Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1894-12-21

When all the battles are lost and are won,
The last word spoken, the argument done,
Which, which is the best land under the sun?
The question is pondered by you and me
AS our barks are sailing life's mystic sea-
But as to the answer we disagree.
"Oh, the very best land" says the German, "is
mine!"
And his heart beats quick and his moist eyes
shine
AS he loudly sings "Die Wacht am Rhine
But the Frenohman ieers at the Germans
praise,
While a tribute to France you hear him raise
In the fervent strains Of the "Marseilaise."
At the Frenchman's boasting the scotchman
cries,
what land so bonny beneath the skies
AS the land where the great Sir Walter les?"
Then Muscovite voice is heard to declare
"Were my fellow creatures but wise and fair
They'd dote to man on the Russian bear"
The Irishman answers, with scornful smile,
go over the universe, mile by mile,
And you'll find no land like the Emerald Isle"
The Englishman comments in accents bland,
I'm thinking there's only one civilized land
And Britain's its name, you must understand
The Yankee, rising, with deep emotion
Exclaims, Pm firmly set in the notion
My eagles the gem of the land or the ocean,"
So after the battles are lost and won,
The last word spoken, the argument done,
Which, which is the best land under the sun?
The question Is pondered by you ard me
As our banks are sailing life's mystic sea,
And, on second thinking, we all agree!
We are not divided, saving in name;
In essence each choice is really the same
1t springs from common, inetfable flame.
Whatever our race, wherever we roam,
The spot that is dearest to each is home,
The toast drank deepest is Home, sweet home"
Brandon Banner
Rest.
My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired
My soul oppressed,
And with desire have / long desired
Rest-only rest.
IT'S hard to toll when toll is almost vain
In barren ways:
'Tis hard to SOW and never garner grain
In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And have prayed. but vain has been my
prayer
For rest-sweet rest.
Ills hard to plant in spring and never reap
The autumn yield;
Ills hard to till, and when It's titled to weep
Ger fruitless field.
And so cry weak and human cry
So heart oppressed;
And SO sigh, a weak and human sigh,
For rest-for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years,
And cares infest
My path, and through the flowing of hot tear
pine for rest.
twas always so. When still child, laid
| On mothers breast
| My wearied little head. Fen then prayed,
| AS now, for rest.
| And am restless still. Twill soon be over
| For down the west
LIES sun is setting, and see the shore
Where shall rest. Father Ryan.
The Baby
The little, lettering baby feet,
With .alterng steps and SLOW
With pattering echoes soft and sweet,
Into my heart they 60;
They also go in grimy plays,
In muddy pools and dusty ways;
Then through the house in trackful mas
They wander to and fro.
The baby hands that clasp my neck
With touches dear to me
Are the same hands that smash and wreck
The inkstand, foul to see;
They pound the mirror with cane;
They rend the manuscript in twain;
Widespread destruction they ordain
In wasteful jubilee.
The dreamy, murmuring voice
That cooes its little tune,
That makes the listening heart rejoice,
Like birds in leafy June,
Can wake in midnight dark and still,
And all the air with bowling fill,
That splits the ear with echoes shrill,
Like comets out OF tune.
r.. j. Burdette.