NEW ENGLAND’S MARKSMEN.

RANK on rank they march together, Through the lanes and o’er the heather, And the rhythmic ringing beat Of their measured swinging feet Music bears in martial tone To the land they call their own. Happy land that proudly boasts, Not coerced, unwilling hosts, But around her throne can feel Hearts of oak and nerves of steel, Hearts whose love no bribes retain, Hands that never strike in vain. Through the fields of yellow grain, Through the woods of leafy green, Here and there on many a plain, Are their snowy targets seen; And the mountains echo back From their peaks the rifles’ crack. Freedom knows how keen of eye, Firm of nerve and quick of finger, Are the marksmen brave who vie In the skill they freely bring her. Bunker Hill and Concord tell They have won their laurels well. And should war assail our shore, Still to guard it ever ready As their fathers were of yore. Calm, yet eager, true and steady, Are the loyal ranks that play But at mimic strife to-day.