Hear the guns, hear the guns! High above the splutter-sputter Of the Maxim, and the stutter Of the rifles, hear them shrieking. See the searching shells come sneaking, Softly speaking, Slyly seeking, Thirsting, bursting, shrapnel-leaking Where the ranks are thickest--tearing Mighty gaps among the daring. Charging horse and rider stumble, And brigades fall in a jumble; Earthworks crumble, Standards tumble, And the driving bayonets fumble, But unsated, Still the hated Cannon thunder, unabated. Hear them rumble, Hear them grumble, Hear the old song of the guns! “Send your sons, Send your sons, All your near ones, All your dear ones; Give us food! Give us food! Give the strongest of your brood. Let us feed! Let us feed! On the bravest that you breed. Give us meat, Give us meat, Oh, the blood of Valor’s sweet!” And the women make reply: Ah, the glory of the lie-- “Look, no tear is in our eye. Rather would we see you die For your country, than stand by. Rather would we boast to tell To your children that you fell, Than to have you lurk and sell Honor for a coward’s breath; Better far the soldier’s death. Go and battle for the land. Make a stand! Make a stand! Go and join the dauntless band. Take a hand! Take a hand! Count not us--God will provide!” Thus the women in their pride Mask their hearts--their anguish hide. Thus the mother and the bride Bid their men to march and ride To the guns, Hungry guns, Rumbling, grumbling for their sons. Thus the women ever give, Give their nearest, dearest ones At the summons of the guns. What is war to men--they _die_. But the widowed women, aye, To the end alone, must _live_. TELLING THE BEES (AN OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE SUPERSTITION) G. E. R. IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and who died out there: Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre said no prayer; The passing bell gave never a peal to warn that a soul was fled, And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster his kin that are dead. But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum of the hive, That at edge of dark, with the song of the lark, tells that the world is alive: The master starts on his errand, his tread is heavy and slow, Yet he cannot choose but tell the news--the bees have a right to know. Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with us now in our worst; On the very morn that my boy was born they were told the tidings the first: With what pride they will hear of the end he made, and the ordeal that he trod-- Of the scream of shell, and the venom of hell, and the flame of the sword of God.