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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;
“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 !”

MY LOST YOUT H.

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts.”

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts.”

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts.”

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts.”

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