And shall the immortal sons of God Be senseless as the trodden clod, No, by the mind of man! Our souls have holy light within, And every form of grief and sin By all we hope of Heaven, Mind, mind alone Is light, and hope, and life, and power! Earth's deepest night, from this blessed hour, The night of mind, is gone! "The Press!" all lands shall sing; The Press, the Press we bring, All lands to bless. O, pallid Want! O, Labor stark! The Press, the Press, the Press! 21 DANNY DEEVER. RUDYARD KIPLING. "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-onParade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the ColorSergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the ColorSergeant 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 Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade. "A touch of sun, a touch of sun," the Color-Ser geant 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'! 'Iscot 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 Fileson-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 face; Nine 'undred of 'is country an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. |