INDEX TO FIRST LINES
783
| PAGE
| |
|---|---|
| When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald, | 666 |
| When Horse and Rider each can trust the other everywhere, | 756 |
| When Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall, | 746 |
| When spring-time flushes the desert grass, | 283 |
| When that great Kings return to clay, | 239 |
| When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East | 474 |
| When the cabin port-holes are dark and green | 669 |
| When the darkened Fifties dip to the North, | 103 |
| When the drums begin to beat | 730 |
| When the earth was sick and the skies were grey, | 573 |
| When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, | 386 |
| When the Great Ark, in Vigo Bay, | 620 |
| When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, | 418 |
| When the robust and Brass-bound Man commissioned first for sea | 716 |
| When the water's countenance | 724 |
| When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear, | 494 |
| When ye say to Tabaqui, "My Brother!" when ye call the Hyena to meat, | 710 |
| When you've shouted "Rule Britannia," when you've sung "God save the Queen," | 522 |
| Whence comest thou, Gehazi, | 277 |
| "Where have you been this while away, | 481 |
| Where run your colts at pasture? | 166 |
| Where the East wind is brewed fresh and fresh every morning, | 731 |
| Where the sober-coloured cultivator smiles | 86 |
| Where's the lamp that Hero lit | 651 |
| Whether the State can loose and bind | 630 |
| Who gives him the Bath? | 590 |
| Who hath desired the Sea?—the sight of salt water unbounded— | 125 |
| Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason? | 601 |
| Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear? | 256 |
| Who recalls the twilight and the rangèd tents in order | 249 |
| Will you conquer my heart with your beauty, my soul going out from afar? | 26 |
| Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro— | 252 |
| With those that bred, with those that loosed the strife, | 277 |
| Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire? | 464 |
| Yearly, with tent and rifle, our careless white men go | 316 |
| Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him, | 607 |
| You call yourself a man, | 518 |
| You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile— | 113 |
| You may talk o" gin and beer | 462 |
| You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old, | 708 |
| Your jar of Virginny | 618 |
| Your tiercel's too long at hack, Sir. He's no eyass | 684 |
