"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and Wellington."--_Press Despatch_. Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead? Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led? Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls; Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's. Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar! Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar! Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew; Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo! Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done, Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun; Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe, And counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe; Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun, Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun, From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star, Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar! _For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts._ SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN I cleave the air through the murky night, High o'er the forests and sleeping towns; Below me drifts the shimmering light-- A glorious fresco on vale and downs; My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores, And only the winds disturb my soul; I care not for those who slumber in death, For my bomb is bloody and death my goal-- And all for the Vaterland! Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed I sail towards the North in a piteous sky; I hear the night wind's surging note As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry. Above me there streams a light from heaven, But I bow my head and veil my eyes As I plough the fields with my fateful keel And sow the highways with tears and sighs-- And all for the Vaterland! And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze; That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high May be seen this banner on all the seas. No triumph of arms is my flight by night, It is only a part of a murderous raid: Dropping a bomb on an innocent child Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid-- And all for the Vaterland! _For Thomas Walsh._ "SOCK IT TO 'EM" "A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he most needs for the winter is good warm socks."--_Press Despatch_. Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it, The storm is o'er your head; It is bursting in the trenches And you're just as good as dead. You put your foot on Belgium And defied your fate and doom, And now the whole world hates you And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"