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"There were six of us altogether,

Norsemen of Helgoland;

In two days and no more

We killed of them threescore,

And dragged them to the strand !”

Here Alfred the Truth-Teller

Suddenly closed his book,
And lifted his blue eyes,
With doubt and strange surmise
Depicted in their look.

And Othere the old sea-captain
Stared at him wild and weird,
Then smiled, till his shining teeth
Gleamed white from underneath
His tawny, quivering beard.

And to the King of the Saxons,

In witness of the truth,

Raising his noble head,

He stretched his brown hand, and said,

"Behold this walrus-tooth!"

VICTOR GALBRAITH.*

UNDER the walls of Monterey

At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!

In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say,
"Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Vietor Galbraith,

He who so well the bugle played,

Could not mistake the words it said:

"Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!

And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"

Thus challenges death

Victor Galbraith.

* This poem is founded on fact.

Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry; and was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common superstition among soldiers, that no balls will kill them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb says, "Every bullet has its billet."

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
Six leaden balls on their errand sped ;
Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ;

His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,
And they only scath
Victor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,
Victor Galbraith!

The water he drinks has a bloody stain;

66

"O kill me, and put me out of my pain!" In his agony prayeth

Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,
Victor Galbraith!

His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name,
When the Sergeant saith,

"Victor Galbraith!"

Under the walls of Monterey

By night a bugle is heard to play,

Victor Galbraith!

Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say,

"That is the wraith

Of Victor Galbraith!"

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