with a flag at his head,

But, blind with the years of her weeping,

His mother yet mourns for her dead.

The soldiers who fall in the battle

May feel but a moment of pain,

But the women who wait in the homesteads

Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain.

Minna Irving.

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.

He offered himself for the land he loved,

But what shall we say for her?

He gave to his country a soldier’s life;

’Twas dearer by far to the soldier’s wife,

All honor to-day to her!

He went to the war while his blood was hot,

But what shall we say of her?

He saw himself through the battle’s flame

A hero’s reward on the scroll of fame:

What honor is due to her?

He offered himself, but his wife did more,

All honor to-day to her!

For dearer than life was the gift she gave

In giving the life she would die to save;

What honor is due to her?

He gave up his life at his country’s call,

But what shall we say of her?

He offered himself as a sacrifice,

But she is the one who pays the price,

All honor we owe to her.

Elliott Flower.

“BREAK THE NEWS GENTLY.”

There on the ground he lay, a fireman so brave,

He’d risked his life, he’d fallen, a little child to save;

Life’s stream was ebbing fast away, his comrades all stood by,

And listened to his dying words, while tears bedimmed each eye:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There in her home she rests, that mother old and gray,

She lost a son, but others—they took his place that day;

And nobly do they care for her and honor her gray head,

In mem’ry of their comrade and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There on the wall it hangs, within the engine-room,

The picture of the bravest lad that ever faced his doom;

And, as they point it out and speak the virtues of the dead,

They tell about that awful night and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

ON THE OTHER TRAIN.

“There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn’t you trot that old woman aboard her train? She’ll have to wait now until the 1.05 A.M.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Yes, I did tell you. ’Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness.”

“She——”

“She! You fool! What else could you expect of her! Probably she hasn’t any wit; besides, she isn’t bound on a very jolly journey—got a pass up the road to the poor-house. I’ll go and tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I don’t make mince-meat of you!” and our worthy ticket-agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate.

“You’ve missed your train, marm,” he remarked, coming forward to a queer-looking bundle in the corner.

A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw.

“Never mind,” said a quivering voice.

“’Tis only three o’clock now; you’ll have to wait until the night train, which doesn’t go up until 1.05.”

“Very well, sir; I can wait.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way.”

“No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I haven’t any money.”

“Very well,” said the agent, turning away indifferently. “Simmons will tell you when it’s time.”

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare indeed that any one takes the night express, and almost always, after I have struck ten, the depot becomes silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his great coat, and bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never expect to again.

The fire had gone down—it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor, pinched face.

“I can’t believe it,” she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. “Oh! I can’t believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, ‘Ise love you, mamma;’ and now, O God! they’ve turned against me. Where am I going? To the poor-house! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!”

And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer: “O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; spare me!”

The wind rose higher, and swept through the crevices icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his heavy blanket more closely around him.

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.

At last she became quieter, and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see ’twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say:

“’Tis train time, ma’am. Come!”

A look of joy came over her face.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

“Then give me your pass, ma’am.”

She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read aloud:

“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“That’s the pass over our road, ma’am. Are you ready?”

The light died away and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start, and snatched his lantern. The whistles sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.

“Wake up, marm; ’tis train time.”

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white, set face, and dropping his lantern, fled.

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted “All aboard,” but no one made a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict “apoplexy,” and it was in some way hushed up.

They laid her out in the depot, and advertised for her friends, but no one came. So, after the second day they buried her.

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know that she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poor-house.

SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.

It were well worth while to insert this wonderfully beautiful and pathetic selection here to preserve it in enduring type, but it has the additional merit of being a most excellent piece for recitation. The author’s assumed name was “James Pipes, of Pipesville.” His real name you may see below the lines.

I’ve wandered to the village, Tom; I’ve sat beneath the tree

Upon the school house playground that sheltered you and me;

But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know,

Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, Tom; bare-footed boys at play

Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay.

But the “master” sleeps upon the hill, which coated o’er with snow,

Afforded us a sliding place, some twenty years ago.

The old school house is altered now, the benches are replaced

By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced;

But the same old bricks are in the wall; the bell swings to and fro;

It’s music just the same, dear Tom, ’twas twenty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game beneath that same old tree;

I have forgot the name just now—you’ve played the same with me

On that same spot; ’twas played with knives, by throwing so and so;

The loser had a task to do—these twenty years ago.

The river’s running just as still; the willows on its side

Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide;

But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau,

And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled ’neath the hill close by the spreading beach

Is very low—’twas then so high that we could scarcely reach;

And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so,

To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name;

Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same;

Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; ’twas dying sure but slow,

Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes;

I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties;

I visited the old church yard, and took some flowers to strow

Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea;

But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me;

And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go,

I hope they’ll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago.

Stephen Marsell.

ONLY A SOLDIER.

Unarmed and unattended walks the Czar,

Through Moscow’s busy street one winter’s day.

The crowd uncover as his face they see—

“God greet the Czar!” they say.

Along his path there moved a funeral,

Gray spectacle of poverty and woe,

A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man,

Slowly across the snow.

And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,

Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare,

And he who drew it bent before his load,

With dull and sullen air.

The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man;

“Who is’t thou bearest to the grave?” he said.

“Only a soldier, sire!” the short reply,

“Only a soldier, dead.”

“Only a soldier!” musing, said the Czar;

“Only a Russian, who was poor and brave.

Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not

Unhonored to his grave.”

He bent his head, and silent raised his cap;

The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow,

Following the coffin, as again it went

Slowly across the snow.

The passers of the street, all wondering,

Looked on that sight, then followed silently;

Peasant and prince, the artisan and clerk,

All in one company.

Still, at they went the crowd grew ever more,

Till thousands stood around the friendless grave,

Led by that princely heart, who royal, true,

Honored the poor and brave.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they?

The waves that brought them o’er

Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,

As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day

When the Mayflower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When summer’s throned on high,

And the world’s warm breast is in verdure dressed.

Go stand on the hill where they lie:

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast,

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well,

Then glory to that valiant band,

The honored saviours of the land!

Oh! few and weak their numbers were—

A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,

And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,

And sent them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,

Their flocks and herds without a fold,

The sickle in the unshorn grain,

The corn half garnered on the plain,

And mustered, in their simple dress,

For wrongs to seek a stern redress;

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe

To perish, or o’ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men,

And where are ye to-day?

I call: the hills reply again,

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker’s lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,

The grass grows green, the harvest bright,

Above each soldier’s mound.

The bugle’s wild and warlike blast

Shall muster them no more;

An army now might thunder past,

And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag, ’neath which they fought

In many a bloody fray,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have passed away.

New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

About This Book

Pathetic Recitations.

PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS.

IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.

THE MISSING ONE.

IN MEMORIAM.

THE DYING NEWSBOY.

“COALS OF FIRE.”

DIRGE OF THE DRUMS.

THE OLD DOG’S DEATH POSTPONED.

THE FALLEN HERO.

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.

“BREAK THE NEWS GENTLY.”

ON THE OTHER TRAIN.

SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.

ONLY A SOLDIER.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.