| OCR Text |
Show iUumlum OSraur auii (Sag I Some with Solemn Ceremonies and Some with Joyous Sports Ohsenre the National Day of Memory. LHHHHIIIIIIIIH v Come, tread With solemn step and slow to where they rest, The honored and the bleet, The Nation's valiant dead, Let hymn and prayer Sound through the perfumed air As little children springtide blossoms bear: Violets, lilies and the lilac bloom, Daisies from grassy leas And waxen white anemones To deck the humble mound or stately tomb. Some slabs are old and gray, Crumbling with Time's decay, And some, aye many, are of yesterday. yester-day. And of that meager band Of comrades left, decrepit, bent and old, Who stand Apart, their white locks bared, How many will be spared To stand when that To-morrow's tale Is tnld? Soon on their ears the last great Muster-call Will fall And they will pass to join the mighty host At tha Eternal Post. One) Two, three Runl RUN! Hey! send that Inl Outl Out on first, the everlasting chump! Our side will have to hump To win. Now watch Tim Murphy swat The ball across the loi. A flyi Say, he can't miss It Ye I missed my guess. Oh, Glory! Why In thunder did he let that catch go by, Confound his hldel Run, Mick, You'll make It. Slide, you sucker, SLIDEI What's that he sald7 Out? Well, that's about The rcttenestl Someone beat In hi H Kill him! Ain't that the limit, on ths dead? Say, vvhst's the score? H Well, we, can cinch 'em with a couple more. H Whoops, yells And groan and cheers admiring, Perspiring I And scarlet bleachers clapping, Rapping, J Tooting, Rooting and hooting; H A steady crunch of brittle peanut A gurgling of the bottles Inclined to thirsty throttles, A strewing, not of flowers J From leafy bowers, J But of discarded crusts and scraps of J Odors of cheap cigars and cigarettes, That's what one gets. That's Just one way We have of spending DECORATION Well, such Is life, And memory of death and fame; A chiseled name Upon a slab of perishable stone, To one age with Its recollections rife And to the next, a name, and that alone. sbVsI And then a man must toll And play, And playtimes are too rare to let him A springtide holiday. So here, with solemn ceremonies tread The mourners of the dead, And here, with frenzied shouts, the fans acclaim THE GAME. KENNETT HARRIS. |
