There's a list in the Post Office long an' black, With tidings bad, and woeful sad; The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back, An' one is her darling lad. We showed her the list; but she cannot read, So we told her true, yes, we told her true. Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed, An' she swore that none of us knew. She's waiting now for Father O'Toole, Till he goes her way at the noon of day. She's simperin' white--the poor old fool, For she knows what the priest'll say. * * * * * Who is it sprawls upon the sod At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay; His eyes glare up to the walls of God, And half of his head is blown away. What is he doing in that strange place, Torn and shred, and murdered dead? He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race As his soul soars wide o'erhead. He killed three foemen before he fell (Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!) And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell As he died for the Sassenach's sake. Who shall we blame for the awful thing-- For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes? Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King? Och, leave it to Him Who Knows! As America Sees the War By Harold Begbie. I. _In order to determine how American public opinion concerning the war is running, The London Daily Chronicle sent Mr. Begbie to this country. The two articles printed below appeared in The Chronicle_. Every day of my sojourn in this country deepens the desire in my mind to see an increasing unity of understanding between America and England. I feel that the audacity of America, its passion for the Right Thing, and its impatience with the spirit of muddling through are the finest incentives for modern England, England at this dawn of her political renascence. I feel, too, as Americans themselves most willingly acknowledge, that Great Britain has something to give to America out of the ancient treasury of her domestic experience. Finally, I like Americans so heartily that I want to be the best of friends with them. But it was only last night in this old and mighty city of Philadelphia that the greatest of reasons for an alliance was brought sharply home to my mind. I had thought, loosely enough, that since we speak the same language, share many of the same traditions, and equally desire peace for the prosperity of our trade, surely some alliance between us was natural, and with a little effort might be made inevitable. The deeper, more political, and far grander reason for this comradeship between the two nations had never definitely shaped itself to my consciousness.