KITCHENER'S MARCH

Not the muffled drum for him Nor the wailing of the fife— Trumpets blaring to the charge Were the music of his life. Let the music of his death Be the feet of marching men, Let his heart a thousandfold Take the field again. Of his patience, of his calm, Of his quiet faithfulness, England, build your hero's cairn! He was worthy of no less. Stone by stone, in silence laid, Singly, surely, let it grow. He whose living was to serve Would have had it so. There's a body drifting down For the mighty sea to keep. There's a spirit cannot die While one heart is left to leap In the land he gave his all, Steel alike to praise and hate. He has saved the life he spent— Death has struck too late. Not the muffled drums for him Nor the wailing of the fife— Trumpets blaring to the charge Were the music of his life. Let the music of his death Be the feet of marching men! Let his heart a thousandfold Take the field again! Amelia Josephine Burr