There's mist in the hollows,
There's gold on the tree,
And South go the swallows
Away over sea.
They home in our steeple
That climbs in the wind,
And, parson and people,
We welcome 'em kind.
The steeple was set here
In 1266;
If WILLIAM could get here
He'd burn it to sticks.
He'd burn it for ever,
Bells, belfry and vane,
That swallows would never
Come home there again.
He'd bang down their perches
With cannon and gun,
For churches is churches,
And WILLIAM'S a Hun.
So--mist in the hollow
And leaf falling brown--
Ere home comes the swallow
May WILLIAM be down!
And high stand the steeples
From Lincoln to Wells,
For parsons and peoples,
For birds and for bells!
* * * * *
"It makes things clearer, for example, if one knows that a howitzer
gun drops its shells, while an ordinary field gun fires them to all
intents and purposes vertically."
_Weekly Dispatch._
Much clearer.
* * * * *
Illustration: _Youthful Patriot._ "Oh, mummy, you _must_ speak to baby:
he's most awfully naughty. He won't let nurse take his vest off, and
(_in an awe-struck voice_) he keeps on screaming and yelling that _he
likes the Germans_! _Anybody_ might hear him."
* * * * *