32 BLACK AND WHITE BUDGET Jan. i3, 1900 SERGEANT, CALL THE ROLL For those who strew our battlefields No passing bell shall toll Report the living and the dead, Sergeant, call the roll !Show us the price: of victory, Just tell us what it’s cost Say what the Motherland has gained, And also what she’s lost. Give tidings o four soldier sons, T o the patient hearts that yearn, That are waiting for a message From the lads who'll ne’er return The sergeant’s voice grows nusky Ashe reads the muster roll,And the clouds of sorrow deepen For each past and passing soul. The old campaigner falters, The warrior bows his* head :In that sad record of the slain His son is with the dead Though his heart is well-nigh breaking, Tears in his eyes are seen, He ends his task of sorrow aLike soldier of the Queen. Our lads who fell for England, Amidst the battle strife, Have joined the great headquarters staff Beyond the war of life They gave their lives for England’s cause, Fighting against her foes, And their names shall be remembered Till the dream of earth shall close. When the tidings reach the Motherland, Full many a tear-stained face Will mark the blow that’s fallen On the llower of England’s race The boys who left their native land Light-hearted, true, and brave, Have passed the last sad outposts On the frontier of the grave. Those who’ve left the world’s encampment, And fallen by the way, Will remain as sweet in mem’ry As a morn in dewy May. Will this year’s advent bring to us Its solace for the past, And give us strength to bear Against the sorrows of the last ?In the hush-tide of the gloaming, Will there come, amidst the gloom, The shadows of our loved ones From that far-off Southern tomb? Will pictures glow in the embers With faces fond and true, Of those who died whilst fighting For the old red, white, and blue? What shall we tell the little ones, When they in sadness yearn For the kind and loving laces That will nevermore return? To the “young heart, hot and restless,” Will the mother, in her woes, Unfold the tragic story O f a battlefield’s repose ?Old Death, the final reaper, With sickle sure and keen, Has plucked the pride of manhood, And the flowers that grew between The dead lips seem to whisper, Like fields of golden grain, And, smiling, lift the darkness From the shadowland of pain. Dawn lights the dim horizon As the sergeant calls the roll, God stands upon the threshold While an unseen hand takes toll. We shall meet in yonder homeland Those who ve gone at duty’s call When we at last assemble At the great parade all.ot They have answered God’s field order Given Death the last salute, The guns are now unlimbered, And the cannon’s roar is mute, The curfew note has sounded Its sad and mournful knell, The sentrv’s word rings clear and loud, 1 Goodnight! All’s well!”S medley Nor ton. N.B .Permission to recite the above poem must be obtained from the Editor oj Black and White Bud get, Bouverie Street, .CE .,and envelopes containing requests for permission should bear in the left-hand top corner the -word “Sergeant.” P r i n ted b they Black and White Pub l i hings Comp any, miL i ted ,at 33, B o u v erie Street and Pub l i shed Weekly b y W .J. P .Mon c k t o n,at 63, Fleet Street ,Ion don E.C., England.— J a n u a r y 13,1900.