I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. “Stay――stay with us!――rest, thou art weary and worn!” (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! THOMAS CAMPBELL. ―――― THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. (_After_ T. CAMP-BELL, _by_ A. CAMP-BEAU.) We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured, And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry; And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered, The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh. While dozing that night in my camp bed so small, With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain―― After one glass of grog, cold without――that was all―― I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again. Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array, I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack; ’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back. I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung, I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft, And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT’S orchestra flung. _She_ was there――I would “pop”――and a guardsman no more, From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part, When sudden I saw――just conceive what a bore―― A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart! “Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne―― To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away―― When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day. _Punch_, July 9, 1853. ―――― THE BOAT RACE, “_Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis._” We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired; Our starter intent on his watch set his eye; On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired, The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try. The last gun was fired, we are off and away, With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track; ’Twas pumping――my knees, too, got in my way, And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.