Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: “How are you, White Hat?” “Put her through!” “Your head’s level!” and “Bully for you!” Called him “Daddy,”--begged he’d disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off-- With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. ’Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man’s strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. Thus raged the battle. You know the rest; How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge and ran. At which John Burns-a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question’s whether You’ll show a hat that’s white, or a feather. [Illustration] [Illustration] WOMAN’S WAR MISSION. Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back, in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir and bower; But come with your souls in your faces-- To meet the stern needs of the hour! Look around! By the torchlight unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. What! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission’s begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Fame presses her lips to each scar, As she chants of a glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.