10 Best Famous Hope Is Gone Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Hope Is Gone poems. This is a select list of the best famous Hope Is Gone poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Hope Is Gone poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of hope is gone poems.

• All Famous Hope Is Gone Poems

 I sat before my glass one day, 
And conjured up a vision bare, 
Unlike the aspects glad and gay, 
That erst were found reflected there - 
The vision of a woman, wild 
With more than womanly despair. 
Her hair stood back on either side 
A face bereft of loveliness. 
It had no envy now to hide 
What once no man on earth could guess. 
It formed the thorny aureole 
Of hard, unsanctified distress. 

Her lips were open - not a sound 
Came though the parted lines of red, 
Whate'er it was, the hideous wound 
In silence and secret bled. 
No sigh relieved her speechless woe, 
She had no voice to speak her dread. 

And in her lurid eyes there shone 
The dying flame of life's desire, 
Made mad because its hope was gone, 
And kindled at the leaping fire 
Of jealousy and fierce revenge, 
And strength that could not change nor tire. 

Shade of a shadow in the glass, 
O set the crystal surface free! 
Pass - as the fairer visions pass - 
Nor ever more return, to be 
The ghost of a distracted hour, 
That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!'

 In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear;
Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail--
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as "fail"--
Shall follow on though heavens fall, or hell's top-turrets freeze,
Half round the world, if need there be, on bleeding hands and knees.
It's duty, duty, first and last, the Crimson Manual saith;
The Scarlet Rider makes reply: "It's duty--to the death."
And so they sweep the solitudes, free men from all the earth;
And so they sentinel the woods, the wilds that know their worth;
And so they scour the startled plains and mock at hurt and pain,
And read their Crimson Manual, and find their duty plain.
Knights of the lists of unrenown, born of the frontier's need,
Disdainful of the spoken word, exultant in the deed;
Unconscious heroes of the waste, proud players of the game,
Props of the power behind the throne, upholders of the name:
For thus the Great White Chief hath said, "In all my lands be peace",
And to maintain his word he gave his West the Scarlet Police.

Livid-lipped was the valley, still as the grave of God;
 Misty shadows of mountain thinned into mists of cloud;
Corpselike and stark was the land, with a quiet that crushed and awed,
 And the stars of the weird sub-arctic glimmered over its shroud.

Deep in the trench of the valley two men stationed the Post,
 Seymour and Clancy the reckless, fresh from the long patrol;
Seymour, the sergeant, and Clancy--Clancy who made his boast
 He could cinch like a bronco the Northland, and cling to the prongs of the Pole.

Two lone men on detachment, standing for law on the trail;
 Undismayed in the vastness, wise with the wisdom of old--
Out of the night hailed a half-breed telling a pitiful tale,
 "White man starving and crazy on the banks of the Nordenscold."

Up sprang the red-haired Clancy, lean and eager of eye;
 Loaded the long toboggan, strapped each dog at its post;
Whirled his lash at the leader; then, with a whoop and a cry,
 Into the Great White Silence faded away like a ghost.

The clouds were a misty shadow, the hills were a shadowy mist;
 Sunless, voiceless and pulseless, the day was a dream of woe;
Through the ice-rifts the river smoked and bubbled and hissed;
 Behind was a trail fresh broken, in front the untrodden snow.

Ahead of the dogs ploughed Clancy, haloed by steaming breath;
 Through peril of open water, through ache of insensate cold;
Up rivers wantonly winding in a land affianced to death,
 Till he came to a cowering cabin on the banks of the Nordenscold.

Then Clancy loosed his revolver, and he strode through the open door;
 And there was the man he sought for, crouching beside the fire;
The hair of his beard was singeing, the frost on his back was hoar,
 And ever he crooned and chanted as if he never would tire:--

"I panned and I panned in the shiny sand, and I sniped on the river bar;
But I know, I know, that it's down below that the golden treasures are;
So I'll wait and wait till the floods abate, and I'll sink a shaft once more,
And I'd like to bet that I'll go home yet with a brass band playing before."

He was nigh as thin as a sliver, and he whined like a Moose-hide cur;
 So Clancy clothed him and nursed him as a mother nurses a child;
Lifted him on the toboggan, wrapped him in robes of fur,
 Then with the dogs sore straining started to face the Wild.

Said the Wild, "I will crush this Clancy, so fearless and insolent;
 For him will I loose my fury, and blind and buffet and beat;
Pile up my snows to stay him; then when his strength is spent,
 Leap on him from my ambush and crush him under my feet.

"Him will I ring with my silence, compass him with my cold;
 Closer and closer clutch him unto mine icy breast;
Buffet him with my blizzards, deep in my snows enfold,
 Claiming his life as my tribute, giving my wolves the rest."

Clancy crawled through the vastness; o'er him the hate of the Wild;
 Full on his face fell the blizzard; cheering his huskies he ran;
Fighting, fierce-hearted and tireless, snows that drifted and piled,
 With ever and ever behind him singing the crazy man.

 "Sing hey, sing ho, for the ice and snow,
 And a heart that's ever merry;
 Let us trim and square with a lover's care
 (For why should a man be sorry?)
 A grave deep, deep, with the moon a-peep,
 A grave in the frozen mould.
 Sing hey, sing ho, for the winds that blow,
 And a grave deep down in the ice and snow,
 A grave in the land of gold."

Day after day of darkness, the whirl of the seething snows; 
 Day after day of blindness, the swoop of the stinging blast; 
On through a blur of fury the swing of staggering blows;
 On through a world of turmoil, empty, inane and vast. 
Night with its writhing storm-whirl, night despairingly black;
 Night with its hours of terror, numb and endlessly long;
Night with its weary waiting, fighting the shadows back,
 And ever the crouching madman singing his crazy song.

Cold with its creeping terror, cold with its sudden clinch;
 Cold so utter you wonder if 'twill ever again be warm;
Clancy grinned as he shuddered, "Surely it isn't a cinch
 Being wet-nurse to a looney in the teeth of an arctic storm.

"The blizzard passed and the dawn broke, knife-edged and crystal clear;
 The sky was a blue-domed iceberg, sunshine outlawed away;
Ever by snowslide and ice-rip haunted and hovered the Fear;
 Ever the Wild malignant poised and panted to slay.

The lead-dog freezes in harness--cut him out of the team!
 The lung of the wheel-dog's bleeding--shoot him and let him lie!
On and on with the others--lash them until they scream!
 "Pull for your lives, you devils! On! To halt is to die."

There in the frozen vastness Clancy fought with his foes;
 The ache of the stiffened fingers, the cut of the snowshoe thong;
Cheeks black-raw through the hood-flap, eyes that tingled and closed,
 And ever to urge and cheer him quavered the madman's song.

Colder it grew and colder, till the last heat left the earth,
 And there in the great stark stillness the bale fires glinted and gleamed,
And the Wild all around exulted and shook with a devilish mirth,
 And life was far and forgotten, the ghost of a joy once dreamed.

Death! And one who defied it, a man of the Mounted Police;
 Fought it there to a standstill long after hope was gone;
Grinned through his bitter anguish, fought without let or cease,
 Suffering, straining, striving, stumbling, struggling on.

Till the dogs lay down in their traces, and rose and staggered and fell;
 Till the eyes of him dimmed with shadows, and the trail was so hard to see;
Till the Wild howled out triumphant, and the world was a frozen hell--
 Then said Constable Clancy: "I guess that it's up to me."

Far down the trail they saw him, and his hands they were blanched like bone;
 His face was a blackened horror, from his eyelids the salt rheum ran;
His feet he was lifting strangely, as if they were made of stone,
 But safe in his arms and sleeping he carried the crazy man.

So Clancy got into Barracks, and the boys made rather a scene;
 And the O. C. called him a hero, and was nice as a man could be;
But Clancy gazed down his trousers at the place where his toes had been,
 And then he howled like a husky, and sang in a shaky key: 

"When I go back to the old love that's true to the finger-tips, 
I'll say: `Here's bushels of gold, love,' and I'll kiss my girl on the lips;
It's yours to have and to hold, love.' It's the proud, proud boy I'll be,
When I go back to the old love that's waited so long for me."

 A True Incident of Pre-Revolutionary French History.


Now the lovely autumn morning breathes its freshness in earth's face,
In the crowned castle courtyard the blithe horn proclaims the chase;
And the ladies on the terrace smile adieux with rosy lips
To the huntsmen disappearing down the cedar-shaded groves,
Wafting delicate aromas from their scented finger tips,
And the gallants wave in answer, with their gold-embroidered gloves.
On they rode, past bush and bramble, on they rode, past elm and oak;
And the hounds, with anxious nostril, sniffed the heather-scented air,
Till at last, within his stirrups, up Lord Gaston rose, and spoke--
He, the boldest and the bravest of the wealthy nobles there :
'Friends,' quoth he, 'the time hangs heavy, for it is not as we thought,
And these woods, tho' fair and shady, will afford, I fear, no sport.
Shall we hence, then, worthy kinsmen, and desert the hunter's track
For the chateau, where the wine cup and the dice cup tempt us back?'
'Ay,' the nobles shout in chorus ; 'Ay,' the powder'd lacquey cries;
Then they stop with eager movement, reining in quite suddenly;
Peering down with half contemptuous, half with wonder-opened eyes
At a 'something' which is crawling, with slow step, from tree to tree.
Is't some shadow phantom ghastly ? No, a woman and a child,
Swarthy woman, with the 'gipsy' written clear upon her face;
Gazing round her with her wide eyes dark, and shadow-fringed, and wild,
With the cowed suspicious glances of a persecuted race.
Then they all, with unasked question, in each other's faces peer,
For a common thought has struck them, one their lips dare scarcely say,--
Till Lord Gaston cries, impatient, 'Why regret the stately deer
When such sport as yonder offers? quick ! unleash the dogs--away!'
Then they breath'd a shout of cheering, grey-haired man and stripling boy,
And the gipsy, roused to terror, stayed her step, and turned her head--
Saw the faces of those huntsmen, lit with keenest cruel joy--
Sent a cry of grief to Heaven, closer clasped her child, and fled!

* * * * * * *
O ye nobles of the palace! O ye gallant-hearted lords!
Who would stoop for Leila's kerchief, or for Clementina's gloves,
Who would rise up all indignant, with your shining sheathless swords,
At the breathing of dishonour to your languid lady loves!
O, I tell you, daring nobles, with your beauty-loving stare,
Who ne'er long the coy coquetting of the courtly dames withstood,
Tho' a woman be the lowest, and the basest, and least fair,
In your manliness forget not to respect her womanhood,
And thou, gipsy, that hast often the pursuer fled before,
That hast felt ere this the shadow of dark death upon thy brow,
That hast hid among the mountains, that hast roamed the forest o'er,
Bred to hiding, watching, fleeing, may thy speed avail thee now!

* * * * * * *

Still she flees, and ever fiercer tear the hungry hounds behind,
Still she flees, and ever faster follow there the huntsmen on,
Still she flees, her black hair streaming in a fury to the wind,
Still she flees, tho' all the glimmer of a happy hope is gone.
'Eh? what? baffled by a woman! Ah, sapristi! she can run!
Should she 'scape us, it would crown us with dishonour and disgrace;
It is time' (Lord Gaston shouted) 'such a paltry chase were done!'
And the fleeter grew her footsteps, so the hotter grew the chase--
Ha! at last! the dogs are on her! will she struggle ere she dies?
See! she holds her child above her, all forgetful of her pain,
While a hundred thousand curses shoot out darkly from her eyes,
And a hundred thousand glances of the bitterest disdain.
Ha! the dogs are pressing closer! they have flung her to the ground;
Yet her proud lips never open with the dying sinner's cry--
Till at last, unto the Heavens, just two fearful shrieks resound,
When the soul is all forgotten in the body's agony!
Let them rest there, child and mother, in the shadow of the oak,
On the tender mother-bosom of that earth from which they came.
As they slow rode back those huntsmen neither laughed, nor sang, nor spoke,
Hap, there lurked unowned within them throbbings of a secret shame.
But before the flow'ry terrace, where the ladies smiling sat,
With their graceful nothings trifling all the weary time away,
Low Lord Gaston bowed, and raising high his richly 'broider'd hat,
'Fairest ladies, give us welcome! 'Twas a famous hunt to-day.'

 Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the 
city. It stops a moment
on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping 
and trickling
over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit 
of a gargoyle,
and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square.
Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about 
in the sky?
Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, 
again! After it, only water
rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle.
Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!

The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about 
from the firelight.
The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies
leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'. Her hands 
are restless,
but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will 
it never cease
to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration 
shatters a glass
on the `etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing,
with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing 
red,
blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A 
door creaks.
The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken 
glass." "Alas!
Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred 
years ago
my father brought it --" Boom! The room shakes, 
the servitor quakes.
Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!

It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he 
is shut
within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his 
table, his ink,
his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls 
are pierced with
beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain 
tosses itself
up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin 
he can see
copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp 
in a cedar-tree
grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent,
shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom!
The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain 
rears up
in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the 
earth. Boom!
And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding 
rain.
Again, Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! He stuffs his fingers 
into his ears.
He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It 
is night,
and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!

A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What 
has made
the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am 
awake." "Hush, my Darling,
I am here." "But, Mother, something so ***** happened, 
the room shook."
Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is 
the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father?
I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and 
shrieks. The house
trembles and creaks. Boom!

Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All 
his trials
oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, 
lonely, urgent,
goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory,
that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, 
and the jig of drunken brutes.
Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of 
slime.
Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, 
he can see
the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead 
of the roof,
and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire,
behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved 
tracings,
squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the 
gargoyles, coils round
the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It 
leaps into the night
and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning 
stain on the white,
wet night.

Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to 
it begin to scorch.
Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer 
there.
Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains.
The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk 
and counts.
Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom!

The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet 
of silver.
But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The 
city burns.
Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames.
Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing 
its gold on the sky,
the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and 
chuckles
along the floors.

The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower
flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame 
creep along
the ceiling beams.

The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at
the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with 
people.
They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout 
and call,
and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the 
city.
Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, 
again!
The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and 
mutters. Boom!

 I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, 
If thy smiles had left me too; 
I'd weep when friends deceive me, 
If thou wert, like them, untrue. 
But while I've thee before me, 
With heart so warm and eyes so bright, 
No clouds can linger o'er me, 
That smile turns them all to light. 

'Tis not in fate to harm me, 
While fate leaves thy love to me: 
'Tis not in joy to charm me, 
Unless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 
Were worth a long, an endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 
My own love, my only dear! 

And though the hope be gone, love, 
That long sparkled o'er our way, 
Oh! we shall journey on, love, 
More safely, without its ray. 
Far better lights shall win me, 
Along the path I've yet to roam -- 
The mind that burns within me, 
And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 
The traveller at first goes out, 
He feels awhile benighted, 
And looks round in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing, 
By cloudless starlight on he treads, 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 
As the light which Heaven sheds.

 WHEN first I came here I had hope, 
Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat 
My heart at the sight of the tall slope 
Or grass and yews, as if my feet 

Only by scaling its steps of chalk 
Would see something no other hill 
Ever disclosed. And now I walk 
Down it the last time. Never will 

My heart beat so again at sight 
Of any hill although as fair 
And loftier. For infinite 
The change, late unperceived, this year, 

The twelfth, suddenly, shows me plain. 
Hope now,--not health nor cheerfulness, 
Since they can come and go again, 
As often one brief hour witnesses,-- 

Just hope has gone forever. Perhaps 
I may love other hills yet more 
Than this: the future and the maps 
Hide something I was waiting for. 

One thing I know, that love with chance 
And use and time and necessity 
Will grow, and louder the heart's dance 
At parting than at meeting be.

 The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; 
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! 
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good -- 
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. 
They built them forts with bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, 
They flashed a message to the south, "Help! or the town must fall!" 
Then down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, 
And French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack 
Upon those Magersfontein heights that held the Seaforths back; 
But eastward over pathless plains, by open veldt and vley. 
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. 
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, 
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. 
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall 
Rode back in haste: "He marches East! He threatens Jacobsdal!" 
Then north he wheeled as wheels a hawk, and showed to their dismay 
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: 
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; 
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, 
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! 
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, 
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows -- 
And in front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: 
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. 
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew 
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. 
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array 
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. 
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. 
The long, dry grass was all ablaze (and fierce the veldt fire runs); 
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! 
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; 
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. 
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day 
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. 
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannon roared. 
A narrow pass ran through the hills, with guns on either side; 
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, 
For, if the first attack should fail, then every hope was gone: 
Bur French looked once, and only once, and then he siad, "Push on!" 
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; 
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; 
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, 
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done 
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: 
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: 
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; 
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; 
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled -- 
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, 
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, 
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, 
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say "Relief is here!" 
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say 
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

 Alas! Prince Henry of Battenberg is dead!
And, I hope, has gone to heaven, its streets to tread,
And to sing with God's saints above,
Where all is joy and peace and love. 

'Twas in the year of 1896, and on the 5th of February,
Prince Henry was buried at Whippingham- a solemn sight to see.
As the funeral moved off, it was a very impressive sight-
First came the military, and police, and volunteers from the Isle of Wight. 

Then came the carriage party of the Scots Guards;
While the people uncovered their heads as it passed onwards
And many of them did sob and sigh
When the gun carriage with the coffin was passing by. 

Prince Henry's charger was led by Richter, his stud groom;
And depicted in the people's faces there was a sad gloom
When they saw the noble charger of the dead-
It seemed that all joy from them had fled. 

The Queen's carriage was followed by the Princess of Wales, and other Princesses,
All clad in gorgeous mourning dresses;
And there was a number of military representatives, which enhanced the scene;
And as the procession moved along it was solemn in the extreme. 

Her Majesty looked very sad and serene,
Leaning back in her carriage could plainly be seen;
And the carriage was drawn by a pair of greys in grand harness;
And Her Majesty seemed to be in deep distress. 

By Her Majesty's side sat the Princess Beatrice
And the two younger Battenberg children, looking very nice;
And by the coffin walked the elder Prince, immediately
Between Prince Louis and Prince Joseph, holding their hands tenderly. 

The "Dead March" was played by the Marine Band;
And the music was solemn and very grand,
And accompanied by the roll of muffled drums;
Whilst among the spectators were heard sighs and hums. 

And when the procession arrived at the church of Whippingham,
Then the coffin was carried inside- of the good man-
And was then laid in its resting place,
While sorrow was depicted in every face. 

Then there was the firing of guns, with their earthly Thunder
Which made the people start and wonder;
And the tolling of the village bells,
While the solemn music on the air swells. 

And the people said, "Prince Henry was a good man,
But now he's laid low in the church of Whippingham."
But when the Grim King his dart does throw,
None can escape death, high or low. 

The funeral service was certainly very nice-
Which was by the request of Princess Beatrice-
Which was the rendering of Sullivan's anthem, "Brother, before us thou art gone"-
I hope unto thy heavenly home. 

No Doubt the Princess Beatrice will mourn for him-
But to mourn for the dead it is a sin!
Therefore I hope God will comfort her always,
And watch o'er her children night and day. 

Prince Henry was a God-fearing man-
And to deny it few people can-
And very kind to his children dear,
And for the loss of him they will drop a tear. 

His relatives covered the coffin lid with wreaths of flowers,
While adown their cheeks flowed tears in showers.
Then the service concluded with "Christ will gather His own";
And each one left with a sad heart and went home.

 The meal was o'er, the lamp was lit,
The family sat in its glow;
The Mother never ceased to knit,
The Daughter never slacked to sew;
The Father read his evening news,
The Son was playing solitaire:
If peace a happy home could choose
I'm sure you'd swear that it was there.

BUT

The Mother:

"Ah me! this hard lump in my breast . . .
Old Doctor Brown I went to see;
Because it don't give me no rest,
He fears it may malignant be.
To operate it might be well,
And keep the evil of awhile;
But oh the folks I dare not tell,
And so I sit and knit and smile."

The Father:

"The mortgage on the house is due,
My bank account is overdrawn;
I'm at my wits end what to do -
I've plunged, but now my hope is gone.
For coverage my brokers call,
But I'm so deeply in the red . . .
If ever I should lose my all,
I'll put a bullet in my head."

The Daughter:

"To smile I do the best I can,
But it's so hard to act up gay.
My lover is a married man,
And now his child is on the way.
My plight I cannot long conceal,
And though I bear their bitter blame,
Unto my dears I must reveal
My sin, my sorrow and my shame."

The Son:

"Being a teller in a Bank
I'd no right in a blackjack game.
But for my ruin I must thank
My folly for a floozie dame.
To face the Manager I quail;
If he should check my cash I'm sunk . . .
Before they throw me into gaol
I guess I'd better do a bunk."

So sat they in the Winter eve
In sweet serenity becalmed,
So peaceful you could scarce believe
They shared the torments of the damned . . .
Yet there the Mother smiles and knits;
The Daughter sews white underwear;
The Father reads and smokes and spits,
While Sonny Boy plays solitaire.

 The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; 
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! 
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good -- 
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. 
They built them forts with bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, 
They flashed a message to the south, "Help! or the town must fall!" 
Then down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, 
And French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack 
Upon those Magersfontein heights that held the Seaforths back; 
But eastward over pathless plains, by open veldt and vley. 
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. 
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, 
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. 
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall 
Rode back in haste: "He marches East! He threatens Jacobsdal!" 
Then north he wheeled as wheels a hawk, and showed to their dismay 
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: 
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; 
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, 
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! 
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, 
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows -- 
And in front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: 
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. 
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew 
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. 
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array 
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. 
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. 
The long, dry grass was all ablaze (and fierce the veldt fire runs); 
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! 
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; 
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. 
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day 
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. 
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannon roared. 
A narrow pass ran through the hills, with guns on either side; 
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, 
For, if the first attack should fail, then every hope was gone: 
Bur French looked once, and only once, and then he siad, "Push on!" 
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; 
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; 
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, 
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done 
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: 
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: 
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; 
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; 
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled -- 
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, 
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, 
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, 
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say "Relief is here!" 
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say 
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.