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Show TRIBUTE TO A i SCHOOL MATE Charles E. Hontz, former assistant! city edifor on The Gate City, and now , city editor on the (Burlington Gazette, read of the death of James 'MoKenzle on the field of battle In France last May, in The Gate City recently. He has written the following verses dedicated ded-icated to "an old school comrade," James McKenzie, corporal First Royal Roy-al Scottish Fusiliers, killed at Arras May 3, 19it7; My school day friend, it seems but yesterday We laughed and played and lived our school boy way1 But four short years ago and now you He Dead on a field of Flanders, killed in May. When May was here in that lastyear of high We did not dream that fate was standing by To lead you to that great adventure far; To war and death beneath an alien sky. You heard the call ere one brief month had fled Of this great war. You bravely fought and bled At iLoos, at Arras, on the war frontiers And now your name is posted with the dead. Adventure.s light burned in your Celtic heart; The Scottish clans called not in vain, Your part In this great drama of the flaming fight Was writ in blood and anguish from the start. There on the tangled wires of war.s I estate ' You made the sacrifice supreme, and Fate, Ever beside you saw your last breath quenched. Your rich red stream flow on the fields of hate. While charging o.er that battered waste of land On that last day, I wonder if you scanned That brief and vagrant yesterday, or thought Or dreams you dreamed, or glowing things you planned. So you are dead in France! The veil of years Is swept away and we through binding bind-ing tears Must still recall you as the happy lad Who shared our school day joys and fears. L'envol Prince behold there lies a broken lance, Shattered to bits upon the fields of chance. So lay him low and let his dreams be deep. There In the warm ground of eternal France. For he has trod the puth that heros tread. And with their bloSd his blood was freely shed; Their cause was his as well as all the world.s; He did his part and died thus, comforted. com-forted. Deep In his narrow cell he cannot" hear The cannon roaring in the distant hills. The cheer Of victory stirs not his breast; his eyes Are closed before those things he once held dear. In future years when war's red hand has passed And the white peace of hope is born at last, The cause for which he died, but not in vain, Shall hallow his broken body and torn breast. And overhead the first sweet flowers of f pring Shall spread their multi-colored of- ' fering.' And fragrant winds ot summer stir the grass That twines about his simple cross, and sing. And autumn with its robes of gold and red Shall fling its votive gifts above his head. And winter with a wealth of virgin snow Trotect the hallowed ground that holds the dead. And you whose safety that he helped to buy, May sometime wander there where . he shall lie, ' And gladden that he gave a few brave drops That anguished France and freedom might not die. |