Stand here at the head of the lines of spectator soldiers--here where that significant mound is; here at the spot selected as a last resting-place--and observe. The whole Brigade, some of the regiments sadly attenuated, is on parade, and has formed funeral procession, under Colonel Pole-Carew. First come the pipers, and it is seen that they have for the nonce discarded their service kit, and are in the full dress of their several clans. "Savage and shrill" is the Byronic description of the pibroch, which, in the "noon of night," startled the joyous revellers before Waterloo. Now it is a low, deep wail, yet voluminous and weirdly euphonious, that comes from the music-makers of the Highlands, and every heart stands still to listen. Oh, so sad it is!

"The Flowers of the Forest"--("He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down")--they are--playing, shall I say? No; rather does the music flow out from the very souls of the pipers in a succession of strangely harmonious moans, and soul calls to soul. Yet beneath it all, beneath the dominant note of heart-bursting sorrow, lurks that other element--"the savage and shrill." Yes, indeed; soul calls to soul through these pipes--calls for sobs and tears for the brave who have fallen--calls for vengeance on the yet unbeaten foe. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Following the pipers marches a small armed party. It would have been the firing party, but volleys are not fired over soldiers' graves in time of war. Then the chaplain, in his robes, preceding the corpse of General Wauchope (who had fallen at the head of his men), borne on a stretcher.

One of the bearers is of the dead man's kin--a promising young Highland officer. Then come the several regiments of the Brigade, the Black Watch leading. The men march with arms reversed, stately, erect, stern, grim.

They lift their feet high for the regulation step of the slow, funeral march. But observe that even in their grim sternness these men are quivering with an emotion which they cannot control--an emotion which pa.s.ses out in magnetic waves from their ranks to those of their comrade spectators of England and Ireland, and brings tears to the eyes and choking sobs to the throats of the strong and the brave. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

In a separate grave, at the head of a long, shallow trench, the body of General Wauchope is laid, in sight of and facing the foe. The chaplain advances, and the solemn service for the dead is recited in a clear and markedly Scotch voice, while all bow their heads and either listen or ponder. A grief-stricken kinsman's quivering hand drops earth upon the body at the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and the grave of the General is quickly filled in. There, beside the trench, already lie the corpses of fifty officers and men. They had been carried to the burial place earlier in the day. There, at the end nearer to the General's grave, the officers are laid. Beside them their comrades of minor rank in life, all brought to a worldly level by the hand of death, are placed in the trench. It is an excavation only about three feet deep, but it is twelve feet wide, and the dead men are put feet to feet in two parallel rows, twenty-five on each side. They are fully attired, just as they were brought in from the battlefield, and each is wrapped in his blanket. The sporan is turned over on to the dead face, and the kilt thrown back, the rigid limbs showing bare and scarred in the unfilled trench. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Once more the chaplain steps forward, and a new funeral service is commenced. Again great, powerful men weep. Some grow faint, some pray, some curse. "Oh, G.o.d! oh, G.o.d!" is the cry which comes from bursting hearts as comrades are recognised, and soil is sprinkled over them by hard, rough hands, which tremble now as they never trembled in the face of a foe. Then the burial parties get to work, gently as a sweet woman tucks the bedclothes round her sleeping child. The soft soil falls kindly upon the shreds of humanity beneath. Men cease to weep, and catch something of the "rapture of repose" of which a poet has sung.

Mother Earth has claimed her own, and the brave are sleeping their last sleep in her kindly embrace. Again the dirge of the pipes, and the sweet strains of "Lochaber no more" fill the evening air. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Meanwhile, the cable has carried its budget of sad messages to the old land. There, in a wee cottage by the bonnie burn side, the bereaved mother bows her aged head and says, "Thy will be done." There also the heart-broken once wife, newly-made widow, pours out the anguish of her soul as she clasps her fatherless bairn to her warm bosom. Her man comes no more. For the Highland Brigade has buried its dead.

_AUSTRALIA'S CALL TO ARMS._

BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Sons of ocean-girdled islands, Where the southern billows sigh, Wake! arise! the dread Bellona Speeds her chariot through the sky; Yea, the troubled star of danger On Britannia shineth down-- Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown!

In the hour of Britain's peril Shall we falter, while the fires Still are glowing on our altars From the ashes of our sires?

Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour, For the l.u.s.tre of her crown, Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown!

Ye are children of a nation, Ye are scions of the sires That of old were in the vanguard Of the world's wide empires!

With the spirit of your fathers, With the fulness of their fame, Wake! arise! maintain the honour Of her name, of her name!

Long to Britain may "the crimson Thread of kinship" bind our wings!-- Crimson thread that slowly slackens As the newer race upsprings: Sons of heroes, men of courage That reverse could never tame, Wake! arise! maintain the glory Of her name, of her name!

See! the star of ancient Britain, That hath never known decline, By your valour lit up newly, With a glow of fiercer shine, O'er the burning sands of Afric, With your loyalty aflame; Once again maintain the glory Of her name, of her name!

_GOOD NEWS._

Moostarchers and hair black as jet, Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile; Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set-- A New Chum in manners and style.

That's him, sir--that's him; he's been here A matter of nigh fourteen weeks, Which I know by the rent in arrear, Though a gent--you can tell when he speaks-- Came one night about eight, hired the room Without board--it's four shillings, and cheap, Though I say it, and me and the broom, And good yaller soap for its keep; And a widow with nine, which the twins-- Bless their 'arts--are that st.u.r.dy and bold At their tricks soon as daylight begins, Even now when it's perishing cold O' mornings; and Betsy, my girl, As answered the door, sir, for you, She's so slow for her age, though a pearl When there's any long job to get through; And Bobby--but there, I forgot; You'll pardon a mother, I know.

Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot, And then I could see funds was low.

He dressed just as neat, but his coat Got b.u.t.toned up nigher his chin, And the scarf twisted round his poor throat Missed a friend in the shape of a pin.

So the rent it run on, for, says I, He's out of his luck, I can see, And wants all his money to buy His wittles (you brat, let that be).

Where he works I can't tell, but he's out Every morning at nine from the house, And he comes back at six or about, And ups to his room like a mouse.

On Sundays the same, so I s'pose He visits his friends on that day, But where it may be that he goes It's not in my knowledge to say.

He ain't well. I can tell by his walk; He's as thin as a lath, and _that_ pale; But I never could get him to talk, So I can't rightly guess what may ail.

He never sends out for no beer, He don't smoke, and as far as I see, Beyond the few clothes he brought here, And a desk, he's as hard up as me.

What! you bring him good news; I _am_ glad!

A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la!

That's the physic for _you_, my poor lad.

This way, sir; it's not very far.

Mind that stair, please--the banister's broke.

Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep.

Can't help it--you'd better be woke; The news is too pretty to keep.

Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rocked To rest in the Kingdom of Nod.

We'd better go in. It's not locked.

Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my G.o.d!

GARNET WALCH.

_FREE TRADE v. PROTECTION._

Yes, they were boys together in the grand old Fatherland, They fubbed at taw together, played truant hand-in-hand, They sucked each other's toffy, they cribbed each other's tops, They pledged eternal friendship in an ounce of acid drops.

With no tie of blood between them, a greater bond was theirs, Cemented by the constant swop of apples, nuts, and pears; And when to manhood they had grown, with manhood's hispid chins, They held as close together still as Siam's famous twins.

And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be, So Jobbins came with Dobbins across the restless main, And they traded as D., J. & Co., and gained much worldly gain.

Each gave the other dinners, each drank the other's health, Each looked upon the other as a "mine of mental wealth,"

And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be.

But ah! for human nature--alas for human kind-- There came a cloud between them, with a lot more clouds behind.

The Tariff was the demon fell which sad disruption made, For our Dobbins loved Protection, while our Jobbins loved Free Trade.

As partners now in business, they could no more agree, So they forthwith dissoluted and halved the s. d.

And the fiercest opposition in every sort of way, Was carried on by Dobbins _versus_ Jobbins day by day.

Then Dobbins entered Parliament, and so did Jobbins too, And each upheld his principles amidst that motley crew-- And the side that Dobbins voted with were victors of the hour.

And Dobbins was made Treasurer while Jobbins' grapes were sour.

Then Dobbins went to work with glee, protecting everything, And gave his pet proclivities the very fullest swing, Set all the manger-loving dogs a-barking in his praise, And raised the Tariff up kite-high, a real four-aces' raise.

He taxed the pots, he taxed the pans, he taxed the children's mugs, He taxed the brooms, he taxed the mops, He taxed the jars and jugs; In soft and hardware every line was smothered by his dues, Except the national _tin tax_--the Ministerial _screws_.

He taxed each article of food, each article of wear, He even taxed fresh water, and he tried to tax fresh air; He improvised new duties, new taxes by the score, And when he stopped awhile to think he taxed his brain for more.

And not one blessed cla.s.s of goods was entered at the port, But what he advaloremed till he made importers snort; Till even old Protectionists, grown h.o.a.ry in the cause, Began to change to fidgets what had started as applause.

Poor Jobbins suffered hugely by his whilom partner's tricks, But found it rather dangerous to kick against the p.r.i.c.ks; He had to grin and bear it, as many a worthy man Has grinned and borne it in his turn since this mad world began.

Now Dobbins, flushed with Fortune's smiles, his high ambition fed, Bethought him that the time had come when he might safely wed.

So by the wire electrical, as he had nicely planned, He sent this loving message to the grand old Fatherland.