Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound
ships,--
A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,--
"Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"

* * * * *

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"
Ter sparkle in the sun;
He do'n't parade with gay cockade,
And posies in his gun;
He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"
So lovely, spick and span,--
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The marchin', parchin',
Pipe-clay starchin',
Reg'lar Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school,
Nor yet a social tea,
And on the day he gets his pay
He's apt to spend it free;
He ain't no temp'rance advocate,
He likes ter fill the "can,"
He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The r'arin', tearin',