When the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng-- All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along-- Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home, He felt himself an Emperor--the bravest man of Rome. The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew, Then drifted back along the road to look for something new. Then Horatius sobered down a bit--as you would do to-day-- And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way. He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry, And set a parting in his hair--the same as you and I. His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down, And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown. "You _are_ a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen; Now go and put your sword away, I _know_ it isn't clean. And you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet; You've been doing something mischievous, I hope you lost your bet.... Why! you're bleeding on the carpet. Who's the brute that hurt you so? Did you kill him? _There's a darling!_ Serve him right for hitting low." Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves, And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves). And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled, And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child. Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry, Yet I rather think he liked it--just the same as you and I. LOOKING AFT LOOKING AFT. I'm the donkey-man of a dingy tramp They launched in 'Eighty-one, Rickety, old, and leaky too--but some o' the rivets are shining new Beneath our after-gun. An' she an' meself are off to sea From out o' the breaker's hands, An' we laugh to find such an altered game, for devil a thing we found the same When we came off the land. We used to carry a freight of trash That younger ships would scorn, But now we're running a decent trade--howitzer-shell and hand-grenade, Or best Alberta corn. We used to sneak an' smouch along Wi' rusty side an' rails, Hoot an' bellow of liners proud--"Give us the room that we're allowed; Get out o' the track--the Mails!" We sometimes met--an' took their wash-- The 'aughty ships o' war, An' we dips to them--an' they to us--an' on they went in a tearin' fuss, But now they count us more. For now we're "England's Hope and Pride"-- The Mercantile Marine,-- "Bring us the goods and food we lack, because we're hungry, Merchant Jack" (As often I have been).