 
March— “Our Fleet” War March of the Allied Sailors and Soldiers. Dedicated by special permission of Lady Jellicoe to Admiral Sir John Jellicoe and the British Fleet, 1915. Pianoforte and Military Band. Entr’acte— “The Monk’s Dream” (Full Military) Romanza— “Song of the Night” (Full Military) Waltz— “Firenze” (Military) Regimental Marches—
Etc. Songs— “Samoan Love Song and Waltz” “A Soldier’s Dream” “By the Delawar” “South Sea Melodies” “Alabama Way” Etc., etc. Published by BOOSEY & Co., London, Aldershot and New York Played by Military Regimental Bands throughout the World Lieutenant J. Ord Hume, L. F., the distinguished Composer, Bandmaster and Contest Adjudicator of the British Empire, says: “I consider Safroni-Middleton’s rousing Military Marches the finest of recent years, and unique productions, coming as they do from the pen of a sailor.” TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER MORTIMER HUGH MIDDLETON AGED SIXTEEN YEARS Lost overboard in mid-ocean while serving before the mast of a sailing ship outbound for Australia ALSO TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN POPPY Of the sailing ship Aristides, lost with all hands AND TO THE MEMORY OF MY COMRADES Of the Australian Bush and the South Sea Islands Old comrades, by my fire in dreams Your hands I clasp to-night; Heaven starlit o’er the forest gleams As ’neath the blood-wood’s height You lie with folded hands asleep By shores of tumbling waves, As I creep up each silent steep To kiss forgotten graves. Whatever sounds most true, I dedicate each wild true ring, Inspired, old chums, by you. The world grieves not that you are dead— Brave, reckless men who died, Crept from their camp-fires back to bed Along the wild hill-side. But, comrades, ’neath the hills or waves, Could one sad song of mine Reveal dead souls of far-off graves, ’Twould be a song divine. As pure and sweet as flowers that grow Where once with wild delight You sang, where bush-flowers, bursting, blow Thro’ dead fire-ash to-night. And so in dreams I take your hands, In long-dead eyes I gaze, And half in tears from other lands Bring back the dear old days. In other lands ’neath greyer skies Wild rides again recall, Your songs, your laughing, manly eyes— The boy who loved you all. Lies in my sea-chest ’neath my bed The fiddle, stringless, still; Old chums, since all of you are dead, ’Neath forest steep and hill, I cannot play the songs you loved; But with tired eyes and pen I strive to tell the truth, who roved, And found you—God’s best men. |
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