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Being an Anthology of the Patriotic Poetry of the 

British Empire from the Defeat of the Spanish 

Armada till the Death of Queen Victoria 






A nd here the Singer for his A rt 

Not all in vain, tnay plead 
' The song that nerves a Nations heart, 

Is in itself a deed. ' 





to tfje 







THIS book is intended to be a representative 
collection of the patriotic poetry of the British 
Empire. I have taken a wide view of the 
term "patriotic" wide enough, indeed, to in- 
clude the Jacobite Songs of Scotland and the 
National Songs of Ireland. 

Many of my numbers breathe the spirit of 
war; for the national instinct is most deeply 
stirred in times of great national emotion. 
But I have aimed at making this volume 
something more than a book of war-songs, 
holding that a man may prove his patriotism 
as well at home in the pursuit of his daily 
business as on the battlefield in the presence 
of his country's enemies. Love of country is 
the root of the matter; and, after all, it is 
harder to live for one's country than to die 
for it. 

I gratefully acknowledge the debt I owe 
to authors and owners of copyright poems. 
I am equally grateful to all who, whether 
at home or in the Colonies, have given me 
encouragement, assistance, or advice. My 



obligations to Professor Dowden, Mr. W. E. 
Henley, and Mr. A. T. Quiller- Couch are very 

My scheme, as originally conceived, provided 
for the inclusion of a section representing the 
patriotism of America ; but, on reconsideration, 
I have decided not to go beyond the limits of 
the British Empire. 

A. S. 


THE present collection of patriotic songs will, 
I think, accord with the imperial spirit of the 
day; for they are representative of the whole 
British Empire. 

It is needless to dwell upon the inspiring 
energy of song. Since the age of Tyrtseus it 
has everywhere been recognised as a powerful 
incentive to valour. A nation can scarcely exist 
without a national anthem. How characteristic 
are the anthems of the nations ! It may almost 
be said that the difference of the English and 
the French nations is expressed by the contrast 
between God Save the King and the Marseillaise. 
What an influence songs have exercised upon 
the life of nations! The debt of Scotland to 
Burns, the debt of Ireland to Moore, is greater 
than words can tell. Fletcher of Saltoun was 
perhaps not wrong in his estimate of the songs, 
as compared with the laws, of a nation. 

I am not responsible for the present col- 
lection; perhaps, if I had made it, I should 
have left out some few songs which find a 
place in it, and should have inserted some 



few others which do not, but the purpose of 
it I heartily approve. To consolidate the 
Empire, and to animate it as a whole with 
noble ideas, is one of the greatest needs and 
duties of the present day; and an empire, 
like an admiral, lives not by bread alone, but 
by its sentiments, its ambitions, its ideals. 


October 1901. 





ANONYMOUS (c. 1580). 


GEORGE PEELE (15587-1592?). 


MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). 










X. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL (c. 1626) . .21 

JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). 


ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678). 







MARTIN PARKER (ob. 1656?). 


ANONYMOUS (c. 1667). 


JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). 

XVJII. LONDON IN l666 3 2 

JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748).. 


JOHN DYER (c. 1708). 


ANONYMOUS (c. 1740). 


DAVID GARRICK (1717-1779)- 


WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759). 


WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800). 



CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814). 



ANONYMOUS (c. 1750). 


ANONYMOUS (c. 1758). 


PRINCE HOARE (i755-i 8 34)- 


WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827). 











XL. HOPE 51 

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). 


THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841). 



ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843). 


THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844). 




ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). 






CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823).' 


FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). 
























ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). 


CHARLES MACKAY (1814-1889). 


ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861). 


CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875). 


SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889). 


WILLIAM CORY (1823-1892). 












SYDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874). 


MAGH (b. 1824). 




GERALD MASSEY (b. 1828). 






SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (b. 1832). 











xcv. A JACOBITE'S EXILE . . . .126 
xcvi. NEW YEAR'S DAY 129 


THOMAS HARDY (6. 1840). 



AUSTIN DOBSON (b. 1840). 


ROBERT BRIDGES (b. 1844). 



Oil. THE GENTLE 134 




ERIC MACKAY (1851-1898). 

CV. A SONG OF THE SEA . . . .139 

WILLIAM SHARP (b. 1856). 


SIR RENNELL RODD (b. 1858). 


WILLIAM WATSON (b. 1858). 





BARRY PAIN (b. 1860). 


HENRY NEWBOLT (b. 1862). 













THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). 




FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). 

CXXI. THE HABP OF WALES . . . . 1 66 

JOHN JONES (1810-1869). 


SIR LEWIS MORRIS (6. 1833). 








ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758). 


JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805). 


ANNE MACIVAR GRANT (1755-1838). 








SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). 




BLACK 185 




JOHN LEYDEN (1775-1811). 


ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). 


ANONYMOUS (e. 1790). 


ROBERT GILFILLAN (1798-1850). 




NEIL MUNRO (b. 1864). 


. 194 

: III 

. 196 







ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)- 



CLIV. KENMURE'S MARCH . . . . 202 







WILLIAM GLEN (1789-1826). 


HAROLD BOULTON (6. 1859). 





OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1725-1774). 


ANONYMOUS (c. 1798). 


THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852). 








CLXX. THE MAIDEN CITY . . . . 2l6 




HELEN, LADY DUFFERIN (1807-1867). 









THOMAS DAVIS (1814-1845). 



AUBREY DE VERE (b. 1814). 












JOHN KEEGAN CASEY (1846-1870). 






LIONEL JOHNSON (b. 1867). 







SARAH ANNE CURZON (1833-1898). 




























SIR ALFRED LYALL (b. 1835). 













THOMAS PRINGLE (1789-1834). 






ARTHUR VINE HALL (b. 1862). 




ROBERT RUSSELL (6. 1867). 




ccxix. DAMPIER'S DREAM .... 293 





PERCY RUSSELL (b. 1847). 


HENRY LAWSON (b. 1867). 
















THOMAS BRACKEN (6. 1843). 







NOTES 323 







AGINCOURT, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt, 
Where English slew and hurt 

All their French foemen ? 
With their pikes and bills brown, 
How the French were beat down, 

Shot by our Bowmen ! 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt, 
Never to be forgot, 

Or known to no men ? 
Where English cloth-yard arrows 
Killed the French like tame sparrows, 

Slain by our Bowmen ! 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt ? 
English of every sort, 

High men and low men, 
Fought that day wondrous well, 
All our old stories tell, 

Thanks to our Bowmen ! 


Aguicovirt, v Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt ? 
Where our fifth Harry taught 

Frenchmen to know men : 
And, when the day was done, 
Thousands there fell to one 

Good English Bowman ! 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt ? 
Dear was the vict'ry bought 

By fifty yeomen. 
Ask any English wench, 
They were worth all the French : 

Rare English Bowmen ! 



HAVE done with care, my hearts ! aboard amain, 

With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves : 

Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home : 

Bid all the lovely British dames adieu ! 

To arms, my fellow-soldiers ! Sea and land 

Lie open to the voyage you intend. 

To arms, to arms, to honourable arms ! 

Hoist sails ; weigh anchors up ; plough up the seas 

With flying keels ; plough up the land with swords ! 

You follow them whose swords successful are : 

You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain, 

The dreadful dragon, terror to your foes, 

Victorious in his return from Inde, 

In all his high attempts unvanquished ; 

You follow noble Norris whose renown, 

Won in the fertile fields of Belgia, 

Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts 

Of Christian kings and heathen potentates. 

You fight for Christ and England's peerless Queen, 


Elizabeth, the wonder of the world, 

Over whose throne the enemies of God 

Have thunder'd erst their vain successless braves, 

O ten-times-treble happy men, that fight 

Under the cross of Christ and England's Queen, 

And follow such as Drake and Norris are ! 

All honours do this cause accompany ; 

All glory on these endless honours waits ; 

These honours and this glory shall He send, 

Whose honour and Whose glory you defend. 

George Peele. 


FAIR stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marched towards Agincourt 

In happy hour, 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way 
Where the French gen'ral lay 

With all his power : 

Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending ; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile 

Their fall portending. 


And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
' Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed. 
Yet have we well begun, 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised.' 

* And for myself,' quoth he, 
' This my full rest shall be : 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me ; 
Victor I will remain 
Or on this earth lie slain ; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me.' 

' Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell ; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies.' 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped, 

Amongst his henchmen ; 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 
To hear was wonder ; 


That with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which did the single aim 

To our hid forces ! 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather ; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbos drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy ; 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went ; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it, 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 


Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother ; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another ! 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up ; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon St. Crispin's Day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay, 

To England to carry. 
0, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Dray ton. 



You brave heroic minds 

Worthy your country's name, 
That honour still pursue ; 
Go and subdue ! 
Whilst loitering hinds 

Lurk here at home with shame. 


Britons, you stay too long : 
Quickly aboard bestow you, 
And with a merry gale 
Swell your stretch'd sail 
With vows as strong 

As the winds that blow you. 

Your course securely steer 

West and by south forth keep, 
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals 
When ^Eolus scowls 
You need not fear, 
So absolute the deep. 

And cheerfully at sea 
Success you shall entice 
To get the pearl and gold, 
And ours to hold 

Earth's only paradise. 

Where nature hath in store 
Fowl, venison, and fish, 
And the fruitfull'st soil 
Without your toil 
Three harvests more, 

All greater than your wish. 

And the ambitious vine 

Crowns with his purple mass 
The cedar reaching high 
To kiss the sky, 
The cypress, pine 
And useful sassafras. 

To whom the golden age 

Still nature's laws doth gi^e, 
Nor other cares attend 
But them to defend 
From winter's rage, 

That long there doth not live. 


When as the luscious smell 
Of that delicious land 

Above the seas that flows 
The clear wind throws 
Your hearts to swell 

Approaching the dear strand. 

In kenning of the shore 
(Thanks to God first given) 
you the happiest men, 
Be frolic then ! 
Let cannons roar, 

Frighting the wide heaven. 

And in regions far, 

Such heroes bring ye forth 

As those from whom we came ; 
And plant our name 
Under that star 

Not known unto our north. 

And as there plenty grows 
Of laurel everywhere, 
Apollo's sacred tree, 
You it may see 
A poet's brows 

To crown that may sing there. 

Thy voyages attend 
Industrious Hackluit 

Whose reading shall inflame 
Men to seek fame, 
And much commend % 

To after times thy wit. 

Michael Drayton. 



THIS royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, demi-paradise, 
This fortress built by Nature for herself 
Against infection and the hand of war, 
This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
Which serves it in the office of a wall 
Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
Against the envy of less happier lands, 
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Eng- 

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their 


Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 
For Christian service and true chivalry, 
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry 
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son, 
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear 

William Shakespeare. 



THIS England never did, nor never shall, 

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 

But when it first did help to wound itself, 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, 

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, 

If England to itself do rest but true. 

William Shakespeare. 





Now all the youth of England are on fire, 

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies : 

Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought 

Reigns solely in the breast of every man : 

They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, 

Following the mirror of all Christian kings, 

"With winged heels, as English Mercuries. 

For now sits Expectation in the air, 

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point 

With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, 

Promised to Harry and his followers. 

The French, advised by good intelligence 

Of this most dreadful preparation, 

Shake in their fear and with pale policy 

Seek to divert the English purposes. 

O England ! model to thy inward greatness, 

Like little body with a mighty heart, 

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, 

Were all thy children kind and natural ! 


Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies 

In motion of no less celerity 

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen 

The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier 

Embark his royalty ; and his brave fleet 

With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning : 

Play with your fancies, and in them behold 

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing ; 

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 

To sounds confused ; behold the threaden sails, 

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, 

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, 

Breasting the lofty surge : O, do but think 


You stand upon the rivage and behold 

A city on the inconstant billows dancing ; 

For so appears this fleet majestical, 

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow : 

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, 

And leave your England, as dead midnight still, 

Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, 

Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance ; 

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd 

With one appearing hair, that will not follow 

These cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ? 


(At the Siege of Harfleur) 

' Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; 

Or close the wall up with our English dead. 

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man 

As modest stillness and humility : 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 

Disguise fair nature with hard favour' d rage ; 

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head 

Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 

As fearfully as doth a galled rock 

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit 

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, 

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ! 

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn till even fought 

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument : 

Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 

That those whom you cail'd fathers did beget you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 


Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; 

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 

Cry " God for Harry, England, and Saint George ! " 


Now entertain conjecture of a time 

When creeping murmur and the poring dark 

Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 

From camp to camp through the foul womb of night 

The hum of either army stilly sounds, 

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 

The secret whispers of each other's watch : 

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 

Each battle sees the other's umbered face ; 

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs 

Piercing the night's dull ear ; and from the tents 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 

With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation : 

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, 

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, 

The confident and over-lusty French 

Do the low-rated English play at dice ; 

And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night 

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp 

So tediously away. The poor condemned English, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 

Sit patiently and inly ruminate 

The morning's danger, and their gesture sad 

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, 

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon 

So many horrid ghosts. now, who will behold 

The royal captain of this ruin'd band 


Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, 

Let him cry Praise and glory on his head ! ' 

For forth he goes and visits all his host, 

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile 

And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. 

Upon his royal face there is no note 

How dread an army hath enrounded him ; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 

Unto the weary and all-watched night, 

But freshly looks and over-bears attaint 

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ; 

That every wretch, pining and pale before, 

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks : 

A largess universal like the sun 

His liberal eye doth give to everyone, 

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all 

Behold, as may unworthiness define, 

A little touch of Harry in the night. 

And so our scene must to the battle fly. 

' God of battles ! steel my soldiers' hearts ; 
Possess them not with fear ; take from them now 
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers 
Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, 


O, not to-day, think not upon the fault 
My father made in compassing the crown ! 
I Richard's body have interred new ; 
And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears 
Than from it issued forced drops of blood : 
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, 
Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up 
Toward heaven, to pardon blood ; and I have built 
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests 
Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do ; 
Though all that I can do is nothing worth, 
Since that my penitence comes after all, 
Imploring pardon.' 


(King Harry to his Soldiers) 

1 This day is called the feast of Crispian : 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 

And say ' To-morrow is saint Crispian : ' 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 

And say * These wounds I had on Crispin's day/ 

Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot, 

But he'll remember with advantages 

What feats he did that day : then shall our names, 

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember 'd. 

This story shall the good man teach his son ; 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered ; 

And gentlemen in England now abed, 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.' 


Now we bear the king 

Toward Calais : grant him there ; there seen, 
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts 
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach 
Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, 
Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth'd 


Which like a mighty whifner 'fore the king 
Seems to prepare his way : so let him land, 
And solemnly see him set on to London. 


So swift a pace hath thought that even now 
You may imagine him upon Blackheath, 
Where that his lords desire him to have borne 
His bruised helmet and his bended sword 
Before him through the city : he forbids it, 
Being free from vainness and self -glorious pride, 
Giving full trophy, signal and ostent 
Quite from himself to God. But now behold, 
In the quick forge and working-house of thought, 
How London doth pour out her citizens ! 
The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, 
Like to the senators of the antique Rome, 
With the plebeians swarming at their heels, 
Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in. 

William Shakespeare. 



* CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear 

In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 

Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 

Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, 

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : > 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? 

Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate 

thee ; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 



Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, 


Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; 
And, Prithee, lead me in : 
There take an inventory of all I have, 
To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies.' 

William Shakespeare. 



THE fifteenth day of July, 

With glistering spear and shield, 
A famous fight in Flanders 

Was foughten in the field : 
The most conspicuous officers 

Were English captains three, 
But the bravest man in battel 

Was brave Lord Willoughby. 

The next was Captain Norris, 

A valiant man was he : 
The other, Captain Turner, 

From field would never flee. 
With fifteen hundred fighting men, 

Alas ! there were no more, 
They fought with forty thousand then 

Upon the bloody shore. 

4 Stand to it, noble pikemen, 
And look you round about : 

And shoot you right, you bowmen, 
And we will keep them out : 


You musket and cailiver men, 

Do you prove true to me, 
I'll be the bravest man in fight/ 

Says brave Lord Willoughby. 

And then the bloody enemy 

They fiercely did assail, 
And fought it out most valiantly 

Not doubting to prevail : 
The wounded men on both sides fell 

Most piteous for to see, 
Yet nothing could the courage quell 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

For seven hours to all men's view 

This fight endured sore, 
Until our men so feeble grew 

That they could fight no more ; 
And then upon dead horses 

Full savourly they eat, 
And drank the puddle water, 

They could no better get. 

When they had fed so freely, 

They kneeled on the ground, 
And praised God devoutly 

For the favour they had found ; 
And bearing up their colours, 

The fight they did renew, 
And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard, 

Five thousand more they slew. 

The sharp steel-pointed arrows 

And bullets thick did fly, 
Then did our valiant soldiers 

Charge on most furiously : 
Which made the Spaniards waver, 

They thought it best to flee : 
They feared the stout behaviour 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 


Then quoth the Spanish general, 

' Come let us march away, 
I fear we shall be spoiled all 

If that we longer stay : 
For yonder comes Lord Willoughby 

With courage fierce and fell, 
He will not give one inch of ground 

For all the devils in hell.' 

And when the fearful enemy 

Was quickly put to flight, 
Our men pursued courageously 

To rout his forces quite ; 
And at last they gave a shout 

Which echoed through the sky : 
' God and Saint George for England ! ' 

The conquerors did cry. 

This news was brought to England 

With all the speed might be, 
And soon our gracious Queen was told 

Of this same victory. 
' O ! this is brave Lord Willoughby 

My love that ever won : 
Of all the lords of honour 

'Tis he great deeds hath done ! ' 

To the soldiers that were maimed, 

And wounded in the fray, 
The Queen allowed a pension 

Of eighteen pence a day, 
And from all costs and charges 

She quit and set them free ; 
And this she did all for the sake 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

Then courage, noble Englishmen, 

And never be dismayed ! 
If that we be but one to ten, 

We will not be afraid 


To fight with foreign enemies, 

And set our country free, 
And thus I end the bloody bout 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 



ATTEND you, and give ear awhile, 

And you shall understand 
Of a battle fought upon the seas 

By a ship of brave command. 
The fight it was so glorious 

Men's hearts it did fulfil, 
And it made them cry, ' To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel I ' 

This lusty ship of Bristol, 

Sailed out adventurously 
Against the foes of England, 

Her strength with them to try ; 
Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, 

With good provision still, 
Which made them cry, * To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel I ' 

The Captain, famous Netherway 

(That was his noble name) ; 
The Master he was called John Mines 

A mariner of fame : 
The Gunner, Thomas Watson, 

A man of perfect skill : 
With many another valiant heart 

In the Angel Gabriel. 

They waving up and down the seas 

Upon the ocean main, 
' It is not long ago,' quoth they, 

' That England fought with Spain : 


O would the Spaniard we might meet 

Our stomachs to fulfil ! 
We would play him fair a noble bout 

With our Angel Gabriel ! ' 

They had no sooner spoken 

But straight appeared in sight 
Three lusty Spanish vessels 

Of warlike trim and might ; 
With bloody resolution 

They thought our men to spill, 
And vowed that they would make a prize 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

Our gallant ship had in her 

Full forty fighting men ; 
With twenty piece of ordnance 

We played about them then, 
With powder, shot, and bullets 

Right well we worked our will, 
And hot and bloody grew the fight 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

Our Captain to our Master said, 

' Take courage, Master bold ! ' 
Our Master to the seamen said, 

* Stand fast, my hearts of gold ! ' 
Our Gunner unto all the rest, 

1 Brave hearts, be valiant still ! 
Fight on, fight on in the defence 

Of our Angel Gabriel ! ' 

We gave them such a broadside 

It smote their mast asunder, 
And tore the bowsprit off their ship, 

Which made the Spaniards wonder, 
And caused them in fear to cry, 

With voices loud and shrill, 
' Help, help, or sunken we shall be 

By the Angel Gabriel ! ' 


So desperately they boarded us 

For all our valiant shot, 
Threescore of their best fighting men 

Upon our decks were got ; 
And lo ! at their first entrances 

Full thirty did we kill, 
And thus with speed we cleared the deck 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

With that their three ships boarded us 

Again with might and main, 
But still our noble Englishmen 

Cried out 'A fig for Spain ! ' 
Though seven times they boarded us 

At last we showed our skill, 
And made them feel what men we were 

On the Angel Gabriel. 

Seven hours this fight continued : 

So many men lay dead, 
With Spanish blood for fathoms round 

The sea was coloured red. 
Five hundred of their fighting men 

We there outright did kill, 
And many more were hurt and maimed 

By our Angel Gabriel. 

Then seeing of these bloody spoils, 

The rest made haste away : 
For why, they said, it was no boot 

The longer there to stay. 
Then they fled into Gales, 

Where lie they must and will 
For fear lest they should meet again 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

We had within our English ship 

But only three men slain, 
And five men hurt, the which I hope 

Will soon be well again. 


At Bristol we were landed, 
And let us praise God still, 

That thus hath blest our lusty hearts 
And our Angel Gabriel. 




CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud, 

Not of war only, but detractions rude, 

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 

Hast reared God's trophies, and His work pursued, 

While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, 

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, 

And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains 

To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 

No less renowned than war : new foes arise, 

Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 

Help us to save free conscience from the paw 

Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. 

John Milton. 



HOW comely it is, and how reviving 

To the spirits of just men long oppress'd ! 

When God into the hands of their deliverer 

Puts invincible might 

To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, 

The brute and boisterous force of violent men, 

Hardy and industrious to support 

Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue 

The righteous and all such as honour truth ; 

He all their ammunition 

And feats of war defeats, 


With plain heroic magnitude of mind 

And celestial vigour arm'd ; 

Their armouries and magazines contemns, 

Renders them useless ; while 

With winged expedition, 

Swift as the lightning glance, he executes 

His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, 

Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. 

John Milton. 



THE forward youth that would appear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear, 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing. 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armour's rust, 

Removing from the wall 

The corselet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star : 

And, like the three-fork'd lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide : 

For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And with such to inclose 

Is more than to oppose ; 

Then burning through the air he went 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Csesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 


'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry Heaven's flame ; 

And if we would speak true, 

Much to the man is due 

Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 

(As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot), 

Could by industrious valour climb 
To ruin the great work of Time, 

And cast the kingdoms old 

Into another mould ; 

Though Justice against Fate complain, 
And plead the ancient rights in vain 
(But those do hold or break 
As men are strong or weak), 

Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration less, 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war 
Where his were not the deepest scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art, 

Where, twining subtile fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 
That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow^ case, 

That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn : 
While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try ; 


Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bow'd his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power : 

So, when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run ; 

And yet in that the State 

Foresaw its happy fate ! 

And now the Irish are ashamed 

To see themselves in one year tamed : 

So much one man can do 

That doth both act and know. 

They can affirm his praises best, 
And have, though overcome, confest 

How good he is, how just, 

And fit for highest trust ; 

Nor yet grown stiff er with command, 
But still in the Republic's hand 

(How fit he is to sway, 

That can so well obey !), 

He to the Commons' feet presents 
A Kingdom for his first year's rents, 

And (what he may) forbears 

His fame, to make it theirs : 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
To lay them at the Public's skirt 

So when the falcon high 

Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having killed, no more doth search 
But on the next green bough to perch, 

Where, when he first does lure, 

The falconer has her sure. 


What may not then our Isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume ? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year ? 

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 

Shall climacteric be. 

The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his parti- coloured mind, 
But from this valour sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid. 

Happy, if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 
March indefatigably on, 

And for the last effect 

Still keep the sword erect : 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night, 

The same arts that did gain 

A power, must it maintain. 

Andrew Marvell. 



WHERE the remote Bermudas ride 
In the Ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that rowed along 
The listening winds received this song. 


* What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze, 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage : 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything, 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet ; 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon He stores the land, 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound His name. 
O let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay ! ' 

Thus sang they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew Marvell. 




LET rogues and cheats prognosticate 
Concerning kings' or kingdoms' fate, 
I think myself to be as wise 
As he that gazeth on the skies, 

Whose sight goes beyond 

The depth of a pond 
Or rivers in the greatest rain ; 

For I can tell 

All will be well, 
When the King enjoys his own again ! 

Though for a time we see Whitehall 
With cobwebs hanging on the wall, 
Instead of gold and silver brave, 
Which formerly 'twas wont to have, 

With rich perfume 

In every room, 
Delightful to that princely train, 

Yet the old again shall be 

When the happy time you see 
That the King enjoys his own again. 

Full forty years this royal crown 
Hath been his father's and his own ; 
And is there any one but he 
That in the same should sharer be ? 

For who better may 

The sceptre sway 
Than he that hath such right to reign ? 

Then let's hope for a peace, 

For the wars will not cease 
Till the King enjoys his own again. 

Martin Parker. 




HERE'S a health unto His Majesty, 
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la ! 

Confusion to his enemies, 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la ! 

And he that will not drink his health, 

I wish him neither wit nor wealth, 

Nor yet a rope to hang himself, 
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la / 




COME, if you dare, our trumpets sound ; 
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound : 
We come, we come, we come, we come, 
Says the double, double, double beat of the thunder- 
ing drum. 

Now they charge on amain, 

Now they rally again : 

The gods from above the mad labour behold, 
And pity mankind, that will perish for gold. 

The fainting Saxons quit their ground, 
Their trumpets languish in the sound : 
They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly ; 
Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry. 

Now the victory's won, 

To the plunder we run : 

We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, 
Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders. 

John Dryden. 




METHINKS already from this chymic flame 
I see a city of more precious mould, 

Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, 
With silver paved, and all divine with gold. 

Already, labouring with a mighty fate, 

She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, 

And seems to have renewed her charter's date 
Which Heaven will to the death of time allow. 

More great than human now and more august, 
New deified she from her fires does rise : 

Her widening streets on new foundations trust, 
And, opening, into larger parts she flies. 

Before, she like some shepherdess did show 
Who sate to bathe her by a river's side, 

Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, 
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. 

Now like a maiden queen she will behold 
From her high turrets hourly suitors come ; 

The East with incense and the West with gold 
Will stand like suppliants to receive her dome. 

The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, 
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train, 

And often wind, as of his mistress proud, 
With longing eyes to meet her face again. 

The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier Rhine 
The glory of their towns no more shall boast, 

The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, 
Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost. 

The venturous merchant, who designed more far, 
And touches on our hospitable shore, 

Charmed with the splendour of this northern star 
Shall here unlade him and depart no more. 


Our powerful navy shall no longer meet 

The wealth of France or Holland to invade ; 

The beauty of this town without a fleet 

From all the world shall vindicate her trade. 

And while this famed emporium we prepare, 
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, 

That those who now disdain our trade to share 
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast. 

Already we have conquered half the war, 
And the less dangerous part is left behind ; 

Our trouble now is but to make them dare 
And not so great to vanquish as to find. 

Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, 
And now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more ! 

A constant trade-wind will securely blow 
And gently lay us on the spicy shore. 

John Dry den. 



WHEN Britain first at Heaven's command 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of her land, 

And guardian angels sang the strain : 

Rule Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves I 
Britons never shall be slaves. 

The nations not so blest as thee 
Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 

Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free 
The dread and envy of them all ! 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the last blast which tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 



Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

And work their woe and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
All thine shall be the subject main, 

And every shore it circles thine ! 

The Muses, still with Freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair : 

Rule Britannia ! Britannia rules the leaves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves ! 

James Thomson. 


HERE'S a health to the King and a lasting peace, 
To faction an end, to wealth increase ! 
Come, let's drink it while we have breath, 
For there's no drinking after death ; 
And he that will this health deny, 

Down among the dead men 

Down among the dead men 

Down, down, down, down, 

Down among the dead men let him Lie ! 

John Dyer. 



GOD save our lord, the King, 
Long live our noble King, 
God save the King ! 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 
God save the King ! 


Lord, our God, arise, 
Scatter his enemies, 
And make them fall ! 
Confound their politics, 
Frustrate their knavish tricks ! 
On Thee our hopes we fix, 
God save us all ! 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour, 
Long may he reign ! 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice 
God save the King ! 

Anonym ous. 



COME, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, 
To add something more to this wonderful year, 
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, 
For who are so free as the sons of the waves ? 
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady, 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, 
They never see us but they wish us away ; 
If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, 
For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. 
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady, 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 


Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, 
Her standard be justice, her watchword ' Be free ' ; 
Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing 
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. 
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady, 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

David Gar rid:. 



How sleep the brave who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall a while repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 

William Collins. 



WHEN the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mien 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 

Sat the Druid, hoary chief, 
Every burning word he spoke 

Full of rage, and full of grief : 


' Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

* Rome shall perish, write that word 

In the blood that she has spilt ; 
Perish hopeless and abhorred, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

* Rome, for empire far renowned, 

Tramples on a thousand states ; 
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

* Other Romans shall arise 

Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
Harmony the path to fame. 

' Then the progeny that springs 

From the forests of our land, 
Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 

Shall a wider world command. 

' Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they.' 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire, 
Bending as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She with all a monarch's pride 

Felt them in her bosom glow, 
Rushed to battle, fought, and died, 

Dying, hurled them at the foe : 

' Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 

Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you ! ' 

William Cowper. 




TOLL for the Brave ! 
The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 
Brave Kempenf elt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 
No tempest gave the shock, 
She sprang no fatal leak, 
She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath, 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 
Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main : 


But Kempenfelt is gone, 
His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 

William Cowper. 



HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty, 

His heart was kind and soft, 
Faithful below he did his duty, 

And now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare, 
His friends were many, and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair ; 
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather 

When He, who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doffed, 
For though his body's under hatches, 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdw. 




JACK dances and sings, and is always content, 
In his vows to his lass he'll ne'er fail her ; 

His anchor's a-trip when his money's all spent 
And this is the life of a sailor. 

Alert in his duty, he readily flies 

Where winds the tir'd vessel are flinging ; 

Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss'd to the skies, 
Still Jack is found working and singing. 

'Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave, 
He'll with broadside on broadside regale her ; 

Yet he'll sigh from his soul o'er that enemy's 

grave : 
So noble's the mind of a sailor. 

Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the 

Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle ; 
The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, 

And laughs at the storm and the battle. 

In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, 
As Fortune comes, smiling he'll hail her ; 

Resign'd still, and manly, since what must be must, 
And this is the mind of a sailor. 

Though careless and headlong, if danger should 

And rank'd 'mongst the free list of rovers, 
Yet he'll melt into tears at a tale of distress, 

And prove the most constant of lovers. 

To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, 
Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, 

He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave, 
And this is a true English sailor. 

Charles Dibdin. 




MY name, d'ye see, 's Tom Tough, I've seed a little 


Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow ; 
I've sailed with valiant Howe, I've sailed with noble 

And in gallant Duncan's fleet I've sung out 

Yo heave ho ! ' 

Yet more shall ye be knowing, 
I was coxon to Boscawen, 
And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the 


Then put round the grog, 
So we've that and our prog, 
We'll laugh in Care's face, and sing * Yo heave ho ! ' 

When from my love to part I first weigh'd anchor, 

And she was sniv'ling seed on the beach below, 
I'd like to cotch'd my eyes sniv'ling too, d'ye see, to 

thank her, 

But I brought my sorrows up with a ' Yo heave ho ! ' 
For sailors, though they have their jokes, 
,And love and feel like other folks, 
Their duty to neglect must not come for to go ; 
So I seized the capstern bar, 
Like a true honest tar, 

And, in spite of tears and sighs, sang out ' Yo 
heave ho ! ' 

But the worst on't was that time when the little 

ones were sickly, 

And if they'd live or die the doctor did not know ; 
The word was gov'd to weigh so sudden and so 

I thought my heart would break as I sung * Yo 

heave ho ! ' 

For Poll's so like her mother, 
And as for Jack, her brother, 


The boy, when he grows up will nobly fight the foe ; 

But in Providence I trust, 

For you see what must be must, 
So my sighs I gave the winds and sung out * Yo 
heave ho ! ' 

And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, 
For I've only lost an eye, and got a timber toe ; 
But old ships must expect in time to be out of 


Nor again the anchor weigh with ' Yo heave ho ! ' 
So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs, 
For my boy shall well revenge my wrongs, 
And my girl shall breed young sailors, nobly for to 

face the foe ; 
Then to Country and King, 
Fate no danger can bring, 

While the tars of Old England sing out * Yo heave 

Charles Dibdin. 



SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 

But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that 

can compare, 
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British 

Grenadier ! 

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, 
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes 

withal ; 
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their 

Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 

Grenadiers ! 


Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, 
Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand 

We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' 

Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British 

Grenadiers ! 

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, 
The townsmen cry, ' Hurrah, boys, here comes a 

Grenadier ! 
* Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no 

doubts or fears ! ' 
Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British 

Grenadiers ! 

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those 
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped 

May they and their commanders live happy all their 

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 

Grenadiers ! 




I'M lonesome since I cross'd the hill, 

And o'er the moor and valley ; 
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, 

Since parting with my Sally. 
I seek no more the fine or gay, 

For each does but remind me 
How swift the hours did pass away, 

With the girl I've left behind me. 

Oh, ne'er shall I forget the night, 
The stars were bright above me, 

And gently lent their silv'ry light 
When first she vowed to love me. 


But now I'm bound to Brighton camp, 
Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, 

And send me safely back again 
To the girl I've left behind me. 

My mind her form shall still retain, 

In sleeping, or in waking, 
Until I see my love again, 

For whom my heart is breaking. 
If ever I return that way, 

And she should not decline me, 
I evermore will live and stay 

With the girl I've left behind me. 




COME, all ye jolly sailors bold, 

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 

While English glory I unfold, 

Huzza for the Arethusa I 
She is a frigate tight and brave, 
As ever stemmed the dashing wave ; 

Her men are staunch 

To their fav'rite launch, 
And when the foe shall meet our fire, 
Sooner than strike, we'll all expire 

On board of the Arethusa. 

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out 
The English Channel to cruise about, 
When four French sail, in show so stout 

Bore down on the Arethma. 
The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, 
The Arethusa seemed to fly, 

Not a sheet, or a tack, 

Or a brace, did she slack ; 
Though the Frenchmen laughed and thought it 


But they knew not the handful of men, how 

On board of the Arethusa. 


On deck five hundred men did dance, 
The stoutest they could find in France ; 
We with two hundred did advance 

On board of the Arethusa. 
Our captain hailed the Frenchman, ' Ho ! ' 
The Frenchman then cried out ' Hallo ! ' 

' Bear down, d'ye see, 

To our admiral's lee ! ' 

' No, no,' says the Frenchman, ' that can't be ! ' 
' Then I must lug you along with me,' 

Says the saucy Arethusa. 

The fight was off the Frenchman's land, 
We forced them back upon their strand, 
For we fought till not a stick could stand 

Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we've driven the foe ashore 
Never to fight with the Britons more, 

Let each fill his glass 

To his f av'rite lass ; 

A health to our captain and officers true, 
And all that belong to the jovial crew 

On board of the Arethusa. 

Prince Hoare. 



ENGLAND, awake ! awake ! awake ! 

Jerusalem thy sister calls ! 
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, 

And close her from thy ancient walls ? 

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 
Gently upon their bosoms move : 

Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways ; 
Then was a time of joy and love. 

And now the time returns again : 

Our souls exult ; and London's towers 

Receive the Lamb of God to dwell 

In England's green and pleasant bowers. 


And did those feet in ancient time 

Walk upon England's mountain green ? 

And was the holy Lamb of God 

On England's pleasant pastures seen ? 

And did the Countenance Divine 
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ? 

And was Jerusalem builded here 
Among these dark satanic mills ? 

Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 

Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
Bring me my spear : O clouds, unfold ! 

Bring me my chariot of fire ! 

I will not cease from mental fight, 

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 

Till we have built Jerusalem 

In England's green and pleasant land. 

William Blahe. 



HERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more. 
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that 


Of bells ; those boys who in yon meadow-ground 
In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the roar 
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ; 
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round 
With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass, 
Thought for another moment. Thou art free, 
My Country ! and 'tis joy enough and pride 
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass 
Of England once again, and hear and see, 
With such a dear Companion at my side. 

William Wordsworth. 




IT is not to be thought of that the Flood 

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, * with pomp of waters, unwithstood ! ' 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 

Should perish ; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever In our halls is hung 

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 

That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung 

Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 

William Wordsworth. 



WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country ! am I to be blamed ? 

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men : 

And I, by my affection was beguiled : 

What wonder if a Poet now and then, 

Among the many movements of his mind, 

Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

William Wordsworth. 




(October, 1803) 

VANGUARD of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 

Ye children of a soil that doth advance 

Her haughty bow against the coast of France, 

Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 

To France be words of invitation sent ! 

They from their fields can see the countenance 

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance 

And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 

Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, 

Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; 

Confirmed the charters that were yours before ;- 

No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 

We all are with you now from shore to shore ; 

Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death ! 

William Wordsworth. 



WHO is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
On honourable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire ; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 


And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 

Come when it will, is equal to the need : 

He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve ; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value must be won : 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last, 

From well to better, daily self-surpast : 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead unprofitable name 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 



And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
That every Man in arms should wish to be. 

William Wordsworth. 



WHO to the murmurs of an earthly string 

Of Britain's acts would sing, 

He with enraptured voice will tell 
Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell : 
Of One that, 'mid the failing, never failed 
Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed 
Shall represent her labouring with an eye 

Of circumspect humanity ; 
Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, 

All martial duties to fulfill ; 
Firm as a rock in stationary fight ; 
In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night 
To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream 
Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 

William Wordsworth. 



THEY called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time, 

A happy people won for thee that name 

With envy heard in many a distant clime, 

And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 

Endearing title, a responsive chime 

To the heart's fond belief : though some there are 

Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare 

For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 


Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask> 
This face of rural beauty be a mask 
For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; 
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ? 
Forbid it, Heaven ! and MERRY ENGLAND still 
Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme ! 

William Wordsworth. 



DESPOND who will / heard a voice exclaim, 

' Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defence, 

It cannot be that Britain's social frame, 

The glorious work of time and providence, 

Before a flying season's rash pretence, 

Should fall ; that She, whose virtue put to shame, 

When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror's aim, 

Should perish, self -subverted. Black and dense 

The cloud is ; but brings that a day of doom 

To Liberty ? Her sun is up the while, 

That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone : 

Then laugh, ye innocent Vales ! ye Streams, sweep on, 

Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 

Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume.' 

William Wordsworth. 



(NELSON : PITT : Fox) 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings ; 
The genial call dead Nature hears, 
And in her glory reappears. 
But O my Country's wintry state 
What second spring shall renovate ? 


What powerful call shall bid arise 

The buried warlike and the wise ; 

The mind that thought for Britain's weal, 

The hand that grasped the victor steel ? 

The vernal sun new life bestows 

Even on the meanest flower that blows ; 

But vainly, vainly may he shine, 

Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine ; 

And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 

That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallowed tomb ! 

Deep graved in every British heart, 
never let those names depart ! 
Say to your sons, Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ; 
To him, as to the burning levin, 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
Rolled, blazed, destroyed, and was no more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, 
Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
And launched that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ; 
Who, born to guide such high emprise, 
For Britain's weal was early wise ; 
Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave, 
For Britain's sins, an early grave ! 
His worth, who in his mightiest hour 
A bauble held the pride of power, 
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, 
And served his Albion for herself ; 
Who, from the frantic crowd amain 
Strained at subjection's bursting rein, 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, 
The pride he would not crush restrained, 
Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the 
freeman's laws. 


Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, 
A watchman on the lonely tower, 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 
When fraud or danger were at hand ; 
By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
Our pilots had kept course aright ; 
As some proud column, though alone, 
Thy strength had propped the tottering throne : 
Now is the stately column broke, 
The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, 
The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

O think, how to his latest day, 
When death, just hovering, claimed his prey, 
With Palinure's unaltered mood 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; 
Each call for needful rest repelled, 
With dying hand the rudder held, 
Till in his fall with fateful sway, 
The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains 
One unpolluted church remains, 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 
But still, upon the hallowed day, 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 
While faith and civil peace are dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear, 
He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, 
Because his rival slumbers nigh ; 
Nor be thy requiescat dumb, 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
When best employed, and wanted most ; 
Mourn genius high, and lore profound, 
And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
And all the reasoning powers divine, 
To penetrate, resolve, combine ; 


And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave, 
Be ever harsher thought suppressed, 
And sacred be the long last rest. 
Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those who fought, and spoke and sung ; 
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
The distant notes of holy song, 
As if some angel spoke agen, 
' All peace on earth, good-will to men ' ; 
If ever from an English heart, 
0, here let prejudice depart, 
And, partial feeling cast aside, 
Record, that Fox a Briton died ! 
When Europe crouched to France's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave 
Was bartered by a timorous slave, 
Even then dishonour's peace he spurned, 
The sullied olive-branch returned, 
Stood for his country's glory fast, 
And nailed her colours to the mast ! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honoured grave, 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 

With more than mortal powers endowed, 
How high they soared above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Looked up the noblest of the land, 
Till through the British world were known 
The names of PITT and Fox alone. 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 


E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 

Though his could drain the ocean dry, 

And force the planets from the sky. 

These spells are spent, and, spent with these 

The wine of life is on the lees. 

Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 

For ever tombed beneath the stone, 

Where taming thought to human pride ! 

The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 

Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 

'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ; 

O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, 

And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 

The solemn echo seems to cry, 

' Here let their discord with them die. 

Speak not for those a separate doom 

Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb ; 

But search the land of living men, 

Where wilt thou find their like agen ? ' 

Sir Walter Scott. 



DADDY NEPTUNE one day to Freedom did say, 

' If ever I live upon dry land, 
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain ! ' 
Says Freedom, ' Why that's my own island ! ' 
0, it's a snug little island ! 
A right little, tight little island, 
Search the globe round, none can be found 
So happy as this little island. 

Julius Caesar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, 

Came by water, he couldn't come by land ; 
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their 

backs on, 

And all for the sake of our island. 
O, what a snug little island ! 
They'd all have a touch at the island ! 
Some were shot dead, some of them fled, 
And some staid to live on the island. 


Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, 

Cried ' D n it, I never liked my land ; 
It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy, 
And live on yon beautiful island.' 
Says he, ' 'Tis a snug little island : 
Sha'n't us go visit the island ? ' 
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, 
And he kick'd up a dust in the island. 

But party-deceit help'd the Normans to beat ; 

Of traitors they managed to buy land, 
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been 


Had they stuck to the King of their island. 
Poor Harold, the King of the island ! 
He lost both his life and his island. 
That's very true ; what more could he do ? 
Like a Briton he died for his island ! 

The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a, 

Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land, 
They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess, 
And take their full swing in the island. 
0, the poor Queen of the island ! 
The Dons came to plunder the island ; 
But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive, 
And buz was the word in the island. 

Those proud puff'd-up cakes thought to make ducks 

and drakes 

Of our wealth ; but they hardly could spy land, 
When our Drake had the luck to make their pride 


And stoop to the lads of the island. 
Huzza for the lads of the island ! 
The good wooden walls of the island ; 
Devil or Don, let 'em come on ; 
But how would they come off at the island ? 

Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept 

In each saying, ' This shall be my land ' ; 


Should the 'Army of England,' or all they could 

bring, land, 

We'd show 'em some play for the island. 
We'll fight for our right to the island ; 
We'll give them enough of the island ; 
Invaders should just bite at the dust, 
But not a bit more of the island ! 

Thomas Dibdin. 



1 WHO'LL serve the King ? ' cried the sergeant aloud : 
Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly ; 
' Here, master sergeant,' said I, from the crowd, 
'Is a lad who will answer your purpose com- 

My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, 
Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was 
afraid : 

He'd march, fight left, right, 
Front flank centre rank, 
Storm the trenches court the wenches, 
Loved the rattle of a battle, 
Died with glory lives in story ! 
And, like him, I found a soldier's life, if taken 

smooth and rough, 
A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. 

' Hold up your head,' said the sergeant at drill : 

Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly ; 
' Turn out your toes, sir ! ' Says I, ' Sir, I will,' 
For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant 

flourished proudly. 
My father died when corporal, but I ne'er turned my 


Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a 

In sword and sash cut a dash, 
Spurr'd and booted, next recruited 


Hob and Clod awkward squad, 
Then began my rattan, 
When boys unwilling came to drilling ; 
Till, made the colonel's orderly, then who but I so 


Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life 

* Homeward, my lads ! ' cried the general. ' Huzza ! ' 

Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer'ly, 
To quick time we footed, and sung all the way 

' Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly ! ' 
My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and 


And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a 

Soon as miss blushes * y-i-s ! ' 
Rings, gloves, dears, loves, 
Bells ringing, comrades singing, 
Honeymoon finished soon, 
Scolding, sighing, children crying ! 
Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth 

and rough, 

A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. 

Thomas Dibdin. 



STEEP is the soldier's path ; nor are the heights 

Of glory to be won without long toil 

And arduous efforts of enduring hope ; 

Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, 

And cutting short the work of years, at once 

Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence. 

Such fate was mine. The standard of the Buffs 

I bore at Albuera, on that day 

When, covered by a shower, and fatally 

For friends misdeem'd, the Polish lancers fell 


Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim'd 

My precious charge. ' Not but with life ! ' I cried, 

And life was given for immortality. 

The flag which to my heart I held, when wet 

With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously 

Regain'd on that great day. In former times, 

Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies ; 

For Brunswick and for liberty it waved 

Triumphant at Culloden ; and hath seen 

The lilies on the Caribbean shores 

Abased before it. Then too in the front 

Of battle did it flap exultingly, 

When Douro, with its wide stream interposed, 

Saved not the French invaders from attack, 

Discomfiture, and ignominious rout. 

My name is Thomas : undisgraced have I 

Transmitted it. He who in days to come 

May bear the honour'd banner to the field, 

Will think of Albuera, and of me. 

Robert Southey. 



YE Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 


Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



OF Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 


Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 

' Hearts of oak ! ' our captains cried ; when 

each gun 

From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feebler cheer the Dane, 

To our cheering sent us back ; 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 

Then ceased and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale 

Light the goom. 

Now joy, Old England, raise 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep 

Full many a fathom deep 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Thomas Campbell. 




MEN of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 
Men whose undegenerate spirit 

Has been proved on field and flood : 

By the foes you've fought uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds you've done, 

Trophies captured breaches mounted, 
Navies conquered kingdoms won ! 

Yet, remember, England gathers 

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

If the freedom of your fathers 

Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery, 
Where no public virtues bloom ? 

What avails in lands of slavery, 
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb ? 

Pageants ! Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws, 

And the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, 

Martyrs in heroic story, 

Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crown'd and mitred tyranny ; 

They defied the field and scaffold 
For their birthrights so will we ! 

Thomas Campbell. 




AWAY with bayonet and with lance, 

With corselet, casque, and sword ; 
Our island-king no war-horse needs, 

For on the sea he's lord. 
His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck, 

His sceptre is the mast ; 
His kingdom is the rolling wave, 

His servant is the blast. 
His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag 

Proud to the mast he nails ; 
Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, 

For there your terror sails. 

I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand, 

Her children's sharp swords out ; 
Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red 

When rose the closing shout ; 
But soon the steeds rush'd masterless, 

By tower, and town, and wood ; 
For lordly France her fiery youth 

Poured o'er them like a flood. 
Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, 

And let your steeds run free ; 
Then come to our unconquered decks, 

And learn to reign at sea. 

Behold yon black and batter'd hulk 

That slumbers on the tide, 
There is no sound from stem to stern, 

For peace has pluck'd her pride ; 
The masts are down, the cannon mute 

She shows nor sheet nor sail, 
Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, 

Nor answers shout nor hail ; 
Her merry men, with all their mirth, 

Have sought some other shore ; 
And she with all her glory on, 

Shall rule the sea no more. 


So landsmen speak. Lo ! her top-masts 

Are quivering in the sky ; 
Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised, 

There sweeps she gallant by. 
A thousand warriors fill her decks ; 

Within her painted side 
The thunder sleeps man's might has nought 

Can match or mar her pride. 
In victor glory goes she forth ; 

Her stainless flag flies free ; 
Kings of the earth, come and behold 

How Britain reigns on sea ! 

When on your necks the armed foot 

Of fierce Napoleon trod, 
And all was his, save the wide sea, 

Where we triumphant rode, 
He launched his terror and his strength, 

Our sea-born pride to tame ; 
They came they got the Nelson-touch, 

And vanish'd as they came. 
Go, hang your bridles in your halls, 

And set your war-steeds free ; 
The world has one unconquer'd king, 

And he reigns on the sea ! 

Allan Cunningham. 



ONCE more upon the waters ! Yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 


I've taught me other tongues and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, 110 changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with aye, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate Island of the sage and free, 

And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My Spirit shall resume it if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remembered in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, 
If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are, 

Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honoured by the Nations let it be 
And light the Laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me 
' Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need 
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree 
I planted, they have torn me, and I bleed : 

I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 




THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 



The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute. 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' * Islands of the Blest.' 

The mountains look on Marathon 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free, 

For standing on the Persians' grave 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day 

And when the sun set where were they ? 

And where are they ? And where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now, 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

Tis something in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here 2 

For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear ! 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 


What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, ' Let one living head, 
But one arise, we come, we come ! ' 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



THERE was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 

But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 


Did ye not hear it ? No 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! Let joy be unconfined ; 
N"o sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet 
But, hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer clearer deadlier than before ! 

Arm ! Arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated Chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell ; 

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war, 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Housed up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips 'The foe! They 
come ! they come ! ' 


And wild and high the ' Camerons' Gathering ' rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 

And Evan's Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour rolling on the foe, 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life ; 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 

Rider and horse, friend foe, in one red burial 
blent ! 

Lord Byron. 



NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 


We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 




THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow ; 
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

' Heard you not the battle horn ? 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of heaven, 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red ! ' 

And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

' Hunter ! leave the mountain-chase ! 
Take the falchion from its place ! 
Let the wolf go free to-day, 
Leave him for a nobler prey ! 
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by, 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh ! ' 

And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

' Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fires give ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall.' 

And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

1 Prince ! thy father's deeds are told, 
In the bower, and in the hold ! 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung, 


Foes are on thy native sea 
Give our bards a tale of thee ! ' 

And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

* Mother ! stay not thou thy boy ! 
He must learn the battle's joy, 
Sister bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer ! 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, 
Britain calls the strong in heart ! ' 

And the bended bow and the voice passed on ; 
And the bards made song for a battle won. 

Felicia Hemans. 



SON of the Ocean Isle ! 

Where sleep your mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 

Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger ! track the deep 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 

Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 

By the pyramid o'erswayed, 
With fearful power the noonday reigns, 

And the palm trees yield no shade ; 

But let the angry sun 

From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unf elt by those whose task is done ! 

There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 

Along the Indian shore, 
And far by Ganges' banks at night 

Is heard the tiger's roar ; 


But let the sound roll on ! 

It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone, 

There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent floods 

The western wilds among, 
And free in green Columbia's woods 

The hunter's bow is strung ; 

But let the floods rush on ! 

Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? 

There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain- storms rise high 

In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky 

Like rose-leaves on the breeze ; 

But let the storm rage on ! 

Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, 

There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 

'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 

And the northern night-clouds lour ; 

But let the ice drift on ! 

Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, 

Even there sleep England's dead. 

The war-like of the isles, 

The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 

The seas and shores their grave ? 

Go, stranger ! track the deep 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

Felicia Hemans. 




ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 

praise ; 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in 

ancient days, 
When that great fleet invincible against her bore in 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of 


It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, 
There came a gallant merchant- ship full sail to Ply- 
mouth Bay ; 
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond 

Aurigny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many 

a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

grace ; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close 

in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along 

the wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's 

lofty hall ; 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland 

many a post. 
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff 

comes ; 
Behind him march the halberdiers; before him 

sound the drums ; 
His yeomen round the market cross make clear an 

ample space ; 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her 



And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance 

the bells, 
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon 

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 

down ! 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that 

famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Csesar's 

eagle shield. 
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned 

to bay, 
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely 

hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter 

flowers, fair maids : 
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw 

your blades : 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously : ye breezes, waft 

her wide ; 
Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our 


The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 

massy fold ; 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 

scroll of gold ; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple 

Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er 

again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 

Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the 

day ; 

For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war- 
flame spread, 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on 

Beachy Head. 


Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each 

southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling 

points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering 

waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's 

sunless caves ! 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the 

fiery herald flew : 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers 

of Beaulieu. 
Eight sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 

from Bristol town, 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on 

Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the 

night ; 
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood -red light : 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like 

silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city 

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering 

fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling 

spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear ; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder cheer ; 
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of 

hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 

down each roaring street ; 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still 

the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse came 

spurring in. 


And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the 

warlike errand went, 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 

bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they 

started for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they 

bounded still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they 

sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 

rocky dales, 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills 

of Wales, 
Till twelve fair Counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

lonely height, 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 

crest of light, 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 

stately fane, 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the 

boundless plain ; 

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide 

vale of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's 

embattled pile, 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of 





To my true king I offered free from stain 
Courage and faith ; vain faith, and courage vain. 
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, 
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. 
For him I languished in a foreign clime, 
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ; 


Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, 
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees ; 
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, 
Each morning started from the dream to weep ; 
Till God, who saw me tired too sorely, gave 
The resting-place I asked an early grave. 
O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, 
From that proud country which was once mine own, 
By those white cliffs I never more must see, 
By that dear language which I speak like thee, 
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear 
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 

Lord Macaulay. 



YES, let us own it in confession free, 

That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong, 

We deemed it not so giant-like and strong, 

But it with our slight effort thought to see 

Pushed from its base ; yea, almost deemed that we, 

Champions of right, might be excused the price 

Of pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice, 

Set ever on high things by Heav'n's decree. 

What if this work's great hardness was concealed 

From us, until so far upon our way 

That no escape remained us, no retreat, 

Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed, 

We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat, 

And shunned the burden of this fiery day? 

Richard Chenevix Trench. 



WHOM for thy race of heroes wilt thou own, 
And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride? 

As thou art just, oh then not those alone 

Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died. 


Then also in thy roll of heroes write, 

For well they earned what best thou canst bestow, 
Who being girt and armed for the fight, 

Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe. 

Far off they pined on fever- stricken coast, 
Or sank in sudden arms of painful death ; 

And faces which their eyes desired the most, 

They saw not, as they drew their parting breath. 

Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand, 
Which shall from all the ages honour win ; 

Upon the threshold of this work to stand, 
Arrested there, while others enter in. 

And this was theirs ; they saw their fellows bound 
To fields of fame which they might never share ; 

And all the while within their own hearts found 
A strength that was not less, to do and dare : 

But knew that never, never with their peers, 

They should salute some grand day's glorious close, 

The shout of triumph ringing in their ears, 
The light of battle shining on their brows. 

Sad doom ; yet say not Heaven to them assigned 
A lot from all of glory quite estranged : 

Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind 

About their brows for cypress wreath was changed. 

Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere, 

A glory of all earthly glory shorn ; 
With firm heart to accept fate's gift severe, 

Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne ; 

To see such visions fade and turn to nought, 
And in this saddest issue to consent ; 

If only the great work were duly wrought, 
That others should accomplish it, content. 

Then as thou would st thyself continue great, 
Keep a true eye for what is great indeed ; 

Nor know it only in its lofty state 

And victor's robes, but in its lowliest weed. 


And now, and when this dreadful work is done, 
England, be these too thy delight and pride ; 

Wear them as near thy heart as any one 

Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died. 
Richard Chenevix Trend). 



(Solferino, 1859) 

IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him, 
He died with his face to you all ; 

Yet bury him here where around him 
You honour your bravest that fall. 

Venetian, fair-featured and slender, 
He lies shot to death in his youth, 

With a smile on his lips over-tender 
For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 

No stranger, and yet not a traitor, 
Though alien the cloth on his breast, 

Underneath it how seldom a greater 
Young heart has a shot sent to rest ! 

By your enemy tortured and goaded 
To march with them, stand in their file, 

His musket (see) never was loaded, 
He facing your guns with that smile ! 

As orphans yearn on to their mothers, 
He yearned to your patriot bands ; 

Let me die for our Italy, brothers, 
If not in your ranks, by your hands ! 

' Aim straightly, fire steadily ! spare me 

A ball in the body which may 
Deliver my heart here, and tear me 

This badge of the Austrian away ! ' 

So thought he, so died he this morning. 

What then ? Many others have died. 
Ay, but easy for men to die scorning 

The death-stroke, who fought side by side 


One tricolor floating above them ; 

Struck down 'mid triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them 

And blazen the brass with their names. 

But he, without witness or honour, 
Mixed, shamed in his country's regard, 

With the tyrants who march in upon her, 
Died faithful and passive : 'twas hard. 

'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Cut off from the guerdon of sons, 

With most filial obedience, conviction, 
His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 

That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to show it, 
While digging a grave for him here : 

The others who died, says your poet, 
Have glory, let him have a tear. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



You, ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom slowly broadens down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 

But by degrees to fulness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 


Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great - 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should fill and choke with golden sand 

Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 




OF old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fullness of her face 

Grave mother of majestic works, 
From her isle-altar gazing down, 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 


Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 




THY voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 




HER court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 

And statesmen at her council met 

Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

By shaping some august decree, 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea. 





FIRST pledge our Queen this solemn night, 

Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the true Conservative 

Who lops the mouldered branch away. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, 
And the great name of England, round and round. 

To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New England of the Southern Pole ! 
To England under Indian skies, 

To those dark millions of her realm ! 
To Canada whom we love and prize, 
Whatever statesman hold the helm. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great name of England drink, my friends, 
And all her glorious Empire round and round. 

To all our statesmen so they be 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may they see 

Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
We sail'd wherever ship could sail, 

We founded many a mighty state ; 
Pray God our greatness may not fail 
Thro' craven fears of being great. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, 
And the great name of England, round and round. 





BRITAIN fought her sons of yore 
Britain fail'd ; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin, 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin, 
Men that in a narrower day 
Unprophetic rulers they 
Drove from out the mother's nest 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 

Britons, hold your own ! 

Sharers of our glorious past, 
Brothers, must we part at last ? 
Shall we not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still ? 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
' Sons, be wedded each and all, 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul ! 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne ! 
Britons, hold your own ! ' 


WHO is he that cometh, like an honour 'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with 


With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea ; 


His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gained a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun. 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, 

Eternal honour to his name. 

A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget, 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown, 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 


For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He that ever following her commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Hush ! the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : 

The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 

Something far advanced in State, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down, 
And in the vast cathedral leave him ! 
God accept him, Christ receive him ! 




HALF a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 


* Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Their 's not to make reply, 
Their's not to reason why, 
Their's but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder 'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter 'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 


Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made ! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 




WHY do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? We 

have made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not 

its own ; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or 


Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on 
his own hearthstone ? 

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days 

gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, 

each sex, like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all 

men lie ; 

Peace in her vineyard yes ! but a company forges 
the wine. 

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's 

And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the 

trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor 

for bread, 

And the spirit of murder works in the very means 
of life, 


When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a 

burial fee, 
And Timour- Mammon grins on a pile of children's 

Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land 

and sea, 

War with a thousand battles, and shaking a 
hundred thrones. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round 

by the hill 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three- 
decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap 

from his counter and till, 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheat- 
ing yard-wand, home ! 

Lord Tennyson. 



LAST night, among his fellow roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place, 
Ambassador from Britain's crown, 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord, or axe, or flame : 
He only knows, that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 


Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke, above his father's door, 

In grey soft eddyings hung : 
Must he then watch it rise no more, 

Doomed by himself, so young ? 

Yes, honour calls ! with strength like steel 

He put the vision by. 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent, 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; 

Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
Unless proud England keep, untamed, 

The strong heart of her sons. 
So, let his name through Europe ring 

A man of mean estate, 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 

Because his soul was great. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 


O, to be in England, 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf, 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England now ! 


And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows 

Hark ! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge 

That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower, 

Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

Robert Browning. 



NOBLY, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West 
died away ; 

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz 

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar 
lay ; 

In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gib- 
raltar grand and grey ; 

' Here and here did England help me : how can I 
help England 1 ' say, 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 
and pray, 

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 

Robert Browning. 



THERE'S a land, a dear land, where the rights of the 

Though firm as the earth are as wide as the sea ; 


Where the primroses bloom, and the nightingales sing, 
And the honest poor man is as good as a king. 

Showery ! Flowery ! 

Tearful ! Cheerful ! 
England, wave-guarded and green to the shore ! 

"West Land ! Best Land ! 

Thy Land ! My Land ! 
Glory be with her, and Peace evermore ! 

There's a land, a dear land, where our vigour of soul, 
Is fed by the tempests that blow from the Pole ; 
Where a slave cannot breathe, or invader presume, 
To ask for more earth than will cover his tomb. 

Sea Land ! Free Land ! 

Fairest ! Rarest ! 
Home of brave men, and the girls they adore ! 

Fearless ! Peerless ! 

Thy Land ! My Land ! 
Glory be with her, and Peace evermore ! 

Charles Mackay. 



GREEN fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare, 
One image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me ! 

Dear home in England, safe and fast 
If but in thee my lot lie cast, 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
Dear home in England, won at last ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 




SAY not the struggle naught availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain, 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly ! 
But westward, look, the land is bright ! 

Arthur Hugh Clouyh. 



WELCOME, wild North-Easter ! 

Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr ; 

Ne'er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black North-Easter ! 

O'er the German foam ; 
O'er the Danish moorlands, 

From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer, 

Tired of gaudy glare, 
Showers soft and steaming, 

Hot and breathless air. 


Tired of listless dreaming, 

Through the lazy day : 
Jovial wind of winter, 

Turn us out to play ! 
Sweep the golden reed-beds ; 

Crisp the lazy dyke ; 
Hunger into madness 

Every plunging pike. 
Fill the lake with wild-fowl ; 

Fill the marsh with snipe ; 
While on dreary moorlands 

Lonely curlew pipe. 
Through the black fir-forest 

Thunder harsh and dry, 
Shattering down the snow-flakes 

Off the curdled sky. 
Hark ! the brave North-Easter ! 

Breast-high lies the scent, 
On by holt and headland, 

Over heath and bent ! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Through the sleet and snow. 
Who can override you ? 

Let the horses go ! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Down the roaring blast ; 
You shall see a fox die 

Ere an hour be past. 
Go ! and rest to-morrow, 

Hunting in your dreams, 
While our skates are ringing 

O'er the frozen streams. 
Let the luscious South-wind 

Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
While the lazy gallants 

Bask in ladies' eyes. 
What does he but soften 

Heart alike and pen ? 
'Tis the hard grey weather 

Breeds hard Englishmen. 

96 YULE 

What's the soft South-Wester ? 

'Tis the ladies' breeze, 
Bringing home their true loves 

Out of all the seas : 
But the black North-Easter, 

Through the snow-storms hurled, 
Drives our English hearts of oak 

Seaward round the world. 
Come, as came our fathers, 

Heralded by thee, 
Conquering from the eastward, 

Lords by land and sea. 
Come ; and strong within us 

Stir the Vikings' blood ; 
Bracing brain and sinew ; 

Blow, thou wind of God ! 

Charles Kinysley. 



AMID the loud ebriety of War, 

With shouts of * La Republique ' and ' La Gloire,' 

The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag 

And broadside blazing level with the wave 

Went down erect, defiant, to their grave 

Beneath the sea ! Twas but a Frenchman's brag, 

Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. 

Now we recount no fable ; Europe, hear ! 

And when they tell thee ' England is a fen 

' Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, 

* Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey 

' For the first comer,' tell how the other day 

A crew of half a thousand Englishmen 

Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay ! 

Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, 
Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, 
But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat 
Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, 

CORY 97 

Biding God's pleasure and their chief's com- 

Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band 
Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath 
But flinching not though eye to eye with Death ! 

Heroes ! Who were those heroes ? Veterans 


To face the King of Terrors 'mid the scaith 
Of many a hurricane and trenched field ? 
Far other : weavers from the stocking-frame ; 
Boys from the plough ; cornets with beardless 

But steeped in honour and in discipline ! 

Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred 

Long since divorced from Hope suggests but 


Disaster, and thy captains held at bay 
By naked hordes ; but as thou weepest, thank 
Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank 
Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay ! 

Sir Henry Yule. 



WE come in arms, we stand ten score, 

Embattled on the Castle green ; 
We grasp our firelocks tight, for war 

Is threatening, and we see our Queen. 
And ' Will the churls last out till we 

Have duly hardened bones and thews 
For scouring leagues of swamp and sea 

Of braggart mobs and corsair crews ? ' 
We ask ; we fear not scoff or smile 

At meek attire of blue and grey, 
For the proud wrath that thrills our isle 

Gives faith and force to this array. 


98 CORY 

So great a charm is England's right, 

That hearts enlarged together flow, 
And each man rises up a knight 

To work the evil-thinker's woe. 
And, girt with ancient truth and grace, 

We do our service and our suit, 
And each can be, whate'er his race, 

A Chandos or a Montacute. 
Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day, 

Bless the real swords that we shall wield, 
Repeat the call we now obey 

In sunset lands, on some fair field. 
Thy flag shall make some Huron rock 

As dear to us as Windsor's keep, 
And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock 

The surgings of th' Ontarian deep. 
The stately music of thy Guards, 

Which times our march beneath thy ken, 
Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, 

From heart to heart, when we are men. 
And when we bleed on alien earth, 

We'll call to mind how cheers of ours 
Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth 

Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. 
And if for England's sake we fall, 

So be it, so thy cross be won, 
Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, 

And worn in death, for duty done. 
Ah ! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate, 

Blending his image with the hopes of youth 
To hallow all ; meanwhile the hidden fate 

Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. 
Death from afar we call, and Death is here, 

To choose out him who wears the loftiest 

And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, 

Breaks through the shield of love to pierce 
our Queen. 

William Cory. 




To Thee, our God, we fly 

For mercy and for grace ; 
hear our lowly cry, 

And hide not Thou Thy face ! 
Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, 
And guard and bless our Fatherland ! 

Arise, Lord of Hosts ! 

Be jealous for Thy Name, 
And drive from out our coasts 

The sins that put to shame ! 
O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, 
And guard and bless our Fatherland ! 

The powers ordained by Thee 

With heavenly wisdom bless, 
May they Thy servants be, 

And rule in righteousness ! 
O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, 
And guard and bless our Fatherland ! 

Though vile and worthless, still, 

Thy people, Lord, are we ; 
And for our God we will 

None other have but Thee. 
O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, 
And guard and bless our Fatherland ! 

William Walsliam How 



ENGLAND, thou hast many a precious dower ; 
But of all treasures it is thine to claim, 
Prize most the memory of each sainted name, 
That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower 
Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of power- 


Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame 
Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim 
Holding his country's helm in perilous hour 
Poet, whose heart is with us to this day 
Embalm'd in song or Priest, who by the ark 
Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark. 
Call them not dead, my England ! such as they 
Not were but are ; within us each survives, 
And lives an endless life in others' lives. 

John Kells Ingram. 




LYING here awake, I hear the watchman's 


' Past four o'clock ' on this February morning ; 
Hark ! what is that ? there swells a joyous 

Borne down the wind o'er the voices of the 

river ; 
O'er the lordly waters flowing, 'tis the martial 

trumpets blowing, 
'Tis the Grenadier Guards a-going marching to the 


Yes there they go, through the February 

To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn 

warning ; 
And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that 


Falls ever and anon with a faint crash on the ear ; 
'Mid the tears of wives and mothers, and the prayers 

of many others, 

And the cheers of their brothers, they are marching 
to the war. 


Cheer, boys, cheer ! till you crack a thousand 

throats ; 

Cheer, boys, cheer ! to the merry music's notes ; 
Let the girls they leave behind them wave 

handkerchiefs and scarfs, 
Let the hearty farewell ring through the echoing 

streets and wharfs ; 
Come volley out your holloas come, cheer the 

gallant fellows, 
The gallant and good fellows, marching to the war. 

Bridge of Waterloo ! let the span of each proud arch 
Spring to the feet of the soldiers as they march ; 
For the last time they went forth, your glorious 

name was borne 
Where the bullets rained like hail among the 

summer corn : 
Ah ! we'll not forget too soon the great Eighteenth 

of June, 

While the British Grenadier's tune strikes up gaily 
for the war. 

Bridge of Waterloo ! accept the happy omen, 
For the staunchest friends are wrought out of the 

bravest foemen : 
Guards of Waterloo ! the troops whose brunt you 

Shall stand at your right hand upon the Danube's 

shore ; 
And Trafalgar's nags shall ride on the tall masts, side 

by side, 
O'er the Black Sea and the Baltic, to sweep the 

waves of war. 

Die, die away, o'er the bridge and up the street, 
Shiver of their music, echo of their feet : 
Dawn upon the darkness, chilly day and pale ; 
Steady rolling engine, flash along the rail ; 
For the good ship waits in port, with her tackle trim 

and taut, 

And her ready funnels snort, till she bear them to 
the war. 


Far, far away, they are bound across the billow, 
Where the Russian sleeps uneasy on his last 

plundered pillow ; 
Where the Cross is stained with fraud by the 

giant evil-doer, 
And the pale Crescent shines with a steady light 

and pure ; 
And their coats will be dim with dust, and their 

bayonets brown with rust, 

Ere they conquer, as we trust, in the mighty game 
of war. 

Peace, peace, peace, with the Vain and silly song, 
That we do no sin ourselves, if we wink at others' 

wrong ; 
That to turn the second cheek is the lesson of the 


To be proved by calculation of the profit and the loss : 
Go home, you idle teachers ! you miserable creatures ! 
The cannons are God's preachers, when the time 
is ripe for war. 

Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger, 
Merely cheating destiny a very little longer ; 
War, with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes ; 
Is cheaper if discounted and taken up betimes : 
When the weeds of wrath are rank, you must plough 

the poisoned bank, 

Sow and reap the crop of Peace with the implements 
of war. 

God, defend the right, and those that dare to 

claim it ! 
God, cleanse the earth from the many wrongs 

that shame it ! 
Give peace in our time, but not the peace of 


Won by true strength, not cowardly dissembling ; 
Let us see in pride returning, as we send them forth 

in yearning, 

Our Grenadier Guards from earning the trophies 
of the war. 

Sir Franklin Lushington. 




THE Isle of Roses in her Lindian shrine, 

Athena's dwelling, gleam'd with golden song 
Of Pindar, set in gold the walls along, 

Blazoning the praise of Heracles divine. 

O Poets, who for us have wrought the mine 
Of old Romance, illusive pearl and gold, 
Its star-fair maids, knights of heroic mould, 

Ye lend the rays that on their features shine, 

Ideal strength and beauty : But thou 

Fair Truth ! to thee with deeper faith we bow ; 

Knowing thy genuine heroes bring with them 
Their more than poetry. From these we learn 
What men can be. By their own light they burn 

As in far heavens the Pleiad diadem. 

The fair-hair'd boy is at his mother's knee, 
A many-colour'd page before them spread, 
Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red, 

With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy. 

But through her eyes alone the child can see, 
From her sweet lips partake the words of song, 
And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong, 

Or gazes on some feat of gramarye. 

' When thou canst use it, thine the book ! ' she 

cried : 
He blush'd, and clasp'd it to his breast with pride : 

* Unkingly task ! ' his comrades cry ; in vain ; 
All work ennobles nobleness, all art, 
He sees ; head governs hand ; and in his heart 

All knowledge for his province he has ta'en. 

Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest, 
As summer-clouds that o'er the valley flit : 
To other tasks his genius he must fit ; 

The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest ! 


O sacred Athelney, from pagan quest 

Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy 
^Waiting God's issue with heroic joy 
And unrelaxing purpose in the breast ! 

The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch, 

For England fight ; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch ; 

Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free: 
He, changing at the font his foe to friend, 
Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end, 

By moderation doubling victory. 

much-vex'd life, for us too short, too dear ! 

The laggard body lame behind the soul ; 

Pain, that ne'er marr'd the mind's serene control ; 
Breathing on earth heaven's sether atmosphere, 
God with thee, and the love that casts out fear ! 

soul in life's salt ocean guarding sure 

The freshness of youth's fountain sweet and pure, 
And to all natural impulse crystal-clear : 

To service or command, to low and high 
Equal at once in magnanimity, 

The Great by right divine thou only art ! 
Fair star, that crowns the front of England's morn, 
Royal with Nature's royalty inborn, 

And English to the very heart of heart ! 

Francis Turner Palgrave. 



Heard ye the thunder of battle 

Low in the South and afar ? 
Saw ye the flash of the death-cloud 

Crimson o'er Trafalgar ? 
Such another day never 

England will look on again, 
WJien the battle fought' was the hottest, 

And the hero of heroes was slain ! 


For the fleet of France and the force of Spain were 

gather' d for fight, 
A greater than Philip their lord, a new Armada in 

might : 
And the sails were aloft once more in the deep 

Gaditanian bay, 
Where Redoubtable and Bucentaure and great Trini- 

dada lay ; 

Eager-reluctant to close ; for across the bloodshed 

to be 
Two navies beheld one prize in its glory, the throne 

of the sea ! 
Which were bravest, who should tell ? for both were 

gallant and true ; 
But the greatest seaman was ours, of all that sail'd 

o'er the blue. 

From Cadiz the enemy sallied : they knew not Nelson 

was there ; 

His name a navy to us, but to them a flag of despair ; 
'Twixt Algeziras and Aquamonte he guarded the 

Till he bore from Tavira south ; and they now must 

fight or be lost ; 
Vainly they steered for the Rock and the mid-land 

sheltering sea, 
For he headed the Admirals round, constraining them 

under his lee, 
Villeneuve of France, and Gravina of Spain ; so they 

shifted their ground, 
They could choose, they were more than we ; and 

they faced at Trafalgar round ; 
Rampart-like ranged in line, a sea-fortress angrily 

towered ! 
In the midst, four-storied with guns, the dark Trini- 

dada lower 'd. 

So with those But, meanwhile, as against some 

dyke that men massively rear, 

From on high the torrent surges, to drive through 
the dyke as a spear, 


Eagle-eyed e'en in his blindness, our chief sets his 

double array, 
Making the fleet two spears, to thrust at the foe any 

way, . . . 

'Anyhow! without orders, each captain his French- 
man may grapple perforce ; 
Collingwood first ' (yet the Victory ne'er a whit 

slacken'd her course) 
1 Signal for action ! Farewell ! we shall win, but we 

meet not again ! ' 
Then a low thunder of readiness ran from the 

decks o'er the main, 
And on, as the message from masthead to masthead 

flew out like a flame, 

they came. 

Silent they come : While the thirty black forts of 

the foeman's array 
Clothe them in billowy snow, tier speaking o'er tier 

as they lay ; 
Flashes that thrust and drew in, as swords when the 

battle is rife ; 
But ours stood frowningly smiling, and ready for 

death as for life. 
in that interval grim, ere the furies of slaughter 

Thrills o'er each man some far echo of England ; some 

glance of some face ! 

Faces gazing seaward through tears from the ocean- 
girt shore ; 
Faces that ne'er can be gazed on again till the death 

pang is o'er . . . 
Lone in his cabin the Admiral kneeling, and all his 

great heart 
As a child's to the mother, goes forth to the loved one, 

who bade him depart 
. . . O not for death, but glory! her smile would 

welcome him home ! 
Louder and thicker the thunderbolts fall : and 

silent they come. 


As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters 

Plagued by their darts from afar, leaps in, dividing 

them back ; 
So between Spaniard and Frenchman the Victory 

wedged with a shout, 
Gun against gun ; a cloud from her decks and lightning 

went out ; 
Iron hailing of pitiless death from the sulphury 

smoke ; 
Voices hoarse and parch'd, and blood from invisible 

Each man stood to his work, though his mates fell 

smitten around, 
As an oak of the wood, while his fellow, flame- 

shatter'd, besplinters the ground : 
Gluttons of danger for England, but sparing the foe 

as he lay ; 
For the spirit of Nelson was on them, and each was 

Nelson that day. 

* She has struck ! ' he shouted * She burns, the 

Redoubtable ! Save whom we can ; 
k Silence our guns : ' for in him the woman was great 

in the man, 
In that heroic heart each drop girl-gentle and 

Dying by those he spared ; and now Death's triumph 

was sure ! 
From the deck the smoke-wreath clear'd, and the foe 

set his rifle in rest, 
Dastardly aiming, where Nelson stood forth, with the 

stars on his breast, 
' In honour I gained them, in honour I die with 

them ! ' . . . Then, in his place, 
Fell . . . ' Hardy ! 'tis over ; but let them not know : ' 

and he cover 'd his face. 
Silent the whole fleet's darling they bore to the 

twilight below : 
And above the war-thunder came shouting, as foe 

struck his flag after foe. 


To his heart death rose : and for Hardy, the faith- 
ful, he cried in his pain, 
' How goes the day with us, Hardy ? ' . . . 
' 'Tis ours ' : 
Then he knew, not in vain 
Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled : 

how he left her secure, 
Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and 

example endure. 
0, like a lover he loved her ! for her as water he 

Life-blood and life and love, lavish'd all for her sake, 

and for ours ! 
' Kiss me, Hardy ! Thank God ! I have done my 

duty ! ' and then 
Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among 


Hear ye the heart of a Nation 

Groan, for her saviour is gone ; 
Gallant and true and tender. 

Child and chieftain in one ? 
Such another day never 

England will weep for again, 
When tlie triumph darkened the triumph, 

And the hero of heroes was slain. 

Francis Turner Palgrave. 



4 How many ? ' said our good captain, 

' Twenty sail and more ! ' 

We were homeward bound, 

Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the 

Nore ; 

Eight athwart our tack, 
The foe came thick and black, 
Like hell-birds and foul weather you might count 

them by the score ! 


The Betsy Jane did slack 
To see the game in view ; 
They knew the Union Jack, 
And the tyrant's flag we knew. 

Our captain shouted, ' Clear the decks ! ' and the 
bo'sun's whistle blew. 

Then our gallant captain, 

With his hand he seized the wheel, 

And pointed with his stump to the middle of the 


4 Hurrah, lads, in we go ! ' 
(You should hear the British cheer, 
Fore and aft !) 

* There are twenty sail,' sang he, 

* But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea ! ' 
(You should hear the British cheer, 

Fore and aft !) 

* See yon ugly craft 

With the pennon at her main ! 
Hurrah, my merry boys, 
There goes the Betsy Jane I ' 
(You should hear the British cheer, 
Fore and aft !) 

The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian 

bugles sound ; 
And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea. 

* Port and starboard ! ' cried our captain ; 
' Pay it in, my hearts ! ' sang he. 

* We're old England's sons, 
And we'll fight for her to-day ! ' 
(You should hear the British cheer, 
Fore and aft !) 

* Fire away ! ' 

In she runs, 
And her guns 
Thunder round. 

Sydney Dobell. 




THEY say that * war is hell,' the ' great accursed,' 

The sin impossible to be forgiven ; 
Yet I can look beyond it at its worst, 

And still find blue in Heaven. 

And as I note how nobly natures form 
Under the war's red rain, I deem it true 

That He who made the earthquake and the storm 
Perchance makes battles too ! 

The life He loves is not the life of span 
Abbreviated by each passing breath, 

It is the true humanity of man 
Victorious over death, 

The long expectance of the upward gaze, 

Sense ineradicable of things afar, 
Fair hope of finding after many days 

The bright and morning star. 

Methinks I see how spirits may be tried, 
Transfigured into beauty on war's verge, 

Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside 
The trampling of the surge. 

And now, not only Englishmen at need 
Have won a fiery and unequal fray, 

No infantry has ever done such deed 
Since Albuera's day ! 

Those who live on amid our homes to dwell 

Have grasped the higher lessons that endure, 

The gallant Private learns to practise well 
His heroism obscure. 

His heart beats high as one for whom is made 
A mighty music solemnly, what time 

The oratorio of the cannonade 
Bolls through the hills sublime. 

Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark, 
The crimson death, the dread unerring aim, 

The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark, 
The just-recorded name 


The faithful following of the flag all day, 

The duty done that brings no nation's thanks, 

The Ama Nesciri 1 of some grim and grey 
A Kempis of the ranks. 

These are the things our commonweal to guard, 
The patient strength that is too proud to press, 

The duty done for duty, not reward, 
The lofty littleness. 

And they of greater state who never turned, 
Taking their path of duty higher and higher 1 , 

What do we deem that they, too, may have learned 
In that baptismal fire ? 

Not that the only end beneath the sun 

Is to make every sea a trading lake, 
And all our splendid English history one 

Voluminous mistake. 

They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week 
Some of them, ere they reached the mountain's 

The wind of battle breathing on their cheek 
Suddenly laid them down. 

Like sleepers not like those whose race is run 
Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon's roar, 

Them no reveille and no morning gun 
Shall ever waken more. 

And the boy -beauty passed from off the face 
Of those who lived, and into it instead 

Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race, 
Sweet commune with the dead. 

And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent, 
And manly tears made mist upon their eyes, 

And to them came a great presentiment 
Of high self-sacrifice. 

Thus, as the heaven's many-coloured flames 
At sunset are but dust in rich disguise, 

The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames 
God's pictures in the skies. 

William Alexander. 

1 The heading of a remarkable chapter in the De Imitation* Christi. 




THE feast is spread through England 

For rich and poor to-day ; 
Greetings and laughter may be there, 

But thoughts are far away ; 
Over the stormy ocean, 

Over the dreary track, 
Where some are gone, whom England 

Will never welcome back. 

Breathless she waits, and listens 

For every eastern breeze 
That bears upon its bloody wings 

News from beyond the seas. 
The leafless branches stirring 

Make many a watcher start ; 
The distant tramp of steeds may send 

A throb from heart to heart. 

The rulers of the nation, 

The poor ones at their gate, 
With the same eager wonder 

The same great news await. 
The poor man's stay and comfort, 

The rich man's joy and pride, 
Upon the bleak Crimean shore 

Are fighting side by side. 

The bullet comes and either 

A desolate hearth may see ; 
And God alone to-night knows where 

The vacant place may be ! 
The dread that stirs the peasant 

Thrills nobles' hearts with fear 
Yet above selfish sorrow 

Both hold their country dear. 

The rich man who reposes 

In his ancestral shade, 
The peasant at his ploughshare, 

The worker at his trade, 


Each one his all has perilled, 

Each has the same great stake, 
Each soul can but have patience, 

Each heart can only break ! 

Hushed is all party clamour ; 

One thought in every heart, 
One dread in every household, 

Has bid such strife depart. 
England has called her children ; 

Long silent the word came 
That lit the smouldering ashes 

Through all the land to flame. 

O you who toil and suffer, 

You gladly heard the call ; 
But those you sometimes envy 

Have they not given their all ? 
O you who rule the nation, 

Take now the toil-worn hand 
Brothers you are in sorrow, 

In duty to your land. 
Learn but this noble lesson 

Ere Peace returns again, 
And the life-blood of Old England 

Will not be shed in vain. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



OUR second Richard Lion-Heart 

In days of great Queen Bess, 
He did this deed, he played this part, 

With true old nobleness, 
And wrath heroic that was nursed 
To bear the fiercest battle-burst, 
When maddened foes should wreak their worst. 



Signalled the English Admiral, 

* Weigh or cut anchors.' For 
A Spanish fleet bore down, in all 

The majesty of war, 
Athwart our tack for many a mile, 
As there we lay off Florez Isle, 
With crews half sick, all tired of toil. 

Eleven of our twelve ships escaped ; 

Sir Richard stood alone ! 
Though they were three -and-fifty sail 

A hundred men to one 
The old Sea-Rover would not run, 
So long as he had man or gun ; 
But he could die when all was done. 

' The Devil's broken loose, my lads, 

In shape of popish Spain : 
And we must sink him in the sea, 

Or hound him home again. 
Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws ! 
Have at them tooth and nail and claws ! ' 
And then his long, bright blade he draws. 

The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew ; 

The grim sea-lions stand ; 
The death-fires lit in every eye, 

The burning match in hand. 
With mail of glorious intent 
All hearts were clad ; and in they went, 
A force that cut through where 'twas sent. 

' Push home, my hardy pikemen, 
For we play a desperate part ; 
To-day, my gunners, let them feel 

The pulse of England's heart ! 
They shall remember long that we 
Once lived ; and think how shamefully 
We shook them One to fifty-three ! ' 

With face of one who cheerily goes 

To meet his doom that day, 
Sir Richard sprang upon his foes ; 

The foremost gave him way ; 


His round shot smashed them through and through, 
At every flash white splinters flew, 
And madder grew his fighting few. 

They clasp the little ship Revenge, 

As in the arms of fire ; 
They run aboard her, six at once ; 

Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher ; 
Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, 
But still our English stay the storm, 
The bulwark in their breast is firm. 

Ship after ship, like broKen waves 

That wash upon a rock, 
Those mighty galleons fall back foiled, 

And shattered from the shock. 
With fire she answers all their blows ; 
Again again in pieces strows 
The girdle round her as they close. 

Through all that night the great white storm 

Of worlds in silence rolled ; 
Sirius with green-azure sparkle, 

Mars in ruddy gold. 
Heaven looked with stillness terrible 
Down on a fight most fierce and fell 
A sea transfigured into hell ! 

Some know not they are wounded till 

'Tis slippery where they stand ; 
Then each one tighter grips his steel, 

As 'twere salvation's hand. 
Grim faces glow through lurid night 
With sweat of spirit shining bright : 
Only the dead on deck turn white. 

At day-break the flame picture fades 

In blackness and in blood ; 
There, after fifteen hours of fight, 

The unconquered Sea-King stood 
Defying all the power of Spain : 
Fifteen armadas hurled in vain, 
And fifteen hundred foemen slain ! 


About that little bark Revenge, 

The baffled Spaniards ride 
At distance. Two of their good ships 

Were sunken at her side ; 
The rest lie round her in a ring, 
As, round the dying forest-king 
The dogs afraid of his death-spring. 

Our pikes all broken, powder spent, 

Sails, masts to shivers blown ; 
And with her dead and wounded crew 

The ship was settling down. 
Sir Richard's wounds were hot and deep, 
Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip, 
' Ho, Master Gunner, sink the ship ! ' 

* Make ready now, my mariners, 

To go aloft with me, 
That nothing to the Spaniard 

May remain of victory. 
They cannot take us, nor we yield ; 
So let us leave our battle-field, 
Under the shelter of God's shield.' 

They had not heart to dare fulfil 
The stern commander's word : 
With swelling hearts and welling eyes, 

They carried him aboard 
The Spaniards' ship ; and round him stand 
The warriors of his wasted band : 
Then said he, feeling death at hand, 

' Here die I, Richard Grenville, 

With a joyful and quiet mind ; 
I reach a soldier's end, I leave 

A soldier's fame behind. 
Who for his Queen and country fought, 
For Honour and Religion wrought, 
And died as a true soldier ought.' 

Earth never returned a worthier trust 
For hand of Heaven to take, 

Since Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Was cast into the lake, 

BKOWN 117 

And the King's grievous wounds were dressed, 
And healed, by weeping Queens, who blessed, 
And bore him to a valley of rest. 

Old heroes who could grandly do, 

As they could greatly dare, 
A vesture very glorious 

Their shining spirits wear 
Of noble deeds ! God give us grace, 
That we may see such face to face, 
In our great day that comes apace ! 

Gerald Massey. 



I KNOW 'tis but a loom of land, 
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, 
I know I cannot hear His voice 

Upon the shore, nor see Him stand ; 

Yet is it land, ho ! land. 

The land ! the land ! the lovely land ! 
* Far off ' dost say ? Far off ah, blessed home ! 
Farewell ! farewell ! thou salt sea-foam ! 

Ah, keel upon the silver sand 

Land, ho ! land. 

You cannot see the land, my land, 
You cannot see, and yet the land is there 
My land, my land, through murky air 

I did not say 'twas close at hand 

But land, ho ! land. 

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, 
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds ? 
No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words, 

No tongue that thou may'st understand 

Yet is it land, ho ! land. 

It's clad in purple mist, my land, 
In regal robe it is apparelled, 
A crown is set upon its head, 

And on its breast a golden band 

Land, ho ! land. 


Dost wonder that I long for land ? 
My land is not a land as others are 
Upon its crest there beams a star, 

And lilies grow upon the strand 

Land, ho ! land. 

Give me the helm ! there is the land ! 
Ha ! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze ! 
And what my spirit sees it sees 

Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand 

Land, ho ! land. 

Thomas Edward Broivn, 



0, 'twas merry down to Looe when the news was 

carried through 
That the George would put to sea all with the 

morning tide ; 

And all her jolly crew hurrah'd till they were blue 
When the captain said, ' My lads, we'll tan the 
Frenchman's hide ! ' 

For Captain Davy Dann was a famous fightin' man, 
Who lov'd the smell o' powder and the thunder o' 

the guns, 

And off the coast of France often made the French- 
men dance 
To the music from his sloop of only ninety tons. 

So at the break o' day there were hundreds on the quay 
To see the gallant ship a-warping out to sea ; 

And the Mayor, Daniel Chubb, was hoisted on a tub, 
And he cried, ' Good luck to Dann, with a three 
times three ! ' 

For the news that came from Fowey was that ev'ry 

man and boy 

And all the gallants there were expecting of a ship. 
And the lively lads o' Looe, they thought they'd 

watch her too, 

Lest the Frenchman showed his heels and gave 'em 
all the slip. 


So along by Talland Bay the good ship sailed away, 
And the boats were out at Polperro to see what 

they could see ; 
And old Dann, he cried, ' Ahoy ! you'd better come 

to Fowey, 

And help to blow the Mounseers to the bottom of 
the sea ! ' 

Now, 'twas almost set o' sun, and the day was almost 

When we sighted of a frigate beating up against 

the wind ; 
And we put on all our sail till we came within her 


And old Dann politely asked, ' Will you follow us 

But the Frenchmen fore and aft only stood and 

grinned and laughed, 
And never guessed the captain was in earnest, 

don't you see ? 

For we'd only half her guns, and were only ninety tons, 
And they thought they'd blow us easy to the 
bottom o' the sea. 

But our brave old Captain Dann oh, he was a 

proper man ! 
Sang out with voice like thunder unto ev'ry man 

aboard : 

* Now all you men of Looe just show what you can do, 
And we'll board her, and we'll take her, by the 
help o' the Lord ! ' 

Then up her sides we swarm'd, and along her deck 

we storm'd, 
And sword and pike were busy for the space of 

half an hour ; 
But before the day was done, tho' they number'd 

two to one, 
Her commander had to yield, and his flag to lower. 

Then we turn'd our ship about, and while the stars 

came out 

We tow'd our prize right cheerily past Fowey and 
Polperro ; 


And we blest old Captain Dann, for we hadn't lost 

a man, 

And our wounded all were doing well a-down 

And when we came to Looe, all the town was there 

to view, 
And the mayor in his chain and gown he cried 

out lustily, 
{ Nine cheers for Captain Dann, and three for every 


And the good ship George that carried them to 
victory ! ' 

Benn Wilkes Jones Trevdldwyn. 



(June 26, 1857) 

TO-DAY the people gather from the streets, 

To-day the soldiers muster near and far ; 
Peace, with a glad look and a grateful, meets 

Her rugged brother War. 
To-day the Queen of all the English land, 

She who sits high o'er Kaisers and o'er Kings, 
Gives with her royal hand th' Imperial hand 

Whose grasp the earth enrings 
Her Cross of Valour to the worthiest ; 

No golden toy with milky pearl besprent, 
But simple bronze, and for a warrior's breast 

A fair, fit ornament. 
And richer than red gold that dull bronze seems, 

Since it was bought with lavish waste and worth 
Whereto the wealth of earth's gold-sanded streams 

Were but a lack, and dearth. 

Muscovite metal makes this English Cross, 
Won in a rain of blood and wreath of flame ; 

The guns that thundered for their brave lives' loss 
Are worn hence, for their fame ! 


Ay, listen ! all ye maidens laughing-eyed, 
And all ye English mothers, be aware ! 

Those who shall pass before ye at noontide 
Your friends and champions are. 

The men of all the army and the fleet, 

The very bravest of the very brave, 
Linesman and Lord, these fought with equal feet, 

Firm-planted on their grave. 

The men who, setting light their blood and breath 
So they might win a victor's haught renown, 

Held their steel straight against the face of Death, 
And frowned his frowning down. 

And some that grasped the bomb, all fury-fraught, 
And hurled it far, to spend its spite away 

Between the rescue and the risk no thought 
Shall pass our Queen this day. 

And some who climbed the deadly glacis-side, 
For all that steel could stay, or savage shell ; 

And some whose blood upon the Colours dried 
Tells if they bore them well. 

Some, too, who, gentle-hearted even in strife, 
Seeing their fellow or their friend go down, 

Saved his, at peril of their own dear life, 
Winning the Civil Crown. 

Well done for them ; and, fair Isle, well for thee ! 

While that thy bosom beareth sons like those ; 
* This precious stone set in the silver sea ' 

Shall never fear her foes ! 

Sir Edwin Arnold. 


FORESTS that beard the avalanche, 
Levels, empurpled slopes of vine, 

Wrecks, sadly gay with flower and branch, 
I love you, but you are not mine ! 


The sweet domestic sanctity 

Fades in the fiery sun, like dew ; 

My Love beheld and passed you by, 
My fathers shed no blood for you. 

Pause, rambling clouds, while fancy fain 
Your white similitude doth trace 

To England's cliffs, so may your rain 
Fall blissful on your native place ! 

Richard Garnett. 


A WONDERFUL joy our eyes to bless 
In her magnificent comeliness, 
Is an English girl of eleven stone two, 
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe ! 

She follows the hounds, and on she pounds 

The * field ' tails off and the muffs diminish- 
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds 
Straight as a crow from find to finish. 
At cricket, her kin will lose or win 

She and her maids, on grass and clover, 
Eleven maids out eleven maids in 

(And perhaps an occasional ' maiden over '). 

Go search the world and search the sea, 
Then come you home and sing with me 
There's no such gold and no such pearl 
As a bright and beautiful English girl I 

"With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs, 
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims 
She plays, she sings, she dances, too, 
From ten or eleven till all is blue ! 
At ball or drum, till small hours come 

(Chaperon's fan conceals her yawning), 
She'll waltz away like a teetotum, 

And never go home till daylight's dawning. 


Lawn tennis may share her favours fair 
Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing 

Down comes her hair, but what does she care ? 
It's all her own, and it's worth the showing ! 

Her soul is sweet as the ocean air, 
For prudery knows no haven there ; 
To find mock-modesty, please apply 
To the conscious blush and the downcast eye. 
Rich in the things contentment brings, 

In every pure enjoyment wealthy, 
Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings, 

For body and mind are hale and healthy. 
Her eyes they thrill with a right good will 

Her heart is light as a floating feather 
As pure and bright as the mountain rill 

That leaps and laughs in the Highland 

Go search the world and search the sea, 
Then come you home and sing with me 
There's no such gold and no such pearl 
As a bright and beautiful English girl ! 

William Schwenk Gilbert. 



WHATE'ER of woe the Dark may hide in womb 
For England, mother of kings of battle and song- 
Rapine, or racial hate's mysterious wrong, 
Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom 
Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, 
Bind her to that great daughter sever'd long 
To near and far-off children young and strong 
With fetters woven of Avon's flower perfume. 


Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye 
Whose hands around the world are join'd by him, 
Who make his speech the language of the sea, 
Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rim 
The Breath of Avon : let this great day be 
A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. 

From where the steeds of earth's twin oceans toss 
Their manes along Columbia's chariot-way ; 
From where Australia's long blue billows play ; 
From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross, 
Startling the frigate-bird and albatross 
Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay 
Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway 
'Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss ! 
For, if ye found the breath of ocean sweet, 
Sweeter is Avon's earthy, flowery smell, 
Distill'd from roots that feel the coming spell 
Of May, who bids all flowers that lov'd him meet 
In meadows that, remembering Shakespeare's feet, 
Hold still a dream of music where they fell. 

Theodore Watts- Dunton. 




A Continental Newspaper) 

1 SHE stands alone : ally nor friend has she,' 
Saith Europe of our England her who bore 
Drake, Blake, and Nelson Warrior-Queen who 

Light's conquering glaive that strikes the conquered 


Alone ! From Canada comes o'er the sea, 
And from that English coast with coral shore, 
The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yore 
From Dover cliffs : ' Ready, aye ready we ! ' 


' Europe,' saith England, ' hath forgot my boys ! 
Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone 
'Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown 
(Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys) 
Forgot 'mid boltless thunder harmless noise 
The sons with whom old England * stands alone ! ' 

Theodore Watts-Dunton. 



ENGLAND, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate 

girdle enrings thee round, 
Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place 

of thy f oemen found ? 
Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them 

stricken, acclaims thee crowned. 
Times may change, and the skies grow strange with 

signs of treason, and fraud, and fear : 
Foes in union of strange communion may rise against 

thee from far and near : 
Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers 

waxing from year to year. 

Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should 
league and lie and defame and smite, 

We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred 
burns of the sons of night, 

We that love thee, behold above thee the witness 
written of life in light. 

Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that 

none may read not but eyeless foes : 
Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful 

now but as madness grows : 
Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, 

beholds and glows. 
Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, 

forsaking the face of truth : 
Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born 

again from thy deathless youth : 
Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert 

thou the prey of the serpent's tooth* 


Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to 

sting thee at heel in vain : 
Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn 

and murmur and plead and plain : 
Thou art thou : and thy sunbright brow is hers 

that blasted the strength of Spain. 

Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in 

place of thee England's place : 
Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of 

record, so clothed with grace : 
Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as 

strong or as fair of face. 
How shall thou be abased ? or how shall fear take 

hold of thy heart ? of thine, 
England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life 

and with hopes divine ? 
Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold 

not light in her darkness shine. 

England, none that is born thy son, and lives, by 

grace of thy glory, free, 
Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope 

to serve as he worships thee ; 
None may sing thee : the sea-wind's wing beats 

down our songs as it hails the sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



THE weary day rins down and dies, 
The weary night wears through : 

And never an hour is fair wi' flower, 
And never a flower wi' dew. 

I would the day were night for me, 

I would the night were day : 
For then would I stand in my ain fair land, 

As now in dreams I may. 


O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, 

And loud the dark Durance : 
But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne 

Than a' the fields of France ; 
And the waves of Till that speak sae still 

Gleam goodlier where they glance. 

weel were they that fell fighting 

On dark Drumossie's day : 
They keep their hame ayont the faem 

And we die far away. 

sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, 

But night and day wake we ; 
And ever between the sea-banks green 

Sounds loud the sundering sea. 

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, 

But sweet and fast sleep they ; 
And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them 

Is e'en their country's clay ; 
But the land we tread that are not dead 

Is strange as night by day. 

Strange as night in a strange man's sight, 

Though fair as dawn it be : 
For what is here that a stranger's cheer 

Should yet wax blithe to see ? 

The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, 

The fields are green and gold : 
The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, 

As ours at home of old. 

But hills and flowers are nane of ours, 

And ours are over sea : 
And the kind strange land whereon we stand, 

It wotsna what were we 
Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, 

To try what end might be. 


Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, 

And a weary time and strange, 
Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing 

Can die, and cannot change. 

Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, 

Though sair be they to dree : 
But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, 

Mair keen than wind and sea. 

Ill may we thole the night's watches, 

And ill the weary day : 
And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, 

A waefu' gift gie they ; 
For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, 

The morn blaws all away. 

On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, 

The burn rins blithe and fain : 
There's nought wi' me I wadna gie 

To look thereon again. 

On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide : 

There sounds nae hunting-horn 
That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat 

Round banks where Tyne is born. 

The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, 

The bents and braes give ear ; 
But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings 

I may not see nor hear ; 
For far and far thae blithe burns are, 

And strange is a' thing near. 

The light there lightens, the day there brightens, 

The loud wind there lives free : 
Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me 

That I wad hear or see. 

But gin I were there again, 

Afar ayont the faem, 
Cauld and dead in the sweet, saft bed 

That haps my sires at name ! 


We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, 

And the sweet grey gleaming sky, 
And the lordly strand of Northumberland, 

And the goodly towers thereby ; 
And none shall know but the winds that blow 

The graves wherein we lie. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



NEW Year, be good to England. Bid her name 
Shine sunlike as of old on all the sea : 
Make strong her soul : set all her spirit free : 

Bind fast her home-born foes with links of shame 

More strong than iron and more keen than flame : 
Seal up their lips for shame's sake : so shall she 
Who was the light that lightened freedom be, 

For all false tongues, in all men's eyes the same. 

O last-born child of Time, earth's eldest lord, 
God undiscrowned of godhead, who for man 
Begets all good and evil things that live, 
Do thou, his new-begotten son, implored 

Of hearts that hope and fear not, make thy span 
Bright with such light as history bids thee give. 
Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



TRUTH, winged and enkindled with rapture 
And sense of the radiance of yore, 

Fulfilled you with power to recapture 
What never might singer before 

The life, the delight, and the sorrow 
Of troublous and chivalrous years 

That knew not of night or of morrow, 
Of hopes or of fears. 


But wider the wing and the vision 
That quicken the spirit have spread 

Since memory beheld with derision 
Man's hope to be more than his dead. 

From the mists and the snows and the thunders 
Your spirit has brought for us forth 

Light, music, and joy in the wonders 
And charms of the North. 

The wars and the woes and the glories 
That quicken and lighten and rain 

From the clouds of its chronicled stories, 
The passion, the pride, and the pain, 

Where echoes were mute and the token 
Was lost of the spells that they spake, 

Rise bright at your bidding, unbroken 
Of ages that break. 

For you, and for none of us other, 
Time is not : the dead that must live 

Hold commune with you as a brother 
By grace of the life that you give. 

The heart that was in them is in you, 
Their soul in your spirit endures : 

The strength of their song is the sinew 
Of this that is yours. 

Hence is it that life, everlasting 
As light and as music, abides 
In the sound of the surge of it, casting 
Sound back to the surge of the tides, 
Till sons of the sons of the Norsemen 

Watch, hurtling to windward and lea, 
Round England, unbacked of her horsemen, 
The steeds of the sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

HARDY 131 



RAIN came down drenchingly ; but we unblenchingly 
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through 

They stepping steadily only too readily ! 

Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher. 

Great guns were gleaming there living things 
seeming there 

Cloaked in their tar cloths, upnosed to the night : 
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe, 

Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight. 

Lamplight all drearily, blinking and blearily 
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss, 

While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to 

Not to court peril that honour could miss. 

Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded those eyes of 


When at last moved away under the arch 
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for 

Treading back slowly the track of their march. 

Someone said ' Nevermore will they come ! Evermore 
Are they now lost to us ! ' Oh, it was wrong ! 

Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will 

guard their ways 
Bear them through safely in brief time or long. 

Yet voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us, 
Hint, in the night-time, when life-beats are low, 
Other and graver things. . . . Hold we to braver 


Wait we in trust what Time's fullness shall 

Thomas Hardy. 




KING Philip had vaunted his claims ; 

He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; 

With an army of heathenish names 

He was coming to fagot and stack us ; 

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 

And scatter our ships on the main ; 

But we had bold Neptune to back us 

And where are the galleons of Spain ? 

His carackes were christened of dames 
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; 
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames 
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; 
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again, 
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus 
For where are the galleons of Spain ? 

Let his Majesty hang to St. James 
The axe that he whetted to hack us ; 
He must play at some lustier games 
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; 
To his mines of Peru he would pack us 
To tug at his bullet and chain ; 
Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! 
But where are the galleons of Spain ? 


GLORIANA ! the Don may attack us 
Whenever his stomach be fain ; 
He must reach us before he can rack us, . . 
And where are the galleons of Spain ? 

Austin Dobson. 




Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep 
Shows to the stars, for you I mourn I weep, 

O undistinguished Dead ! 

None knows your name. 

Blackened and blurred in the wild battle's brunt, 
Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front : 

This is your fame ! 

Austin Dobson. 


AN effigy of brass 
Trodden by careless feet 
Of worshippers that pass, 
Beautiful and complete, 

Lieth in the sombre aisle 
Of this old church unwreckt, 
And still from modern style 
Shielded by kind neglect. 

It shows a warrior arm'd : 
Across his iron breast 
His hands by death are charmed 
To leave his sword at rest, 

Wherewith he led his men 
O'ersea, and smote to hell 
The astonisht Saracen, 
Nor doubted he did well. 

Would we could teach our sons 
His trust in face of doom, 
Or give our bravest ones 
A comparable tomb : 

i 3 4 SKRINE 

Such as to look on shrives 
The heart of half its care ; 
So in each line survives 
The spirit that made it fair, 

So fair the characters, 
With which the dusty scroll, 
That tells his title, stirs 
A requiem for his soul. 

Yet dearer far to me, 
And brave as he are they, 
Who fight by land and sea 
For England at this day ; 

Whose vile memorials, 
In mournful marbles gilt, 
Deface the beauteous walls 
By growing glory built. 

Heirs of our antique shrines, 
Sires of our future fame, 
Whose starry honour shines 
In many a noble name 

Across the deathful days, 
Link'd in the brotherhood 
That loves our country's praise, 
And lives for heavenly good. 

Robert Bridges. 


WE come from tower and grange, 
Where the grey woodlands range, 
Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease ; 
From Erin's rain-wet rocks, 
Or where the ocean-shocks 
Thunder between the glimmering Hebrides ; 

And many-spired cities grave, 

With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied 


Taught in proud England's school, 

Her honour's knightly rule, 
To do and dare and bear and not to lie, 

With priest's or scholar's lore 

Or statesman's subtle store 
Of garnered wisdom, proved in councils high, 

We serve her bidding here, or far 
Shepherd the imperial flock under an alien star. 

Leechcraft of heaven or earth 

We bear to scanted hearth 
And lightless doorway and dim beds of pain : 

With master-craft we steer 

Dusk labour's march, and cheer 
His blind innumerable-handed train ; 

Or in the cannon-shaken air 
Frankly the gentle die that simple men may dare. 

The Asian moonbeams fall 
O'er our boys' graves, and all 
The o'er-watching hills are names of their young 

glory : 

Sleep the blithe swordsman hands 
Beside red Ethiop sands, 
Or drear uprise of wintry promontory : 

The headstone of a hero slain 

Charms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her 

O for the blood that fell 
So gladly given and well, 

for all spirits that lived for England's honour, 
Ere folly ruin or fear 
Her whom these held so dear, 
Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her, 

Rise, brothers of her knightly roll, 
Close fast our order's ranks and guard great England 
whole ! 

John Huntley Shrine. 



SONS in my gates of the West, 

Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine, 
And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line, 
And wide as the air are the meadows of kine, 

What cheer from my gates of the West ? 

' Peace in thy gates of the West, 

England our mother, and rest, 
In our sounding channels and headlands frore 
The hot Norse blood of the northern hoar 
Is lord of the wave as the lords of yore, 

Guarding thy gates of the West. 

But thou, mother, be strong 

In thy seas for a girdle of towers, 
Holding thine own from wrong, 

Thine own that is ours. 
Till the sons that are bone of thy bone, 
Till the brood of the lion upgrown 

In a day not long, 
Shall war for our England's own, 
For the pride of the ocean throne, 

Be strong, O mother, be strong ! ' 

Sons in my gates of the morn, 
That steward the measureless harvest gold 
And temples and towers of the Orient old 
From the seas of the palm to Himalya cold, 

What cheer in my gates of the morn ? 

' Fair as our India's morn 

Thy peace, as a sunrise, is born. 
Where thy banner is broad in the Orient light 
There is law from the seas to Himalya's height, 
For the banner of might is the banner of right. 

Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.' 


From the Isles of the South what word ? 
True South ! long ago, when I called not, it came, 
And * England's are ours ' ran the war- word aflame, 
* And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have 
shame ! ' 

From my sons of the South what word ? 

' Mother, what need of a word 
For the love that outspake with the sword ? 
In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers, 
When thy children close round thee grown great 

with the hours, 

They shall know who have wronged thee if ' Eng- 
land's be ours.' 
We bring thee a deed for a word. 

But thou, O mother, be strong, 

In thy seas for a girdle of towers, 
Holding thine own from wrong, 

Thine own that is ours. 
Till the sons that are bone of thy bone, 
Till the brood of the lion upgrown 

In a day not long, 
Shall war for our England's own, 
For the pride of the ocean throne, 

Be strong, O mother, be strong ! ' 

John Huntley Shrine. 


WHAT have I done for you, 

England, my England ? 
What is there I would not do, 

England, my own ? 
With your glorious eyes austere, 
As the Lord were walking near, 
Whispering terrible things and dear 

As the Song on your bugles blown, 

Round the world on your bugles blown ! 


Where shall the watchful Sun, 

England, my England, 
Match the master- work you've done, 

England, my own? 
When shall he rejoice agen 
Such a breed of mighty men 
As come forward, one to ten, 

To the Song on your bugles blown, 

Down the years on your bugles blown ? 

Ever the faith endures, 

England, my England : 
' Take us and break us : we are yours, 

England, my own ! 
Life is good, and joy runs high 
Between English earth and sky : 
Death is death ; but we shall die 

To the Song on your bugles blown, 

To the stars on your bugles blown ! ' 

They call you proud and hard, 

England, my England : 
You with worlds to watch and ward, 

England, my own ! 

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys 
Of such teeming destinies 
You could know nor dread nor ease 

Were the Song on your bugles blown, 

Round the Pit on your bugles blown ! 

Mother of Ships whose might, 

England, my England, 
Is the fierce old Sea's delight, 

England, my own, 
Chosen daughter of the Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, 
There's the menace of the Word 

In the Song on your bugles blown, 

Out of heaven on your bugles blown ! 

William Ernest Henley. 




FREE as the wind that leaps from out the North, 

When storms are hurrying forth, 

Up -springs the voice of England, trumpet - 


Which all the world shall hear, 
As one may hear God's thunder over-head, 
A voice that echoes through the sunset red, 
And through the fiery portals of the morn 
Where, day by day, the golden hours are born, 
A voice to urge the strengthening of the 


That bind our Empire Lands 
With such a love as none shall put to scorn ! 

They little know our England who deny 

The claim we have, from zone to furthest zone, 

To belt the beauteous earth, 

And treat the clamorous ocean as our own 

In all the measuring of its monstrous girth. 

The tempest calls to us, and we reply ; 

And not, as cowards do, in under-tone ! 

The sun that sets for others sets no more 

On Britain's world-wide shore 

Which all the tides of all the seas have known. 

We have no lust of strife : 

We seek no vile dissension for base ends ; 

Freedom and fame and England are old friends. 

Yet, if our foes desire it, let them come, 

Whate'er their numbers be ! 

They know the road to England, mile by mile, 

And they shall learn, full soon, that strength nor 


Will much avail them in an English sea ; 
We will not hurl them backward to the waves, 
We'll give them graves ! 


'Tis much to be so honoured in the main, 

And feel no further stain 

Than one's own blood outpoured in lieu of wine. 

'Tis much to die in England, and for this 

To win the sabre-kiss 

Of some true man who deems his cause divine, 

And loves his country well. 

A foe may calmly dwell 

In our sweet soil with daisies for his quilt, 

Their snows to hide his guilt, 

And earth's good warmth about him where he lies 

Beyond the burden of all battle-cries, 

And made half-English by his resting-place : 

God give him grace ! 

We love the sea, the loud, the leaping sea, 

The rush and roar of waters the thick foam, 

The sea-bird's sudden cry, 

The gale that bends the lithe and towering masts 

Of good ships bounding home, 

That spread to the great sky 

Exultant flags unmatched in their degree ! 

And 'tis a joy that lasts, 

A joy that thrills the Briton to the soul 

Who knows the nearest goal 

To all he asks of fortune and of fame, 

From dusk to dawn and dawn to sunset-flame. 

He knows that he is free, 

With all the freedom of the waves and winds 

That have the storm in fee. 

And this our glory still : to bear the palm 

In all true enterprise, 

And everywhere, in tempest and in calm, 

To front the future with unfearing eyes, 

And sway the seas where our advancement lies, 

With Freedom's flag uplifted, and unfurled ; 

And this our rallying-cry, whate'er befall, 

Goodwill to men, and peace throughout the world, 

But England, England, England over all ! 

Eric Mackay. 

EODD 141 



WHO 'as 'eard the Ram a-callin' on the green fields 

o' the sea, 

Let 'em wander east or west an' mighty fast : 
For it's bad to 'ear the Ram when he's up an' runnin' 

With the angry bit o' ribbon at the mast. 

It's rush an' surge an' dash when the Ram is on 

the leap, 

But smash an' crash for them as stops the way : 
The biggest ship goes down right there that ain't got 

sense to keep 
The shore- walk o' the werry nearest bay. 

For Frenchy ships, an' German too, an' Russian, you 

may bet, 

It's safer for to land an' 'ome by tram, 
Than out to come an' gallivant an' risk the kind o' 

That f oilers runnin' counter to a Ram. 

For when the Terror lifts 'is 'ead an' goes for wot is 


I'm sorry for them ships wot sails so free : 
It's best to up an' elsewhere, an' be werry far from 

When Rams 'ave took to bleatin' on the sea ! 

William Sharp. 


MY England, island England, such leagues and 

leagues away, 
It's years since I was with thee, when April wanes 

to May. 

142 RODD 

Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the 

brown hillside 
Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like 

April's bride ; 

Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the 

throbbing note 
Which all the soul of springtide sends through the 

blackbird's throat. 

England, island England, if it has been my lot 
To live long years in alien lands, with men who 

love thee not, 

1 do but love thee better who know each wind that 


The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds 
the rose, 

The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the 

topsail furled, 
The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with 

the world : 

I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured 

The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of 

thy seas. 

The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes, 
The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide 

Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended 

and caressed, 
The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman 

dared to waste, 

Remember those thou speedest forth round all the 

world to be 
Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea ! 

DOYLE 143 

And keep for those who leave thee and find no better 

The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother 

face ! Sir Rennell Rodd. 



SHE stands, a thousand wintered tree, 

By countless morns impearled ; 
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, 

Her branches sweep the world ; 
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, 

Clothe the remotest strand 
With forests from her scatterings made, 
New nations fostered in her shade, 

And linking land with land. 

ye by wandering tempest sown 

'Neath every alien star, 
Forget not whence the breath was blown 

That wafted you afar ! 
For ye are still her ancient seed 

On younger soil let fall 
Children of Britain's island-breed, 
To whom the Mother in her need 

Perchance may one day call. 

William Watson. 


WHAT of the bow ? 

The bow was made in England : 
Of true wood, of yew-wood, 
The wood of English bows ; 
So men who are free 
Love the old yew-tree 
And the land where the yew-tree grows. 

i 4 4 DOYLE 

What of the cord ? 

The cord was made in England : 
A rough cord, a tough cord, 
A cord that bow-men love ; 
And so we will sing 
Of the hempen string 
And the land where the cord was wove. 

What of the shaft ? 

The shaft was cut in England : 
A long shaft, a strong shaft, 
Barbed and trim and true ; 
So we'll drink all together 
To the grey goose-feather 
And the land where the grey goose flew. 

What of the mark ? 

Ah, seek it not in England, 
A bold mark, our old mark, 
Is waiting over- sea. 

When the strings harp in chorus, 
And the lion flag is o'er us, 
It is there that our mark will be. 

What of the men ? 

The men were bred in England ; 
The bow-men the yeomen, 
The lads of dale and fell. 
Here's to you and to you ! 
To the hearts that are true 
And the land where the true hearts dwell ! 
Arthur Gonan Doyle. 


WHO carries the gun ? 

A lad from over the Tweed. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

He comes of a soldier breed. 

DOYLE 145 

So drink together to rock and heather, 

Out where the red deer run, 
And stand aside for Scotland's pride 

The man who carries the gun ! 

For the Colonel rides before, 

The Major's on the flank, 
The Captains and the Adjutant 

Are in the foremost rank. 
But when it's * Action front f ' 

And there's fighting to be done, 
Come one, come all, you stand or fall 

By the man ivho carries the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from a Yorkshire dale. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

The heart that never will fail. 
Here's to the fire of Lancashire, 

And here's to her soldier son ! 
For the hard-bit North has sent him forth 

The lad who carries the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from a Midland shire. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

He comes of an English sire. 
Here's a glass to a Midland lass 

And each can choose the one, 
But East and West we claim the best 

For the man who carries the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from the hills of Wales. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

That Taffy is hard as nails. 
There are several ll's in the place where he dwells, 

And of w's more than one, 
With a ' Llan ' and a ' pen,' but it breeds good men 

And it's they who carry the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from the windy West. 

i 4 6 DOYLE 

Then let him go, for well we know 

That he is one of the best. 
There's Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, 

And Devon yields to none. 
Or you may get in Somerset 

Your lad to carry the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from London town. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

The stuff that never backs down. 
He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, 

For he is the fog-smoke's sun, 
And his heart is light, and his pluck is right 

The man who carries the gun. 

Who carries the gun ? 

A lad from the Emerald Isle. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

We've tried him many a while. 
We've tried him East, we've tried him West, 

We've tried him sea and land, 
But the man to beat old Erin's best 

Has never yet been planned. 

Who carries the gun ? 

It's you, and you, and you ; 
So let us go, and we won't say no 

If they give us a job to do. 
Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, 

Comrades every one ; 
So one last cup, and drink it up 

To the man who carries the gun ? 

For the Colonel rides before, 

The Major's on the flank, 
The Captains and the Adjutant 

Are in the foremost rank. 
And when it's ' Action front I ' 

And there's fighting to be done, 
Come one, come all, you stand or fall 

By the man who carries the gun. 

Arthur Conan Doyle. 




SYE, do yer 'ear thet bugle callin' 

Sutthink stringe through the city's din ? 
Do yer shut yer eyes when the evenin' 's fallin', 

An' see quite plain wheer they're fallin' in ? 
An' theer ain't no sarnd as they falls in, 

An' they mawch quick step with a silent tread 
Through all ar 'earts, through all ar 'earts, 

The Comp'ny of ar Dead. 

A woman's son, and a woman's lover 

Yer'd think as nobody 'eld 'im dear, 
As 'e stands, a clear mawk, art o' cover, 

An' leads the rush when the end is near ; 
One more ridge and the end is near, 

One more step an' the bullet's sped. 
My God, but they're well-officered, 

The Comp'ny of ar Dead ! 

Never they'll 'ear the crard a-cheerin', 

These 'ull never come beck agine ; 
Theer welkim 'ome is beyond our 'earin', 

But theer nimes is writ, an' theer nimes remine, 
An' deep an' lawstin' theer nimes remine 

Writ in theer blood for theer country shed ; 
An' they stan's up strite an' they knows no shime, 

The Comp'ny of ar Dead. 

Barry Pain. 



EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, 

Here's to the bold and free ! 
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, 

Hail to the Kings of the sea ! 


Admirals all, for England's sake, 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Admirals all, for England's sake, 

Honour be yours and fame / 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay 

With the galleons fair in sight ; 
Howard at last must give him his way, 

And the word was passed to fight. 
Never was schoolboy gayer than he, 

Since holidays first began : 
He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, 

And under the guns he ran. 

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, 

Their cities he put to the sack ; 
He singed His Catholic Majesty's beard, 

And harried his ships to wrack. 
He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls 

When the great Armada came ; 
But he said, ' They must wait their turn, good 

And he stooped and finished the game. 

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, 

Duncan he had but two ; 

But he anchored them fast where the Texel 

And his colours aloft he flew. 
' I've taken the depth to a fathom,' he cried, 

* And I'll sink with a right good will : 
For I know when we're all of us under the tide 

My flag will be fluttering still.' 

Splinters were flying above, below, 

When Nelson sailed the Sound : 
* Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now,' 

Said he, * for a thousand pound ! ' 


The Admiral's signal bade him fly, 
But he wickedly wagged his head : 

He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, 
And ' I'm damned if I see it ! ' he said. 

Admirals all, they said their say 
(The echoes are ringing still). 
Admirals all, they went their way 

To the haven under the hill. 
But they left us a kingdom none can take 

The realm of the circling sea 
To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, 
And the Rodneys yet to be. 

Admirals all, for England's sake, 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 
To Nelson's peerless name / 

Henry Newbolt. 



DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile 

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?) 
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, 

Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, 
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', 

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. 

Drake he was a Devon man, an' rilled the Devon 

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), 
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
1 Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, 

Strike et when your powder's runnin' low ; 
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, 

An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed 
them long ago.' 


Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas 


(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), 
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, 

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe ; 
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', 
They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found 
him long ago ! 

Henry Newbolt. 



DRAKE'S luck to all that sail with Drake 

For promised lands of gold ! 
Brave lads, whatever storms may break, 

We've weathered worse of old ! 
To-night the loving-cup we'll drain, 
To-morrow for the Spanish Main ! 

Henry Newbolt. 


WINDS of the World, give answer! They are 

whimpering to and fro 
And what should they know of England who only 

England know? 
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and 

fume and brag, 
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to 

yelp at the English Flag. 

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer to plaster 

anew with dirt ? 
An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's 



We may not speak of England ? her Flag's to sell 

or share. 
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the 

World, declare ! 

The North Wind blew : ' From Bergen my steel- 
shod vanguards go ; 

I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko 

By the great North Lights above me I work the 
will of God, 

And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger 
fills with cod. 

I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors 

with flame, 
Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies 

came ; 
I took the sun from their presence, I cut them 

down with my blast, 
And they died, but the Flag of England blew free 

ere the spirit passed. 

The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long 

Arctic night, 
The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the 

Northern Light : 
What is the Flag of England ? Ye have but my 

bergs to dare, 
Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for 

it is there ! ' 

The South Wind sighed : ' From the Virgins my 

mid-sea course was ta'en 
Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, 
Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the 

long-backed breakers croon 
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy locked 


Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, 
I waked the palms to laughter I tossed the scud 
in the breeze 


Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, 
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English 
flag was flown. 

I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang 

for a wisp on the Horn ; 
I have chased it North, to the Lizard ribboned 

and rolled and torn ; 
I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a 

hopeless sea ; 
I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the 

slave set free. 

My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling alba- 

Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the 
Southern Cross. 

What is the Flag of England ? Ye have but my 
reefs to dare, 

Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it 
is there ! ' 

The East Wind roared : From the Kuriles, the 

Bitter Seas, I come, 
And me men call the Home- Wind, for I bring the 

English home. 
Look look well to your shipping ! By the breath 

of my mad typhoon 
I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your 

best at Kowloon ! 

The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas 

I raped your richest roadstead I plundered 

Singapore ! 
I set my hand on the Hoogli ; as a hooded snake 

she rose, 
And I heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with 

the startled crows. 

Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, 
But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died 
for England's sake 


Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or 

Because on the bones of the English the English 

Flag is stayed. 

The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild- 
ass knows, 

The scared white leopard winds it across the taint- 
less snows. 

What is the Flag of England ? Ye have but my 
sun to dare, 

Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it 
is there ! ' 

The West Wind called : ' In squadrons the thought- 
less galleons fly 

That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred 
people die. 

They make my might their porter, they make my 
house their path, 

And I loose my neck from their service and whelm 
them all in my wrath. 

I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn 
from the hole, 

They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship- 
bells toll : 

For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud 
with my breath, 

And they see strange bows above them and the 
two go locked to death. 

But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by 

dark or day 
I heave them whole to the conger or rip their 

plates away, 
First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking 

Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag 

goes by. 


The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it the frozen 

dews have kissed 
The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in 

the mist. 
What is the Flag of England ? Ye have but my 

breath to dare, 
Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for 

it is there ! ' 

Rudyard Kipling. 



GOD of our fathers, known of old 
Lord of our far-flung battle-line 

Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies 
The captains and the kings depart 

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget lest we forget ! 

Far-called our navies melt away 

On dune and headland sinks the fire 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe 

Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the Law 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget lest we forget ! 

WATT 155 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard 

For frantic boast and foolish word, 

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 

Rudyard Kipling. 



Lo, how they come to me, 

Long through the night I call them, 
Ah, how they turn to me ! 

East and South my children scatter, 
North and West the world they wander, 

Yet they come back to me, 

Come with their brave hearts beating, 
Longing to die for me, 

Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, 
Throned amid the northern waters, 

Where they have died for me, 

Died with their songs around me, 
Girding my shores for me. 

Narrow was my dwelling for them, 
Homes they builded o'er the ocean, 

Yet they leave all for me, 

Hearing their Mother calling, 
Bringing their lives for me. 

Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, 
Out from under stars I know not, 

Come they to fight for me, 

Sons of the sons I nurtured, 
God keep them safe for me ! 

i56 WATT 

Long ago their fathers saved me, 
Died for me among the heather, 

Now they come back to me, 

Come, in their children's children . . . 
Brave of the brave for me. 

In the wilds and waves they slumber, 
Deep they slumber in the deserts, 

Rise they from graves for me, 

Graves where they lay forgotten, 
Shades of the brave for me. 

Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, 
For I see them fall and perish, 

Strewing the hills for me, 

Claiming the world in dying, 
Bought with their blood for me. 

Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, 
Blessing now her dying children, 

God keep you safe for me, 

Christ watch you in your sleeping, 
Where ye have died for me ! 

And when God's own slogan soundeth, 
All the dead world's dust awaking, 

Ah, will ye look for me ? 

Bravely we'll stand together 
I and my sons with me. 

Lauchlan MacLean Watt. 




LISTEN ! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, 

Hearken ! my brothers of over the seas, 
Say ! do your class-rooms seem dingy and narrow ? 

List to the sound of the sea-scented breeze. 
Now for a moment if dreary your lot is, 

Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, 
List to the tale and the song of the snotties, 

The song of the snotties who sail on the sea. 

The song of the snotties 

(The poor little snotties). 
Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, 

The dirk and the patches, 

The bruises and scratches, 
The song of the snotties who sail on the sea I 

Early we left you and late are returning 

Back to the land of our story and birth, 
Back to the land of our glory and yearning, 

Back from the uttermost ends of the earth. 
Hear you the bucket and clang of the brasses 

Working together by perfect decree ? 
That is the tale of the glory which passes 

That is the song of the snotties at sea ! 

Often at noon when the gale's at its strongest, 

Sadly we think of the days that are gone ; 
Often at night when the watches are longest 

Have your remembrances heartened us on. 
And in the mazes of dim recollection, 

Still we'll remember the days that are past, 
Till, on the hopes of a schoolboy affection, 

Death and his angels shall trample at last. 

* From A Gun-Room Ditty Box (Casaell & Co., 1898). By 
permission of author and publishers. 


What though the enemy taunt and deride us ! 

Have we forgotten the triumphs of yore ? 
What if the oceans may seem to divide us ! 

Brothers, remember the friendship we bore. 
Lo ! it is finished the day of probations. 

Up ! and we stand for the England to be. 
Then, as the Head and the Front of the Nations, 

Brothers, your health ! from the snotties at sea ! 

' Stand well,' say the snotties 
(' Good luck,' say the snotties), 
' And wisely and firmly and great shall we be ; 
For monarchies tremble, 
And empires dissemble, 

But Britain shall stand' say the snotties at 
sea ! 

George Frederic Stewart Bowles. 





1 RUIN seize thee, ruthless King ! 

Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing 

They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears.' 
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array : 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; 
' To arms ! ' cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver- 
ing lance. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
With haggard eyes the poet stood 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), 

And with a master's hand and prophet's fire, 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : 
* Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave 

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, King ! their hundred arms they wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 


1 62 GEAY 

* Cold is Cadwallo's tongue 

That hushed the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smeared with gore and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 

The famished eagle screams and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries ! 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit ; they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

' Weave the warp and weave the woof, 

The winding-sheet of Edward's race : 
Give ample room and verge enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year and mark the night 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 

The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that 

Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 

The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him 


Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

' Mighty victor, mighty lord, 

Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 

A tear to grace his obsequies. 

GEAY 163 

Is the sable warrior fled ? 

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 

The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born ? 

Gone to salute the rising morn. 

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes : 

Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
That hushed in grim repose expects his evening 

1 Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance and horse to horse ? 

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof ; the thread is spun) ; 
Half of thy heart we consecrate 

(The web is wove ; the work is done). 
Stay, stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track that fires the western skies 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 

1 64 GRAY 

But ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : 

All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, 

' Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 
Attempered sweet to virgin grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 

What strains of vocal transport round her play ? 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured 

' The verse adorn again 

Fierce War and faithful Love 
And Truth severe, by fairy diction drest. 

In buskined measures move 
Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A voice as of the cherub-choir 

Gales from blooming Eden bear, 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine 

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign : 

HUNT 165 

Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, 

To triumph and to die are mine.' 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 


Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 

Thomas Gray. 


LAND of Druid and of Bard, 
Worthy of bearded Time's regard, 
Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, 
Proud with mountains, rich with vales, 
And of such valour that in thee 
Was born a third of chivalry 
(And is to come again, they say, 
Blowing its trumpets into day, 
With sudden earthquake from the ground, 
And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd), 
I used to think of thee and thine 
As one of an old faded line 
Living in his hills apart, 
Whose pride I knew, but not his heart : 
But now that I have seen thy face, 
Thy fields, and ever youthful race, 
And women's lips of rosiest word 
(So rich they open), and have heard 
The harp still leaping in thy halls, 
Quenchless as the waterfalls, 
I know thee full of pulse as strong 
As the sea's more ancient song 
And of a sympathy as wide ; 
And all this truth, and more beside, 
I should have known, had I but seen, 
O Flint, thy little shore ; and been 
Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand, 
Bodryddan's living Fairyland. 

James Henry Leigh Hunt. 

1 66 HEMANS 



HARP of the mountain-land ! sound forth again 
As when the foaming Hirla's horn was crown'd, 

And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, 

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round: 

Wake with the spirit and the power of yore ! 
Harp of the ancient hills ! be heard once more ! 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Roman came 
O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars : 

Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame ; 
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores : 

All gave their ashes to the wind and sea 

Ring out ; thou harp ! he could not silence thee. 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon pass'd, 

His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; 
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, 

E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales ! 
Thine was the voice that cheer'd the brave and free ; 

They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and 

Those were dark years ! They saw the valiant fall, 
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's 

The hearth left lonely in the ruin'd hall 

Yet power was thine a gift in every chord ! 
Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 
Thou noble harp ! thy tones are not to cease ! 

Felicia Hemans. 



WHY lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep ? 

Too fair is the sight for a wand'rer whose way 
Lies far o'er the measureless paths of the deep. 

Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore, 
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! 

JONES 167 

Why rise in my thoughts, ye free songs of the land 
Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind is 

borne ? 
Be hush'd ! be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the land 

Of the minstrel with melody greet my return. 
No, no ! let your echoes still float on the breeze, 
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of 

'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth 

Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh ; 
Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth 

A name and a spirit that never shall die. 
My course to the winds, to the stars I resign ; 

But my soul's quenchless fire, oh, my country, is 
thine ! 

Felicia Hemans. 



GLYNDWE, see thy comet flaming ! 
Hear a heav'nly voice declaiming, 
To the world below proclaiming 

* Cambria shall be free ! ' 
While thy star on high is beaming, 
Soldiers from the mountain teeming, 
With their spears and lances gleaming, 

Come to follow thee. 

Hear the trumpet sounding, 

While the steeds are bounding ! 
On the gale from hill and dale 

The war-cry is resounding. 

Warriors famed in song and story, 
Coming from the mountains hoary, 
Rushing to the field of glory, 

Eager for the fray, 

To the valley wending, 

Hearths and homes defending 
With their proud and valiant Prince 

From ancient kings descending, 

1 68 MORRIS 

See the mighty host advancing, 
Sunbeams on their helmets dancing ! 
On his gallant charger prancing 
Glyndwr leads the way. 

Now to battle they are going, 
Every heart with courage glowing, 
Pride and passion overflowing, 

In the furious strife ; 
Lo, the din of war enrages, 
Vengeance crowns the hate of ages, 
Sternly foe with foe engages, 

Feeding Death with Life ! 

Hear the trumpets braying, 

And the horses neighing ! 
Hot the strife while fiery foes 

Are one another slaying ! 

Arrows fly as swift as lightning, 
Shout on shout the tumult height'ning, 
Conquest's ruddy wing is bright'ning 

Helmet, sword and shield ; 

With their lances flashing, 

Warriors wild are crashing 
Through the tyrant's serried ranks, 

Whilst onwards they are dashing ! 
Now the enemy is flying, 
Trampling on the dead and dying ; 
Victory aloft is crying 

' Cambria wins the field ! ' 

John Jones. 



AFTER dead centuries, 

Neglect, derision, scorn, 

And secular miseries, 

At last our Cymric race again is born, 

Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes, 

And fronts a brighter morn. 


Shall then our souls forget, 
Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be, 
The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet, 
The old heroic Cymric chivalry ? 
Nay ! one we are, indeed, 
With that dim Britain of our distant sires ; 
Still the same love the patriot's bosom fires ; 
With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed ; 
The heroes of the past are living still 
By each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling 

Dear heart that wast so strong 

To guide the storm of battle year by year, 

Last of our Cymric Princes ! dauntless King ! 

Whose brave soul knew not fear ! 

Thou from Eryri's summits, swooping down 

Like some swift eagle, o'er the affrighted town 

And frowning Norman castles hovering, 

Onward didst bear the flag of Victory ; 

And oft the proud invader dravest back 

In ruin from thy country's bounds, and far 

Didst roll from her the refluent wave of war, 

Till, 'neath the swelling flood, 

The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood. 

I see thee when thy lonely widowed heart 
Grew weary of its pain, 
In one last desperate onset vain 
Hurl thyself on thy country's deadly foes ; 
From north to south the swift rebellion sped, 
The castles fell, the land arose ; 
Wales reared once more her weary war-worn head 
Through triumph and defeat, a chequered sum, 
Till the sure end should come, 
The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear ; 
Still 'mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir, 
I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead, 
While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured 


Strong son of Wales ! thy fate 

Not without tears, our Cymric memories keep ; 

Our faithful, unforgetting natures weep 

The ancestral fallen Great. 

Not with the stalwart arm 

After our age-long peace, 

We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword, 

But with the written or the spoken word 

Would fain her power increase ; 

The Light we strive to spread 

Is Knowledge, and its power 

Comes not from captured town or leaguered tower. 

A closer brotherhood 

Unites the Cymric and the Anglian blood, 

Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one, 

Distinct till Time be done. 

But we who in that peaceful victory 

Our faith, our hope repose, 

With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of thee 

Who fought'st our country's foes ; 

Whose generous hand was open to reward 

The dauntless patriot bard, 

Who loved'st the arts of peace, yet knew'st through 


Only incessant strife ; 
Who ne'er like old lorwerth's happier son, 
Didst rest from battles won, 
But strovest for us still, and not in vain ; 
Since from that ancient pain, 
After six centuries, Wales of thy love 
Feels through her veins new patriot currents move, 
And from thy ashes, like the Phoenix springs 
Skyward on soaring wings, 

And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were, 
Whatever Fortune, 'neath God's infinite air, 
Fate and the Years prepare ! 

Sir Lewis Morris. 

JONES 171 


ARVON'S heights hide the bright sun from our gazing, 
Night's dark pall enshrouds all in its embracing ; 
Still as death not a breath mars the deep silence, 
On mine ear waves roll near with soft hush'd cadence. 

the start of my heart's quick palpitating, 
Anger's thrill doth me fill when meditating 

On the day when the fray crushed the brave Cam- 

When, through guile, pile on pile heaped Morfa 
Rhuddlan ! 

See, at once Britain's sons' bosoms are swelling, 

Each face hot with fierce thought from each heart 
welling ; 

Strong arms bare through the air fierce blows are 

Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling ! 

Through the day Britons pray in their great an- 

1 Thou, on high, hear our cry help us to vanquish ! 
Hedge around the dear ground of our lov'd Britain, 
Speed our host, or we're lost on Morfa Rhuddlan ! ' 

Like a dart through my heart anguish is flowing, 
Hark, how loud, fierce, and proud is the foes' crow- 
ing ! 

But, O host, do not boast as of aught glorious, 
'Twas thy swarms, not thine arms, made theo vic- 
torious ! 

See, yon scores at their doors watching in terrors, 
Full of care for the fare of their lov'd warriors ! 
Up the rocks quickly flock sire, child, and woman, 
Each heart bleeds for the deeds on Morfa Rhuddlan. 

Richard Bellis Jones. 




SEE, see where royal Snowdon rears 
Her hoary head above her peers 

To cry that Wales is free ! 
O hills which guard our liberties, 
With outstretched arms to where you rise 
In all your pride, I turn my eyes 

And echo, ' Wales is free ! ' 
O'er giant Idris' lofty seat, 
O'er Berwyn and Plynlimon great 
And hills which round them lower meet, 

Blow winds of liberty. 
And like the breezes high and strong, 
Which through the cloudwrack sweep along, 
Each dweller in this land of song 

Is free, is free, is free ! 

Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep 
Over that wretch's eyelids creep 

Who bears with wrong and shame. 
Make him to feel thy spirit high, 
And, like a hero, do or die, 
And smite the arm of tyranny, 

And lay its haunts aflame, 
Rather than peace which makes thee slave, 
Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, 
Lay foul oppression in its grave 

No more the light to see ! 
Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze, 
And like the rolling thunder raise 
Thy triumph-song of joy and praise 
To God that thou art free ! 

Edmund Osborne Jones. 

JONES 173 



DEAR Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high 
Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air, 
And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, 
And all wrapt round with fullest harmony 
Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly 
'Neath Nature their fit foster-mother's care, 
Thy children learn from infant hours to bear 
And work the will of God. Thy scenery 
So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, 
Works on them and to music moulds their mind, 
Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. 
The voice of Nature breathes in every song ; 
And we may read therein thy features kind, 
As in some tarn that nestles 'neath thy hills. 

Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze 
Of all their songs as through a woodland reach 
Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach 
In laden orchards on late summer days. 
Their work is Nature's own not theirs the praise 
By culture won which midnight studies teach ; 
Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech, 
And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays. 
As to remotest ages in the past 
We trace thy joyous story, more and more 
Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales. 
So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last, 
And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore, 
May poets never cease to sing for Wales ! 

Edmund Osborne Jones. 





FAREWEEL to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean, 
Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony days been ; 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
And no' for the dangers attending on weir ; 
Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rage, and rise ev'ry wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; 
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain'd ; 
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave ; 
And I maun deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; 
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee ; 
And, wanting thy favour, I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win glory and fame ; 
And if I should chance to come glorious hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 

Allan Ramsay. 




I'VE heard the liltin' at our ewe-milkin', 

Lasses a liltin' before dawn o' day ; 
But now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin', 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

177 M 

1 78 GKANT 

At buchts in the mornin', nae blythe lads are scor- 

Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae ; 
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighin' and sabbin', 

Ilk ane lifts her laiglin and hies her away. 

In har'st at the shearing nae youths now are jeerin', 
The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and gray ; 

At fair or at preachin', nae wooin', nae fleechin', 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At e'en, in the gloamin', nae swankies are roamin' 
'Bout stacks, 'mang the lassies at bogle to play ; 

But each ane sits dreary, lamentin' her dearie, 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the 

Border ! 

The English for ance by guile wan the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the fore- 
The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay. 

We'll hear nae mair liltin' at our ewe-milkin', 
Women and bairns are dowie and wae ; 

Sighin' and moanin' on ilka green loanin', 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Jean Elliott. 


O WHERE, tell me where, is your Highland laddie 

where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie 

He's gone with streaming banners, where noble 

deeds are done, 
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely 


GEANT 179 

O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie 

where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie 

He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid 

And many a blessing followed him, the day he went 


what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie 

wear ? 
O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie 

A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of 

And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall 

wear a star. 

Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound 
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your 

hopes confound ? 
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners 

round him fly, 
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his 


But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie 

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie 

His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious 

While wide through all our Highland hills his war- 
like name resounds. 

Anne Macivar Grant. 

i8o BURNS 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go ! 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ! 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods ! 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go f 

Robert Burns. 



SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour : 
See the front o' battle lour, 
See approach proud Edward's power 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn, and flee ! 

BURNS 181 

Wha for Scotland's King and Law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

By Oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains, 
We will drain our dearest veins 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 

Robert Burns. 



DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir ! 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criff el sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided, 
Till, slap ! come in an unco loun, 

And wi' a rung decide it ! 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ! 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted ! 

The kettle o' the Kirk and State, 
Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 

But Deil a foreign tinkler loon 
Shall ever ca' a nail in't ! 

1 82 BURNS 

Our fathers' blude the kettle bought, 
And wha wad dare to spoil it, 

By Heav'ns ! the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boil it ! 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, 
Who would set the mob above the throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing God save the King,' 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing ' God Save the King,' 

We'll ne'er forget the People ! 

Robert Burns. 



THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ! 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang, yellow 

broom ; 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen ; 
For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers, 

A-list'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave, 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 

What are they? the haunt of the tyrant and 

slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain : 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save Love's willing fetters the chains o' his Jean. 

Robert Burns. 

SCOTT 183 



BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
From him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



BY this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots around their king, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor waward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home ? 
0, for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

That to King Charles did come, 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer, 

On Koncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 

1 84 SCOTT 

And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 

Our Caledonian pride ! 

But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hail'd, 
In headlong charge their horse assail'd ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep, 

That fought around their king. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 
Though bill -men ply the ghastly blow, 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spearmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight ; 
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 

And from the charge they drew, 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his f oemen know ; 
Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, 
They melted from the field as snow, 
When streams are swoln and south winds blow, 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 

While many a broken band, 
Disorder'd, through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land ; 

SCOTT 185 

To town and tower, to down and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, time, and song, 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, 

Of Flodden's fatal field, 
When shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come every hill-plaid and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

1 86 SCOTT 

Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
Knell for the onset ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread, 

Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story ; 

Mount and make ready then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory ! 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding, 
War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

SCOTT 187 



To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who 

Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to 

be broke ; 

So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 

Come Jill up my cup, come Jill up my can, 
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; 
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee ! 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat ; 

But the Provost, douce man, said, ' Just e'en let him 

The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee ! ' 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie 

and slee, 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was 


As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ; 
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each 

As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway 

was free, 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 

1 88 SCOTT 

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ; 

( Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words 

or three 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.' 

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes : 
' Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose ! 
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 

There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond 

If there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the 

North ; 
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times 

Will cry Hoigli ! for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 

There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide ; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside ; 
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. 

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, 
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox ; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me ! ' 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 


The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, 
Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, 
Come open the gates, and let me gae free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

SCOTT 189 



To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas, 
The voice of battle's on the breeze, 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd ; 

We boast the red and blue. 

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown, 

Dull Holland's tardy train ; 
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn ; 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn ; 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

Oh ! had they mark'd the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave, 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 
Nor patriot valour desperate grown, 
Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born, 
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, 
To hail a master in our isle, 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 

No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day, 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, 

And set that night in blood. 


For gold let Gallia's legions fight, 

Or plunder's bloody gain ; 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our king, to fence our law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of British gale 

Shall fan the tricolor, 
Or footstep of invader rude, 
With rapine foul, and red with blood, 

Pollute our happy shore 

Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! 

Adieu each tender tie ! 
Resolved, we mingle in the tide, 
Where charging squadrons furious ride, 

To conquer or to die. 

To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle call ; 
Combined by honour's sacred tie, 
Our word is Laws and Liberty I 

March forward, one and all ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



GREEN Flodden ! on thy bloodstained head 

Descend no rain or vernal dew ; 
But still, thou charnel of the dead, 

May whitening bones thy surface strew ! 
Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, 
Wild fancy feels the clasping mail ; 
The rancour of a thousand years 
Glows in my breast ; again I burn 
To see the banner'd pomp of war return, 
And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of 


Lo ! bursting from their common tomb, 

The spirits of the ancient dead 
Dimly streak the parted gloom 

With awful faces, ghastly red ; 
As once, around their martial king, 
They closed the death-devoted ring, 
With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield ; 
In slow procession round the pile 
Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, 
And chants, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden 

What youth, of graceful form and mien, 

Foremost leads the spectred brave, 
While o'er his mantle's folds of green 
His amber locks redundant wave ? 
When slow returns the fated day, 
That viewed their chieftain's long array, 
Wild to the harp's deep plaintive string, 
The virgins raise the funeral strain, 
From Ord's black mountain to the northern main, 
And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of 
spring ! 

Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 
The combat where her lover fell ! 

That Scottish bard should wake the string, 
The triumph of our foes to tell ! 

Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain, 

Have kindled at the thrilling strain, 
That mourn'd their martial fathers' bier ; 

And at the sacred font, the priest 

Through ages left the master-hand unblessed, 
To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear. 

Red Flodden ! when thy plaintive strain 
In early youth rose soft and sweet, 

My life-blood, through each throbbing vein, 
With wild tumultuous passion beat ; 

And oft in fancied might, I trode 

The spear- strewn path to Fame's abode, 


Encircled with a sanguine flood ; 

And thought I heard the mingling hum, 

When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come 

Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood. 

Rude Border Chiefs, of mighty name, 

And iron soul, who sternly tore 
The blossoms from the tree of fame, 

And purpled deep their tints with gore, 
Rush from brown ruins, scarr'd with age, 
That frown o'er haunted Hermitage ; 
Where, long by spells mysterious bound, 
They pace their round, with lifeless smile, 
And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile, 
Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened 

Shades of the dead ! on Alfer's plain 

Who scorned with backward step to move, 
But struggling 'mid the hills of slain, 

Against the Sacred Standard strove ; 
Amid the lanes of war I trace 
Each broad claymore and ponderous mace : 
Where'er the surge of arms is tost, 
Your glittering spears, in close array, 
Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away 
The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor 

But distant fleets each warrior ghost, 

With surly sounds that murmur far ; 
Such sounds were heard when Syria's host 

Roll'd from the walls of proud Samar. 
Around my solitary head 
Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, 
While murmur low the shadowy band 
' Lament no more the warrior's doom ! 
Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb, 
Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native 
land. 1 

John Ley den. 




IT'S hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
O it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the 


The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie ; 
For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', 

The bonnie white rose it is witherin' an' a', 

But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurpin' tyrannic, 

An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. 

For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 

it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save ; 
The new grass is springin' on the tap o' their grave : 
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 

1 I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.' 

For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

Allan Cunningham. 


THE Campbells are comin', Oho, O-ho ! 

The Campbells are comin', O-ho ! 
The Campbells are comin' to bonnie Lochleven ! 

The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho ! 

Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; 

Upon the Lomonds I lay ; 
I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, 

An' saw three perches play. 


Great Argyll he goes before ; 

He makes the cannons an' guns to roar, 
Wi' sound of trumpet, pipe, and drum ; 

The Campbells are comin', 0-ho, O-ho ! 

The Campbells they are a' in arms, 
Their loyal faith and truth to show, 

Wi' banners rattlin' in the wind, 

The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho ! 




OH ! why left I my hame ? 

Why did I cross the deep ? 
Oh ! why left I the land 

Where my forefathers sleep ? 
I sigh for Scotia's shore, 

And I gaze across the sea, 
But I canna get a blink 

0' my ain countrie. 

The palm-tree waveth high, 

And fair the myrtle springs ; 
And to the Indian maid 

The bulbul sweetly sings. 
But I dinna see the broom, 

Wi' its tassels on the lea ; 
Nor hear the linties' sang 

0' my ain countrie. 

Oh ! here no Sabbath bell 

Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
Nor sang of reapers heard 

Amang the yellow corn ; 
For the tyrant's voice is here, 

And the wail o' slaverie ; 
But the sun o' freedom shines 

In my ain countrie. 


There's a hope for every woe, 

And a balm for every pain ; 
But the first joys of our heart 

Come never back again. 
There's a track upon the deep, 

And a path across the sea ; 
But for me there's nae return 

To my ain countrie. 

Robert Giljillan. 



IN the Highlands, in the country places, 

Where the old plain men have rosy faces, 

And the young fair maidens 

Quiet eyes ; 

Where essential silence cheers and blesses, 

And for ever in the hill-recesses 

Her more lovely music 

Broods and dies. 

O to mount again where erst I haunted ; 
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted ; 
And the low green meadows 
Bright with sward ; 

And when even dies, the million-tinted, 
And the night has come, and planets glinted, 
Lo, the valley hollow 
Lamp-bestarred ! 

O to dream, to awake and wander 

There, and with delight to take and render, 

Through the trance of silence, 

Quiet breath ; 

Lo ! for there, among the flowers and grasses, 

Only the mightier movement sounds and passes 

Only the winds and rivers, 

Life and death. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

196 MUNEO 



BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are 

Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, 
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups 

are crying, 
My heart remembers how ! 

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, 
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, 

Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished 

And winds, austere and pure : 

Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, 

Hills of home ! and to hear again the call ; 
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees 

And hear no more at all ! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



ARE you not weary in your distant places, 

Far, far from Scotland of the mist of storm, 
In stagnant airs, the sun-smite on your faces, 

The days so long and warm ? 
When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping, 

The ghastly woods where no dear memories roam, 
Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping 

To the Highlands and the Lowlands of your home ? 

Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys 

The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back ; 
About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys 

Beat for kind harbours from the horizons black ; 
We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather, 

We are the men, we battle, we endure ! 
God's pity for you, exiles, in your weather 

Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure ! 

MUNEO 197 

Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted 

Over the hills and by the thundering falls, 
Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted 

In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls. 
Though hails may beat us and the great mists 
blind us, 

And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill, 
Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us 

Children of tempest all unshaken still. 

We wander where the little grey towns cluster 

Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea, 
By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl 

To shelter from the day's inclemency ; 
And night will come, and then far through the 

A light will shine out in the sounding glen, 
And it will mind us of some fond eye's sparkling, 

And we'll be happy then. 

Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally, 

Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine, 
That light of home shines warmly in the valley, 

And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine. 
Far have you wandered over seas of longing, 

And now you drowse, and now you well may 

When all the recollections come a-thronging, 

Of this rude country where your fathers sleep. 

They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing 
While the wild Winter blusters round their 

land ; 
That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing 

Look, look and listen, do you understand ? 
Love, strength, and tempest oh, come back and 

share them ! 

Here is the cottage, here the open door ; 
We have the hearts, although we do not bare 

They're yours, and you are ours for evermore. 

Neil Munro. 





BONNIE Charlie's noo awa' 

Safely o'er the friendly main ; 

Mony a heart will break in twa, 
Should he ne'er come back again. 

Will ye no' come back again ? 
Will ye no 1 come back again '? 
Better 16* ed ye canna be 
Will ye no' come back again ? 

The hills he trod were a' his ain, 
And bed beneath the birken tree ; 

The bush that hid him on the plain, 
There's none on earth can claim but he. 

Sweet the laverock's note and lang, 

Liltin' wildly up the glen ; 
But he sings nae ither sang 

Than ' Will ye no come back again ? ' 

Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing 
Unto the e'enin' sinkin' down, 

Or merle that makes the woods to ring, 
To me they hae nae ither soun' 

Will ye no come back again ? 
Will ye no come back again ? 
Better lo'ed ye canna be 
Will ye no come back again ? 





Oil I he was lang o' coming 
Lang, lang, lang o' comin', 
Oh I he, was lang o comin ! 
Welcome, Royal Charlie! 

When he on Moidart's shore did stand, 
The friends he had within the land 
Came down and shook him by the hand, 
And welcomed Royal Charlie. 

The dress that our Prince Charlie had, 
Was bonnet blue, and tartan plaid ; 
And ! he was a handsome lad, 
A true king's son was Charlie. 

But oh ! he was lang o' comin', 
Lang, lang, lang o' comin', 
Oh ! he was lang o' comin', 
Welcome, Royal Cliarlie ! 




CAM' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, 

Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry ? 

Saw ye the lads wi' their bonnets an' white cockades, 
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie ? 

Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee ? 

Lang hast thou lo'ed an' trusted us fairly / 
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee ? 

King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince 
Charlie I 

I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald ; 

But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry ; 
Health to Macdonald an' gallant Clanronald, 

These are the men that will die for their Charlie ! 


I'll to Lochiel an' Appin, an' kneel to them ; 

Down by Lord Murray an' Roy o' Kildarlie ; 
Brave Macintosh, he shall fly to the fiel' wi' them ; 

These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie. 

Down thro' the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore, 
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely ; 

Ronald an' Donald drive on wi' the braid claymore, 
Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie ! 

Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee ? 

Lang hast thou lo'ed an' trusted us fairly I 
Charlie, Charlie, ivha wadna follow thee ? 
King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince 




I MAY sit in my wee croo house, 

At the rock and the reel to toil fu' dreary ; 
I may think on the day that's gane, 

And sigh and sab till I grow weary. 
I ne'er could brook, I ne'er could brook, 

A foreign loon to own or flatter ; 
But I will sing a rantin' sang, 

That day our king comes owre the water. 

gin I live to see the day, 

That I hae begg'd, and begg'd frae Heaven, 
I'll fling my rock and reel away, 

And dance and sing frae morn till even : 
For there is ane I winna name, 

That comes the reigning bike to scatter ; 
And I'll put on my bridal gown, 

That day our king comes owre the water. 

1 hae seen the gude auld day, 

The day o' pride and chieftain glory, 
When royal Stuarts bare the sway, 

And ne'er heard tell o' Whig nor Tory. 

BURNS 201 

Tho' lyart be my locks and grey, 

And eild has crooked me down what matter ? 
I'll dance and sing anither day, 

That day our king comes owre the water. 

A curse on dull and drawling Whig, 

The whining, ranting, low deceiver, 
Wi' heart sae black, and look sae big, 

And canting tongue o' clishmaclaver ! 
My father was a good lord's son, 

My mother was an earl's daughter, 
And I'll be Lady Keith again, 

That day our king comes owre the water. 




We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ! 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
And live and die wi' Charlie. 

Come, boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ! 
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 

Though some there be abhor him ; 

But, ! to see Auld Nick gaun hame, 
And Charlie's foes before him ! 

I swear and vow by moon and stars 

And sun that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I'd die as aft for Charlie ! 

We'll o'er the ivater, we'll o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ! 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
And live and die wi' Charlie ! 

Robert Burns. 

202 BURNS 



FRAE the friends and land I love 

Driv'n by Fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight ! 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care. 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till Revenge with laurell'd head 

Bring our banish'd hame again, 
And ilk loyal, bonnie lad 

Cross the seas, and win his ain ! 

Robert Burns. 



0, KENMURE'S on and awa, Willie, 

0, Kenmure's on and awa ! 
An' Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw ! 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie, 

Success to Kenmure's band ! 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! 

There ne'er was a coward V Kenmure's blude, 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

BUKNS 203 

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's lads are men ! 
Their hearts and swords are metal true, 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, 

They'll live or die wi' fame ! 
But soon wi' sounding Victorie 

May Kenmure's lord come hame ! 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie, 

Here's him that's far awa ! 
And here's the flower that I lo'e best 

The rose that's like the sna ! 

Robert Burns. 



IT was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king, 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain, 
My Love and Native Land fareweel, 

For I maun cross the main, 
My dear 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turn'd him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore, 
And gae his bridle reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear 

And adieu for evermore ! 

204 NAIRN 

The soger frae the wars returns, 
The sailor frae the main, 

But I hae parted frae my love 
Never to meet again, 
My dear 
Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 

And a' folk bound to sleep, 
I think on him that's far awa 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear 
The lee-lang night and weep. 

Robert Burns. 



Oh ! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, 
Oh f Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier ! 

As he cam' marchin' up the street, 
The pipes played loud and clear, 
An' a' the folk cam' rinnin' oot 
To meet the Chevalier. 

Wi' Hieland bonnets on their heads, 
An' claymores bricht an' clear, 
They cam' to fecht for Scotland's richt, 
An' the young Chevalier. 

They've left their bonnie Hieland hills, 
Their wives and bairnies dear, 
To draw the sword for Scotland's lord, 
The young Chevalier. 

Oil I Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, 
Oh ! Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier I 

Lady Nairn 

GLEN 205 



THE news frae Moidart cam' yestreen 

Will soon gar mony ferlie ; 
For ships o' war hae just come in, 

And landed Royal Charlie. 

Come through the heather, around him gather, 

Ye're a j the welcomer early ; 
Around him ding wi } a' your kin ; 
For wha'll be King but Charlie ? 

The Hieland clans wi' sword in hand, 

Frae John o' Groats to Airlie, 
Hae to a man declared to stand 

Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie. 

There's ne'er a lass in a' the land, 

But vows both late an' early, 
To man she'll ne'er gie heart or han', 

Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. 

Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, 

An' be't complete an' early ; 
His very name our hearts' blood warms 

To arms for Royal Charlie ! 

Come through the heather, around him gather, 
Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither, 

And claim your rightfu', lawfu' King, 
For wha'll be King but Charlie ? 

Lady Nairn. 



A WEE bird cam' to our ha' door, 
He warbled sweet an' clearly, 

An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang, 

Was * Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! ' 

206 GLEN 

! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, 
The tears cam' droppin' rarely ; 

1 took my bonnet aff my head, 
For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 

Quoth I, ' My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 

Is that a sang ye borrow ? 
Are these some words ye've learnt by heart, 

Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow ? ' 
1 ! no, no, no,' the wee bird sang, 

* I've flown sin' mornin' early, 
But sic a day o' wind an' rain 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

On hills that are by right his ain, 

He roams a lonely stranger, 
On ilka hand he's press'd by want, 

On ilka side by danger : 
Yestreen I met him in a glen, 

My heart maist burstit fairly ; 
For sairly changed indeed was he 

! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! ' 

Dark night cam' on, the tempest roar'd 

Cauld o'er the hills an' valleys ; 
An' whaur was't that your prince lay down, 

Whase hame should be a palace ? 
He row'd him in a Hieland plaid, 

Which cover'd him but sparely, 
An' slept beneath a bush o' broom 

! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

But now the bird saw some red-coats, 

An' he shook his wings wi' anger ; 
4 ! this is no a land for me ; 

I'll tarry here nae langer.' 
A while he hover'd on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly, 
But weel I mind the fareweel strain 

Was * Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! ' 

William Glen. 




Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, 

' Onward ' the sailors cry ; 
Carry the lad that's born to be king 

Over the sea to Skye I 

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, 

Thunder-clouds rend the air ; 
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore, 

Follow they will not dare. 

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep ; 

Ocean's a royal bed. 
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep 

Watch by your weary head. 

Many's the lad fought on that day 

Well the claymore could wield, 
When the night came silently lay 

Dead on Culloden's field. 

Burned are our homes, exile and death 

Scatter the loyal men ; 
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath 

Charlie will come again. 

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, 

1 Onward ' the sailors cry ; 
Garry the lad that's born to be king 

Over the sea to Skye ! 

Harold Boulton. 



IT wasna from a golden throne, 
Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, 
But 'mid the kelp on northern sand 
That I got a kiss of the King's hand. 


I durstna raise my een to see 

If he even cared to glance at me ; 

His princely brow with care was crossed, 

For his true men slain and kingdom lost. 

Think not his hand was soft and white 
Or his fingers a' with jewels dight, 
Or round his wrists were ruffles grand, 
When I got a kiss of the King's hand. 

But dearer far to my twa een 
Was the ragged sleeve of red and green 
Owre that young weary hand that fain 
With the guid broadsword had found its ain. 

Farewell for ever ! the distance grey 
And the lapping ocean seemed to say 
For him a home in a foreign land, 
And for me one kiss of the King's hand. 

Sarah Robertson Matheson. 




IN all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs and God has given my share 
I still had hopes my later hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return and die at home at last. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



0, Paddy dear ! an' did ye hear the news that's 

goin' round ? 
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish 

ground ; 
No more St. Patrick's Day we'll keep, his colour 

can't be seen, 

For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the green ! 
I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the 

And he said, ' How's poor Ould Ireland, and how 

does she stand?' 
She's the most disthressful country that iver yet 

was seen, 
For they're haiigin' men and women there for wearin' 

o' the green. 

212 MOORE 

An' if the colour we must wear is England's cruel 

Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has 

shed ; 
Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it 

on the sod, 
And never fear, 'twill take root there, tho' under 

foot 'tis trod ! 
When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' 

as they grow, 
And when the leaves in summer-time their colour 

dare not show, 
Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my 

But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin' 

o' the green. 




THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find him ; 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. 
' Land of song ! ' said the warrior bard, 

1 Tho' all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee ! ' 

The Minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, * No chain shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery.' 

Thomas Moore. 

MOOEE 213 



REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave, 

Tho' the days of the hero are o'er, 
Tho' lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, 

He returns to Kincora no more ! 
That star of the field, which so often has pour'd 

Its beam on the battle, is set ; 
But enough of its glory remains on each sword 

To light us to victory yet ! 

Mononia ! when Nature embellished the tint 

Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, 
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 

The footstep of slavery there ? 
No ! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, 

Go, tell our invaders the Danes, 
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine 

Than to sleep but a moment in chains. 

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood 

In the day of distress by our side ; 
While the moss of the valley grew red with their 

They stirred not, but conquered and died ! 
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, 

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain : 
Oh ! let him not .blush when he leaves us to-night 

To find that they fell there in vain ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 

As if that soul were fled. 

2i 4 MOORE 

So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts, that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone, that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives, 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore. 



0, where's the slave so lowly, 
Condemn'd to chains unholy, 

Who, could he burst 

His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly ? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay 'd it, 

When thus its wing 

At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it ? 

Farewell, Erin, farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch'd and blowing, 

Than that, whose braid 

Is pluck'd to shade 
The brows with victory glowing. 

MOORE 215 

We tread the land that bore us, 
Her green flag glitters o'er us, 

The friends we've tried 

Are by our side 
And the foe we hate before us. 

Farewell, Erin, farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Thomas Moore. 



SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers are round her, sighing : 
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, 

For her heart in the grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he lov'd awaking ; 

Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. 

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwin'd him ; 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

O ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
From her own loved Island of Sorrow. 

Thomas Moore. 



ERIN, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, 
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! 
Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy suns with doubtful gleam, 
Weep while they rise. 

216 TONNA 

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, 
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 
Till, like the rainbow's light, 
Thy various tints unite, 
And form in Heaven's sight 
One arch of peace ! 

Thomas Moore. 



DEAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, 

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! 
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; 
But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, 

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy numbers, 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall 

twine ! 
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, 

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Have throbb'd at thy lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, 

And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. 

Thomas Moore. 



WHERE Foyle her swelling waters 
Rolls northward to the main, 

Here, Queen of Erin's daughters, 
Fair Derry fixed her reign : 

TONNA 217 

A holy temple crowned her, 

And commerce graced her street, 
A rampart wall was round her, 

The river at her feet : 
And here she sat alone, boys, 

And looking from the hill, 
Vow'd the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

Would be a Maiden still. 

From Antrim crossing over, 

In famous eighty-eight, 
A plumed and belted lover 

Came to the Ferry Gate ; 
She summoned to defend her 

Our sires a beardless race 
They shouted, ' No surrender ! ' 

And slamm'd it in his face. 
Then in a quiet tone, boys, 

They told him 'twas their will 
That the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

Should be a Maiden still. 

Next, crushing all before him, 

A kingly wooer came 
(The royal banner o'er him 

Blushed crimson-deep for shame) ; 
He showed the Pope's commission, 

Nor dreamed to be refused, 
She pitied his condition, 

But begged to stand excused. 
In short, the fact is known, boys, 

She chased him from the hill, 
For the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

Would be a Maiden still. 

On our brave sires descending, 
'Twas then the tempest broke, 

Their peaceful dwellings rending 
'Mid blood, and flame, and smoke. 


That hallow'd graveyard yonder 

Swells with the slaughtered dead 
O, brothers ! pause and ponder, 

It was for us they bled ; 
And while their gifts we own, boys 

The fane that tops our hill, 
O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

Shall be a Maiden still. 

Nor wily tongue shall move us, 

Nor tyrant arm affright, 
We'll look to One above us, 

Who ne'er forsook the right ; 
Who will may crouch and tender 

The birthright of the free, 
But, brothers, ' No surrender ! ' 

No compromise for me ! 
We want no barrier stone, boys, 

No gates to guard the hill, 
Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

Shall be a Maiden still ! 

Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna. 



(From the Irish) 

O, WHERE, Kincora ! is Brien the Great ? 

And where is the beauty that once was thine ? 
O, where are the princes and nobles that sate 

At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ? 
Where, 0, Kincora? 

O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords? 

O, whither, thou Hospitable ! are they gone ? 
0, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? 

And where are the warriors Brien led on ? 
Where, O, Kincora ? 


And where is Donogh, King Brien's son ? 

And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief ? 
And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ; 

They have left me this night alone with my 
grief ! 

Left me, Kincora ! 

0, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds ? 

And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy ? 
And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds 

In the red battle no time can destroy ? 
Where, O, Kincora! 

I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake : 

Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is 


Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake, 
0, my grief ! that I should live and Brien be 

Dead, O, Kincora ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



(From the Irish) 

O ! my Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 
There's wine from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 


Over hills, and through dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne at its highest flood 

I dashed across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
O ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lightened through my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro do I move, 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over dews, over sands, 
Will I fly for your weal ; 


Your holy, delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home, in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

You'll think of me through daylight's hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
! I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal and slogan cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 




O, BAY of Dublin ! how my heart you're troubling 
Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream ; 
Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubblin', 
My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name ; 
And never till this life's pulsation ceases, 
My early, latest thought you'll fail to be, 

! none here knows how very fair that place is, 
And no one cares how dear it is to me. 

Sweet Wicklow mountains ! the soft sunlight sleepin' 

On your green uplands is a picture rare ; 

You crowd around me like young maidens peepin' 

And puzzlin' me to say which is most fair, 

As tho' you longed to see your own sweet faces 

Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. 

My fondest blessin' on those lovely places, 

Tho' no one cares how dear they are to me. 

How often when alone at work I'm sittin' 

And musin' sadly on the days of yore, 

1 think I see my pretty Katie knittin', 
The childer playiii' round the cabin door ; 
J think I see the neighbours' kindly faces 

All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see ; 
Tho' none here knows how very fair that place is, 
Heav'n knows how dear my poor home was to me. 

Lady Duffer in. 



I'M sitting on the stile, Mary, 
Where we sat, side by side, 

That bright May morning long ago 
When first you were my bride. 


The corn was springing fresh and green, 

The lark sang loud and high, 
The red was on your lip, Mary, 

The love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 

The day is bright as then, 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

The corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

Your breath warm on my cheek, 
And I still keep listening for the words 

You never more may speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

The little Church stands near 
The Church where we were wed, Mary 

I see the spire from here ; 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

My step might break your rest, 
Where you, my darling, lie asleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

The poor make no new friends ; 
But, ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends. 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessing and my pride ; 
There's nothing left to care for now 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When trust in God had left my soul, 

And half my strength was gone. 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow. 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you can't hear me now. 


I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break ; 
When the hunger pain was gnawing there, 

You hid it for my sake. 
I bless you for the pleasant word 

When your heart was sad and sore. 
O ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I'm bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary kind and true ! 
But I'll not forget you, darling, 

In the land I'm going to. 
They say there's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there ; 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair. 

And when amid those grand old woods 

I sit and shut my eyes, 
My heart will travel back again 

To where my Mary lies ; 
I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat, side by side, 
And the springing corn and the bright May 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 



(From the Irish) 

GOD be with the Irish host ! 
Never be their battle lost ! 
For, in battle, never yet 
Have they basely earned defeat. 


Host of armour, red and bright, 
May ye fight a valiant fight ! 
For the green spot of the earth, 
For the land that gave you birth. 

Like a wild beast in his den, 
Lies the chief by hill and glen, 
While the strangers, proud and savage, 
Creean's richest valleys ravage. 

When old Leinster's sons of fame, 
Heads of many a warlike name, 
Redden their victorious hilts, 
On the Gaul, my soul exults. 

When the grim Gaul, who have come, 
Hither o'er the ocean foam, 
From the fight victorious go, 
Then my heart sinks deadly low. 

Bless the blades our warriors draw, 
God be with Clan Ranelagh ! 
But my soul is weak for fear, 
Thinking of their danger here. 

Have them in Thy holy keeping, 
God be with them lying sleeping, 
God be with them standing fighting, 
Erin's foes in battle smiting ! 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



(From the Irish} 

A. PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, 

Uileacdn duWi ! 

Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the 
yellow barley ear, 
Uileacdn dubh 1 


226 DAVIS 

There is honey in the trees where her misty vales 

And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters 

There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' 

the yellow sand 
On the fair hills of holy Ireland. 

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, 

Uileacdn dubh ! 
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, 

Uileacdn dubh I 
And I will make my journey, if life and health but 

Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant 

And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and 

high command, 
For the fair hills of holy Ireland. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



SHE is a rich and rare land ; 
O ! she's a fresh and fair land ; 
She is a dear and rare land 
This native land of mine. 

No men than hers are braver 
Her women's hearts ne'er waver ; 
I'd freely die to save her, 

And think my lot divine. 

She's not a dull or cold land ; 
No ! she's a warm and bold land ; 
! she's a true and old land 
This native land of mine. 

DAVIS 227 

Could beauty ever guard her, 
And virtue still reward her, 
No foe would cross her border 
No friend within it pine ! 

0, she's a fresh and fair land ; 
0, she's a true and rare land ! 
Yes, she's a rare and fair land 
This native land of mine. 

Thomas Davis. 



* DID they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe 

' Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet 

with steel.' 
' May God wither up their hearts ! May their blood 

cease to flow ! 
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen 


Though it break my heart to hear, say again the 

bitter words.' 
' From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to 

measure swords ; 
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his 

And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard's 


' Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, wail ye 
for the Dead ; 

Quench the hearth, and hold the breath with ashes 
strew the head. 

How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we de- 
plore ! 

Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see him 

228 DAVIS 

Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, 
Sure we never won a battle 'twas Owen won them 

Had he lived had he lived our dear country had 

been free ; 
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll 

ever be. 

O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Bed Hugh, 

Audley and MacMahon ye are valiant, wise, and 

But what are ye all to our darling who is gone ? 

The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's Corner- 
stone ! 

Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep 

for our pride ! 
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had 

Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb weep him, young 

men and old ; 
Weep for him, ye women your Beautiful lies cold ! 

We thought you would not die we were sure you 

would not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel 

Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out 

the sky 
! why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die ? 

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill ! bright was 

your eye, 

O ! why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die ? 
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God 

on high ; 
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen ! why 

did you die ? ' 

Thomas Davis. 




THE Little Black Rose shall be red at last ; 

What made it black but the March wind dry, 
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast ? 

It shall redden the hills when June is nigh ! 

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last ; 

What drove her forth but the dragon fly ? 
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, 

With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye. 

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last ! 

The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die ! 
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed 

In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry. 

Aubrey de Vere. 



WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 
Who blushes at the name ? 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 
Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He's all a knave or half a slave, 
Who slights his country thus ; 
But a true man, like you, man, 
Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave, 

The faithful and the few : 

Some lie far off beyond the wave, 

Some sleep in Ireland, too. 

All, all are gone ; but still lives on 

The fame of those who died ; 

And true men, like you men, 

Remember them with pride. 

2 30 INGEAM 

Some on the shores of distant lands 
Their weary hearts have laid, 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 
Their lonely graves were made ; 
But though their clay be far away 
Beyond th' Atlantic foam, 
In true men, like you, men, 
Their spirit's still at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 

Arid the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 

And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 

Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 

They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 

Alas ! that might can vanquish right 

They fell and pass'd away ; 

But true men, like you, men, 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here's their memory ! may it be 

For us a guiding light, 

To cheer our strife for liberty 

And teach us to unite. 

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 

Though sad as theirs your fate, 

And true men, be you, men, 

Like those of Ninety-Eight ! 

John Kells Ingram. 




UNHAPPY Erin, what a lot was thine ! 
Half-conquer'd by a greedy robber band ; 
111 governed now with lax, now ruthless hand ; 
Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divine 
To sanction every dark or mad design ; 
Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league 
Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue ; 
And drugg'd with selfish flattery's poison'd wine. 
Yet, reading all thy mournful history, 
Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime, 
Turn to the future, confident that Fate, 
Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee, 
To be thy portion in the coming time, 
They know not what but surely something great. 

John Kells Ingram. 



(From the Irish) 

Lo, our land this night is lone ! 
Hear ye not sad Erin's moan ? 
Maidens weep and true men sorrow, 
Lone the Brave Race night and morrow. 

Lone this night is Fola's plain, 
Though the foemen swarm amain 
Far from Erin, generous-hearted, 
Far her Flower of Sons is parted. 

Great the hardship ! great the grief ! 
Ulster wails Tirconaill's Chief, 
From Emain west to Assarue 
Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh. 


Children's joy no more rejoices, 
Fetters silence Song's sweet voices 
Change upon our chiefs, alas ! 
Bare the altar, banned the Mass. 

Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters, 
Guerdon's none for men of letters, 
Banquets none, nor merry meetings, 
Hills ring not the chase's greetings. 

Songs of war make no heart stronger, 
Songs of peace inspire no longer, 
In great halls, at close of days, 
Sound no more our fathers' lays. 

Foemen camp in Neimid's plains ; 
Who shall break our heavy chains ? 
What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove 
A Moses to the land we love ? 

She has none who now can aid her, 
All have gone before the invader ; 
Banba's bonds and cruel cross 
Steal the very soul from us ! 

George Sigerson. 



(From the Irish) 

How great the loss is thy loss to me ! 
A loss to all who had speech with thee : 
On earth can so hard a heart there be 
As not to weep for the death of Eoghan ? 
Och, och6n ! 'tis I am stricken, 
Unto death the isle may sicken, 
Thine the soul which all did quicken ; 
And thou 'neath the sod ! 


I stood at Cavan o'er thy tomb, 

Thou spok'st no word through all thy gloom ; 

want ! ruin ! O bitter doom ! 

great, lost heir of the house of Niall ! 

I care not now whom Death may borrow, 
Despair sits by me, night and morrow, 
My life henceforth is one long sorrow ; 
And thou 'neath the sod ! 

child of heroes, heroic child ! 
Thou'dst smite our foe in battle wild, 
Thou'dst right all wrong, O just and mild ! 
And who lives now since dead is Eoghan ? 

In place of feasts, alas ! there's crying, 
In place of song, sad woe and sighing, 
Alas, I live with my heart a-dying, 
And thou 'neath the sod ! 

My woe, was ever so cruel woe ? 
My heart is torn with rending throe ! 

1 grieve that I am not lying low 

In silent death by thy side, Eoghan ! 

Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel, 
And thousands broughtst from death and cavil, 
They journey safe who with thee travel, 
And thou with thy God ! 

George Siyerson. 



NOT tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing 
The languid wind on temple-crowned heights, 

Not heaven's myriad stars in lustre strewing 
Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights, 

Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, 
Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile 

Sparkling amid the imperial city's glow, 
Endears our Isle. 


Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow 
For ever breaking over lonely shores, 

The reedy mere that is the wild-swan's pillow, 
The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars, 

The moorland where the solitary hern 

Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, 

The pink sweet heather's bloom, the waving fern, 
The gorse's gold. 

And we who draw our being from thy being, 
Blown by the untimely blast about the earth, 

Back in love's visions to thy bosom fleeing, 

Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth ; 

0, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, 
Tired arms across the darkness and the foam 

We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, 
Beloved home ! 

The nurselings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, 

Thy children tempered by thy winter gales, 
Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains 

That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales, 
True to one love in climes' and years' despite, 

We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast, 
When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight, 
To sink to rest ! 

George Francis Savage- Armstrong. 



(' Music shall outlive all the songs of the birds.' 

Old Irish) 

I'VE heard the lark's cry thrill the sky o'er the 

meadows of Lusk, 
And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare's 

April Wood ; 
At thy lone music's spell, Philomel, magic-stricken 

I've stood, 
When, in Espan afar, star on star trembled out of 

the dusk. 

CASEY 235 

While Dunkerron's blue dove murmured love, 'neath 

her nest I have sighed, 
And by mazy Culdaff with a laugh mocked the 

cuckoo's refrain ; 
Derrycarn's dusky bird I have heard piping joy hard 

by pain, 
And the swan's last lament sobbing sent over Moyle's 

mystic tide. 

Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the 

darkening lake, 
As the rose's rapt sigh will soon die, when the 

zephyr is stilled ; 
In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds 

ever trilled, 
But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall 

immortally wake. 

Alfred Perceval Graves. 




' O, THEN, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, tell me why you 

hurry so ? ' 
' Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen ; ' and his cheeks 

were all aglow : 
* I bear orders from the Captain get you ready 

quick and soon ; 
For the pikes must be together at the risin' o' the 


'0, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, where the 

gath'rin' is to be?' 
' At the old spot by the river, right well known to 

you and me ; 
One word more for signal token, whistle up the 

marchin' tune, 
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin' o' 

the moon.' 


Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching 

through that night, 
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed 

warning light. 
Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee's 

lonely croon, 
And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of 

the moon. 

There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of 

men was seen 
Far above the' shining weapons hung their own 

beloved Green. 
' Death to every foe and traitor ! Forward ! strike 

the marchin' tune, 
And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom ! 'tis the risin' 

o' the moon ! ' 

Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter 
was their fate ; 

(0, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of 
Ninety-Eight !) 

Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating hearts in man- 
hood's burning noon, 

Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of 
the moon ! 

John Keegan Casey. 



(From the Irish of Angus O'Gillan) 

IN a quiet- water 'd land, a land of roses, 

Stands Saint Kieran's city fair ; 

And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations 
Slumber there 

There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest 

Of the Clan of Conn, 

Each beneath his stone with name in branching 

And the sacred knot thereon. 


There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, 

There the sons of Cairbre sleep 
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of 

Now their final hosting keep. 

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, 

And right many a lord of Breagh ; 
Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, 

Kind in hall and fierce in fray. 

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter 

In the red earth lies at rest ; 
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, 

Many a swan-white breast. 

Thomas William Rolleston. 



O THE red rose may be fair, 
And the lily statelier ; 
But my shamrock, one in three, 
Takes the very heart of me ! 

Many a lover hath the rose 

When June's musk-wind breathes and blows ; 

And in many a bower is heard 

Her sweet praise from bee and bird. 

Through the gold hours dreameth she, 
In her warm heart passionately, 
Her fair face hung languid-wise : 
O her breath of honey and spice ! 

Like a fair saint virginal 
Stands your lily silver and tall ; 
Over all the flowers that be 
Is my shamrock dear to me. 


Shines the lily like the sun, 
Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun ; 
With her austere lip she sings 
To her heart of heavenly things. 

Gazeth through a night of June 
To her sister-saint the moon ; 
With the stars communeth long 
Of the angels and their song. 

But when summer died last year 
Rose and lily died with her ; 
Shamrock stayeth every day, 
Be the winds or gold or grey. 

Irish hills, grey as the dove, 
Know the little plant I love ; 
Warm and fair it mantles them, 
Stretching down from throat to hem. 

And it laughs o'er many a vale, 
Sheltered safe from storm and gale ; 
Sky and sun and stars thereof 
Love the gentle plant I love. 

Soft it clothes the ruined floor, 
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, 
And the still home of the dead 
With its green is carpeted. 

Roses for an hour of love, 
With the joy and pain thereof ; 
Stand my lilies white to see 
All for prayer and purity. 

These are white as the harvest moon, 
Roses flush like the heart of June ; 
But my shamrock brave and gay, 
Glads the tired eyes every day. 

the red rose shineth rare, 
And the lily saintly fair ; 
But my shamrock, one in three, 
Takes the inmost heart of me ! 

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 




A TERRIBLE and splendid trust 

Heartens the host of Inisfail : 
Their dream is of the swift sword -thrust, 

A lighting glory of the Gael. 

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, 
And Tara the assembling place : 

But each sweet wind of Ireland bears 
The trump of battle on its race. 

From Dursey Isle to Donegal, 

From Howth to Achill, the glad noise 

Rings : and the heirs of glory fall, 
Or victory crowns their fighting joys. 

A dream ! a dream ! an ancient dream ! 

Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, 
Some weapons on some field must gleam, 

Some burning glory fire the Gael. 

That field may lie beneath the sun, 
Fair for the treading of an host : 

That field in realms of thought be won, 
And armed minds do their uttermost : 

Some way, to faithful Inisfail, 
Shall come the majesty and awe 

Of martial truth, that must prevail, 
To lay on all the eternal law. 

Lionel Johnson. 




O, THE East is but West, with the sun a little 

hotter ; 
And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian 

water : 
And the Nile's like many a stream we know, that 

fills its brimming cup, 

We'll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the 
batteaux up ! 

Pull, pull, pull / as we track the batteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward, when we're at the 

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian 
river ; 

But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sun- 
beams quiver ; 

And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on 
either hand ; 

But ,strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the 
Southern land ! 

O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a 

portage crossing ; 
And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the 

waves are tossing ! 
Then, it's homeward when the run is o'er ! o'er stream, 

and ocean deep 
To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple 

shadows sleep ! 

And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and 

hands so ready 
May be sought again to help, when some poise is off 

the steady ! 



And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with 

British Oak the while, 

As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on 
the Nile ! 

Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the latteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward, when ice re at the 

William Wye Smith. 



' ON with the charge ! ' he cries, and waves his 

sword ; 

One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell ; 
The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, 
While thund'ring cannons' roar half drowns the 
Huron yell. 

* On with the charge ! ' with shout and cheer they 

come ; 

No laggard there upon that field of fame. 
The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, 

And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of 

On ! on ! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks 
Still as the grave unmoved as granite wall ; 

The foe before the dizzy crags behind 

They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors 

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait 
That raging sea of human life now near ; 

' Fire ! ' rings from right to left, each musket rings, 
As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear. 

Again, and yet again that volley flies, 

With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field ; 

All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam, 
And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely 


And down the line swells high the British cheer, 
That on a future day woke Minden's plain, 

And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes 

Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear 

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed 
On dark Culloden moor o'er trampled dead, 

Now sounds the * Onset ' that each clansman knows, 
Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood 
is shed. 

And on that day no nobler stained the sod, 
Than his, who for his country life laid down ; 

Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, 

And strove from rival's brow to wrest the laurel 

Twice struck, he recks not, but still heads the 


But, ah ! fate guides the marksman's fatal ball : 
With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade's aid, 
' We win, let not my soldiers see their Leader 

Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast, 

When hark ! ' They run ; see how they run ! ' 

they cry. 
4 Who run?' 'The foe.' His eyes flash forth one 


Then murm'ring low he sighs, ' Praise God, in 
peace I die.' 

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead, 
As when a cyclone thro' the forest cleaves ; 

And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, 
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn 

The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground, 
The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave, 

' All's well ' resounds from tower and battlement, 
And England's banners proudly o'er the ramparts 


Slowly the mighty warships sail away, 
To tell their country of an empire won ; 

But, ah ! they bear the death-roll of the slain, 
And all that mortal is of Britain's noblest son. 

With bowed head they lay their hero down, 

And pomp and pageant crown the deathless 

brave ; 
Loud salvoes sing the soldier's lullaby, 

And weeping millions bathe with tears his hon- 
oured grave. 

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills, 
And rends the very sky a people's joy ; 

And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair, 
The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant 

And while broad England gleams with glorious 


And merry peals from every belfry ring ; 
One little village lies all dark and still, 

No fires are lighted there no battle songs they 

There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds, 

A mother mourns the silent tear-drops fall ; 
She too had given to swell proud England's fame, 
But, ah ! she gave the widow's mite she gave her 

Duncan Anderson. 



YE, who with your blood and sweat 
Watered the furrows of this land, 

See where upon a nation's brow, 
In honour's front, ye proudly stand 

RAND 247 

Who for her pride abased your own, 

And gladly on her altar laid 
All bounty of the outer world, 

All memories that your glory made. 

And to her service bowed your strength, 
Took labour for your shield and crest ; 

See where upon a nation's brow, 
Her diadem ye proudly rest ! 

Sarah Anne Curzon. 



SHY bird of the silver arrows of song, 
That cleave our Northern air so clear, 

Thy notes prolong, prolong, 
I listen, I hear 

* I love dear Canada, 
Canada, Canada ! ' 

plumes of the pointed dusky fir, 
Screen of a swelling patriot heart, 

The copse is all astir 

And echoes thy part ! . . . 

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes 
As the noise of the day dies down ; 

And silence strings her lutes, 
The Whitethroat to crown . . . 

O bird of the silver arrows of song, 

Shy poet of Canada dear, 
Thy notes prolong, prolong, 

We listen, we hear 
\ I love dear Canada, 

Canada, Canada ! ' 

Theodore Harding Rand. 




(July 23, 1885) 

WAR-WORN, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil 
And battle-scarred they come victorious ! 
Exultingly we greet them cleave the sky 
With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds ; 
We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path 
To do them homage bid them ' Welcome Home ! ' 

We laid our country's honour in their hands 
And sent them forth undoubting. Said farewell 
With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame, 
To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. 
To-day they come again, and bring their gift 
Of all earth's gifts most precious trust redeemed. 
We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, 
Words of all words the sweetest Welcome Home ! ' 

O brave true hearts ! O steadfast loyal hearts ! 

They come, and lay their trophies at our feet ; 

They show us work accomplished, hardships borne, 

Courageous deeds, and patience under pain, 

Their country's name upheld and glorified, 

And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. 

What guerdon have we for such service done ? 

Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers ; 

Our country's smile, and her most just rewards ; 

The victor's laurel laid upon their brows 

And all the love that speaks in * Welcome Home ! ' 

Bays for the heroes : for the martyrs, palms. 

To those who come not, who * though dead yet speak ' 

A lesson to be guarded in our souls 

While the land lives for whose dear sake they died 

Whose lives thrice sacred a,re the price of Peace, 

Whose memory, thrice beloved thrice revered, 


Shall be their country's heritage, to hold 

Eternal pattern to her living sons 

What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all. 

A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, 

Are all the tribute left. Already theirs 

A Nation's safety, gratitude and tears, 

Imperishable honour, endless rest. 

And ye, O stricken hearted ! to whom earth 
Is dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no pride 
Can soothe, no triumph-paean can console 
Ye surely will not fail them will not shrink 
To perfect now your sacrifice of love ? 
'Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears, 
Lest echo of your grief should reach and break 
Their hard-won joy in Heaven, where God Himself 
Has met and crowned them, and has said 'Well done!' 

Annie Rothioell Christie. 


WHY is it that ye grieve, O, weak in faith, 

Who turn toward High Heaven upbraiding eyes? 

Think ye that God will count your children's death 
Vain sacrifice ? 

Half-mast your flags ? Nay, fly them at the head ! 

We reap the harvest where we sowed the corn ; 
See, from the red graves of your gallant dead, 

An Empire born ! 

Do ye not know ye cannot cure a flaw 
Unless the steel runs molten-red again : 

That men's mere words could not together draw 
Those who were twain ? 

Do you not see the Anglo-Saxon breed 
Grew less than kin, on every continent ; 

That brothers had forgotten, in their greed, 
What ' brother ' meant ? 

2 5 o ROBERTS 

Do ye not hear from all the humming wires 
Which bind the mother to each colony, 

How He works surely for our best desires 
To weld the free 

With blood of freemen into one Grand Whole, 
To open all the gates of all the Earth ? 

Do ye not see your Greater Britain's soul 
Has come to birth ? 

Do ye not hear above the sighs the song 

From all those outland hearts, which peace kept 
dumb : 

1 There is no fight too fierce, no trail too long, 
When Love cries ' Come ! ' ' 

Can ye beat steel from iron in the sun, 

Or crown Earth's master on a bloodless field ? 

As Abram offered to his God his son, 
Our best we yield. 

And God gives answer. In the battle smoke 
Tried in war's crucible, washed white in tears, 

The Saxon heart of Greater Britain woke, 
ONE for all years. 

Lift up your eyes ! Your glory is revealed ! 

See, through war's clouds, the rising of your Sun ! 
Hear ye God's voice ! Their testament is sealed 

And ye be one ! 

Olive Phillipps- Wolley. 



O CHILD of Nations, giant-limbed, 
Who stand'st among the nations now 

Unheeded, unadorad, unhymned, 
With unanointed brow, 


How long the ignoble sloth, how long 
The trust in greatness not thine own ? 

Surely the lion's brood is strong 
To front the world alone ! 

How long the indolence, ere thou dare 
Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame 

Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear 
A nation's franchise, nation's name ? 

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire. 

These are thy Manhood's heritage ! 
Why rest with babes and slaves ? Seek higher 

The place of race and age. 

I see to every wind unfurled 

The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath ; 
Thy swift keels furrow round the world 

Its blood-red folds beneath ; 

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas ; 

Thy white sails swell with alien gales ; 
To stream on each remotest breeze 

The black smoke of thy pipes exhales. 

Falterer, let thy past convince 

Thy future, all the growth, the gain, 

The fame since Cartier knew thee, since 
Thy shores beheld Champlain ! 

Montcalm and Wolfe ! Wolfe and Montcalm ! 

Quebec, thy storied citadel 
Attest in burning song and psalm 

How here thy heroes fell ! 

Thou that bor'st the battle's brunt 
At Queenston and at Lundy's Lane, 

On whose scant ranks but iron front 
The battle broke in vain ! 

Whose was the danger, whose the day, 

From whose triumphant throats the cheers, 

At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauquay, 
Storming like clarion-bursts our ears ? 


On soft Pacific slopes, beside 

Strange floods that Northward rave and fall 
Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide 

Thy sons await thy call. 

They wait ; but some in exile, some 

With strangers housed, in stranger lands ; 

And some Canadian lips are dumb 
Beneath Egyptian sands. 

O mystic Nile ! Thy secret yields 
Before us ; thy most ancient dreams 

Are mixed with far Canadian fields 
And murmur of Canadian streams. 

But thou, my Country, dream not thou ! 

Wake, and behold how night is done ; 
How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow, 

Bursts the uprising Sun ! 

Charles George Douglas Roberts. 



ENGLAND, England, England, 

Girdled by ocean and skies, 

And the power of a world, and the heart of a race, 

And a hope that never dies. 

England, England, England, 
Wherever a true heart beats, 
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow, 
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow, 
Wherever the glories of liberty grow, 
'Tis the name that the world repeats. 

And ye who dwell in the shadow 
Of the century's sculptured piles, 
Where sleep our century-honoured dead 
While the great world thunders overhead, 


And far out miles on miles, 

Beyond the smoke of the mighty town, 

The blue Thames dimples and smiles ; 

Not yours alone the glory of old, 

Of the splendid thousand years, 

Of Britain's might and Britain's right 

And the brunt of British spears. 

Not yours alone, for the great world round 

Ready to dare and do, 

Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane, 

With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain, 

And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane 

Are England's heroes too. 

North and south and east and west, 

Wherever their triumphs be, 

Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle 

Where the heather blooms and the roses smile 

With the green isle under her lee ; 

And if ever the smoke of an alien gun 

Should threaten her iron repose, 

Shoulder to shoulder against the world, 

Face to face with her foes, 

Scot and Celt and Saxon are one 

Where the glory of England goes. 

And we of the newer and vaster West, 

Where the great war banners are furled, 

And commerce hurries her teeming hosts, 

And the cannon are silent along our coasts, 

Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim 

A part in the glory and pride and aim 

Of the Empire that girdles the world. 

England, England, England, 

Wherever the daring heart 

By Arctic floe or torrid strand 

Thy heroes play their part ; 

For as long as conquest holds the earth, 

Or commerce sweeps the sea, 

By orient jungle or western plain, 

Will the Saxon spirit be. 


And whatever the people that dwell beneath, 

Or whatever the alien tongue, 

Over the freedom and peace of the world 

Is the flag of England flung. 

Till the last great freedom is found, 

And the last great truth be taught, 

Till the last great deed be done 

And the last great battle is fought ; 

Till the last great fighter is slain in the last 

great fight 

And the war-wolf is dead in his den, 
England, breeder of hope and valour and might, 
Iron mother of men. 

Yea, England, England, England, 

Till honour and valour are dead, 

Till the world's great cannons rust, 

Till the world's great hopes are dust, 

Till faith and freedom be fled, 

Till wisdom and justice have passed 

To sleep with those who sleep in the many- 
chambered vast, 

Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust 
in dust, 

To all that is best in the world's unrest, 

In heart and mind you are wed. 

While out from the Indian jungle 

To the far Canadian snows, 

Over the east and over the west, 

Over the worst and over the best, 

The flag of the world to its winds unfurled, 

The blood-red ensign blows. 

William Wilfred Campbell. 



BY crag and lonely moor she stands, 

This mother of half a world's great men, 

And kens them far by sea-wracked lands, 
Or orient jungle or western fen. 


And far out 'mid the mad turmoil, 

Or where the desert places keep 
Their lonely hush, her children toil, 

Or wrapt in wide-world honour sleep. 

By Egypt's sands or western wave, 

She kens her latest heroes rest, 
With Scotland's honour o'er each grave, 

And Britain's flag above each breast. 

And some at home. Her mother love 

Keeps crooning wind-songs o'er their graves, 

Where Arthur's castle looms above, 
Or Strathy storms or Sol way raves. 

Or Lomond unto Nevis bends 

In olden love of clouds and dew ; 
Where Trossach unto Stirling sends 

Greetings that build the years anew. 

Out where her miles of heather sweep, 

Her dust of legend in his breast, 
'Neath aged Dryburgh's aisle and keep, 

Her Wizard Walter takes his rest. 

And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr, 
More loved than any singer loved 

By heart of man amidst those rare, 

High souls the world hath tried and proved ; 

Whose songs are first to heart and tongue, 
Wherever Scotsmen greet together, 

And, far-out alien scenes among, 

Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather. 

And he her latest wayward child, 

Her Louis of the magic pen, 
Who sleeps by tropic crater piled, 

Far, far, alas ! from misted glen ; 

Who loved her, knew her, drew her so, 
Beyond all common poet's whim ; 

In dreams the whaups are calling low, 
In sooth her heart is woe for him. 


And they, her warriors, greater none 
E'er drew the blade of daring forth, 

Her Colin under Indian sun, 

Her Donald of the fighting North. 

Or he, her greatest hero, he 

Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus' sands, 
Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free, 

Great captains of her fighting bands. 

Yea, these and myriad myriads more, 

Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main, 

To free the wave or win the shore, 
She calls in vain, she calls in vain. 

Brave sons of her, far severed wide 
By purpling peak or reeling foam ; 

From western ridge or orient side, 

She calls them home, she calls them home. 

And far, from east to western sea, 

The answering word comes back to her : 

' Our hands were slack, our hopes were free, 
We answered to the blood astir ; 

The life by Kelpie loch was dull, 

The homeward slothful work was done, 

We followed where the world was full, 
To dree the weird our fates had spun. 

We built the brig, we reared the town, 

We spanned the earth with lightning gleam, 

We ploughed, we fought, 'mid smile and frown, 
Where all the world's four corners team. 

But under all the surge of life, 

The mad race-fight for mastery, 
Though foremost in the surgent strife, 

Our hearts went back, went back to thee.' 

For the Scotsman's speech is wise and slow, 
And the Scotsman's thought it is hard to ken, 

But through all the yearnings of men that go, 
His heart is the heart of the northern glen. 


His song is the song of the windy moor, 

And the humming pipes of the squirling din ; 

And his love is the love of the shieling door, 
And the smell of the smoking peat within. 

And nohap how much of the alien blood 

Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast, 

'Mid the world's great ill and the world's great good, 
He yearns to the Mother of men at last. 

For there's something strong and something true 
In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown ; 

And something great in the blood so blue, 
That makes him stand like a man alone. 

Yea, give him the road and loose him free, 
He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast, 

For there's never a toil in a far countrie, 
But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast. 

He builds their commerce, he sings their songs, 
He weaves their creeds with an iron twist, 

And making of laws or righting of wrongs, 
He grinds it all as the Scotsman's grist. 

Yea, there by crag and moor she stands, 
This mother of half a world's great men, 

And out of the heart of her haunted lands 
She calls her children home again. 

And over the glens and the wild sea floors 
She peers so still as she counts her cost, 

With the whaups low calling over the moors, 
' Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.' 

William Wilfred Campbell. 

258 SCOTT 



FIERCE on this bastion beats the noon-day sun ; 

The city sleeps beneath me, old and grey ; 

On convent roofs the quivering sunbeams play, 

And batteries guarded by dismantled gun. 

No breeze comes from the northern hills which run 

Circling the blue mist of the summer's day ; 

No ripple stirs the great stream on its way 

To those dim headlands where its rest is won. 

What thunders shook these silent crags of yore ! 
What smoke of battle rolled up plain and gorge 
While two worlds closed in strife for one brief 


What echoes still come ringing back once more ! 
For on these heights of old God set His forge ; 
His strokes wrought here the destinies of man. 

Frederick George Scott. 


GROWING to full manhood now, 
With the care-lines on our brow, 
We, the youngest of the nations, 
With no childish lamentations, 
Weep, as only strong men weep, 
For the noble hearts that sleep, 
Pillowed where they fought and bled, 
The loved and lost, our glorious dead ! 

Toil and sorrow come with age, 
Manhood's rightful heritage ; 

SCOTT 259 

Toil our arms more strong shall render, 
Sorrow make our heart more tender, 
In the heartlessness of time ; 
Honour lays a wreath sublime 
Deathless glory where they bled, 
Our loved and lost, our glorious dead ! 

Wild the prairie grasses wave 
O'er each hero's new-made grave ; 
Time shall write such wrinkles o'er us, 
But the future spreads before us 
Glorious in that sunset land 
Nerving every heart and hand, 
Comes a brightness none can shed, 
But the dead, the glorious dead ! 

Lay them where they fought and fell ; 
Every heart shall ring their knell, 
For the lessons they have taught us, 
For the glory they have brought us. 
Tho' our hearts are sad and bowed, 
Nobleness still makes us proud 
Proud of light their names will shed 
In the roll-call of our dead ! 

Growing to full manhood now, 
With the care-lines on our brow, 
We, the youngest of the nations, 
With no childish lamentations, 
Weep, as only strong men weep, 
For the noble hearts that sleep 
Where the call of duty led, 
Where the lonely prairies spread, 
Where for us they fought and bled, 
Our ever loved and glorious dead ! 

Frederick George Scott. 





LEST it be said 

One sits at ease 

Westward, beyond the outer seas, 
Who thanks me not that my decrees 
Fall light as love, nor bends her knees 

To make one prayer 
That peace my latter days may find, 
Lest all these bitter things be said 
And we be counted as one dead, 
Alone and unaccredited 
I give this message to the wind : 

Secure in thy security, 

Though children, not unwise are we ; 

And filled with unplumbed love for thee, 

Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see ! 

Where the grey bergs 
Come down from Labrador, and where 
The long Pacific rollers break 
Against the pines, for thy word's sake 
Each listeneth, alive, awake, 
And with thy strength made strong to dare. 

And though our love is strong as spring, 
Sweet is it, too, as sweet a thing 
As when the first swamp-robins sing 
Unto the dawn their welcoming. 

Yea, and more sweet 
Than the clean savour of the reeds 
Where yesterday the June floods were, 
Than perfumed piles of new cut fir 
That greet the forest-worshipper 
Who follows where the wood-road leads. 

But unto thee are all unknown 
These things by which the worth is shown 
Of our deep love ; and, near thy throne, 
The glory thou hast made thine own 
Hath made men blind 


To all that lies not to their hand, 

But what thy strength and theirs hath done : 

As though they had beheld the sun 

When the noon-hour and March are one 

Wide glare across our white, white land. 

For what reck they of Empire, they, 
Whose will two hemispheres obey ? 
Why shouldst thou not count us but clay 
For them to fashion as they may 

In London-town? 
The dwellers in the wilderness 
Rich tribute yield to thee their friend ; 
From the flood unto the world's end 
Thy London ships ascend, descend, 
Gleaning and to thy feet regress. 

Yea, surely they think not at all 
Of us, nor note the outer wall 
Around thy realm imperial 
Our slow hands rear as the years fall ; 

Which shall withstand 
The stress of time and night of doom ; 
For we, who build, build of our love, 
Not as they built, whose empires throve 
And died, for what knew they thereof 
In old Assyria, Egypt, Rome ? 

Therefore, in my dumb country's stead, 
I come to thee, unheralded, 
Praying that Time's peace may be shed 
Upon thine high, anointed head, 

One with the wheat, 
The mountain pine, the prairie trail, 
The lakes, the thronging ships thereon, 
The valley of the blue Saint John, 
New France her lilies, not alone 

Empress, I bid the, Hail ! 

Francis Sherman. 



SANG one of England in his island home : 

' Her veins are million, but her heart is one ; ' 

And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle 
To us who dwell beyond its western sun. 

And we among the northland plains and lakes, 
We youthful dwellers on a younger land, 

Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste, 

And feel the clasp of England's outstretched hand. 

For we are they who wandered far from home 
To swell the glory of an ancient name ; 

Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, 
When fortune's twilight to our island came. 

But every keel that cleaves the midway waste 
Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, 

Till ocean dwindles and the sea- waste shrinks, 
And England mingles with a hundred lands. 

And weaving silently all far-off shores 

A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, 
Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths, 

Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. 

So we remote compatriots reply, 

And feel the world-task only half begun : 

' We are the girders of the ageing earth, 

Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.' 

Arthur Stringer. 



WIDE are the plains to the north and the westward ; 

Drear are the skies to the west and the north 
Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, 

And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. 


Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, 
Stretching out far to the grey of the sky 

Little they cared as they marched from the barrack- 
Willing and ready, if need be, to die. 

Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets ; 

Firm and erect was each man in his place ; 
Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans ; 

Smiling and fearless was every face ; 
Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them ; 

Never a fear of war's terrible scenes ; 
* Brave as the bravest,' was stamped on each face of 
them ; 

Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. 

Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, 

Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed ; 
Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of 

Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. 
Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them, 

Seeing the lover from whom she must part ; 
Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, 

Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart. 

Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, 

Beat as it never had beaten before ; 
Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, 

Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. 
Proud ! were we proud of them ? God ! they were 
part of us, 

Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight ; 
Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all, 

Eager to battle for her and the right. 

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, 
Stretching out far to the grey of the sky 

Little they cared as they filed from the barrack- 
Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die, 


Was there one flinched ? Not a boy, not a boy of 

them ; 
Straight on they marched to the dread battle's 


Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, 
Canada's call found them all at the front. 

Stuari Livingston. 




THE waves are dashing proudly down 

Along thy sounding shore ; 
Lashing, with all the storm of power, 
The craggy base of mountain tower, 

Of mosque, and pagod hoar, 
That darkly o'er thy waters frown, 
As if their moody spirit's sway 
Could hush their wild and boist'rous play ! 

Unconscious roll the surges down, 

But not unconscious thou, 
Dread Spirit of the rolling flood, 
For ages worshipped as a God, 

And worshipped even now, 
Worshipped, and not by serf or clown, 
For sages of the mightiest fame 
Have paid their homage to thy name. 

Canst thou forget the glorious past, 

When mighty as a God, 
With hands and heart unfettered yet, 
And eyes with slavish tears unwet, 

Each sable warrior trod 
Thy sacred shore, before the blast 
Of Moslem conquest hurried by, 
Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh ? 

O'er crumbled thrones thy waters glide, 

Through scenes of blood and woe ; 
And crown and kingdom, might and sway, 
The victor's and the poet's bay, 

Ignobly sleep below ; 
Sole remnant of our ancient pride, 
Thy waves survive the wreck of time, 
And wanton free as in their prime. 

268 LYALL 

Alas, alas, all round how drear, 

How mangled and how torn ! 
Where are the damsels proud and gay, 
Where warriors in their dread array, 

* In Freedom's temple born ? ' 
Can heroes sleep ? Can patriots fear ? 
Or is the spark for ever gone, 
That lights the soul from sire to son ? 

I gaze upon thy current strong 

Beneath the blaze of day ; 
What conjured visions throng my sight, 
Of war and carnage, death and flight! 

Thy waters to the Bay 
In purple eddies sweep along, 
And Freedom shrieking leaves the shrine, 

Alas ! no longer now divine. 

Roll, Gunga, roll in all thy pride 

. Thy hallowed groves among ! 

Still glorious thou in every mood, 

Thou boast of India's widowhood, 

Thou theme of every song ! 
Blent with the murmurs of thy tide 
The records of far ages lie, 
And live, for thou canst never die ! 

SJioshee Chunder Dutt. 


OFT in the pleasant summer years, 
Reading the tales of days bygone, 

I have mused on the story of human tears, 
All that man unto man has done, 

Massacre, torture, and black despair ; 

Reading it all in my easy-chair. 

LYALL 269 

Passionate prayer for a minute's life ; 

Tortured crying for death as rest ; 
Husband pleading for child or wife, 

Pitiless stroke upon tender breast. 
Was it all real as that I lay there 
Lazily stretched on my easy-chair? 

Could I believe in those hard old times, 

Here in this safe luxurious age ? 
Were the horrors invented to season rhymes, 

Or truly is man so fierce in his rage ? 
What could I suffer, and what could I dare ? 
I who was bred to that easy-chair. 

They were my fathers, the men of yore, 
Little they recked of a cruel death ; 

They would dip their hands in a heretic's gore, 
They stood and burnt for a rule of faith. 

What would I burn for, and whom not spare ? 

I, who had faith in an easy-chair. 

Now do I see old tales are true, 
Here in the clutch of a savage foe ; 

Now shall I know what my fathers knew, 
Bodily anguish and bitter woe, 

Naked and bound in the strong sun's glare, 

Far from my civilised easy-chair. 

Now have I tasted and understood 
The old-world feeling of mortal hate ; 

For the eyes all round us are hot with blood ; 
They will kill us coolly they do but wait ; 

While I, I would sell ten lives, at least, 

For one fair stroke at that devilish priest, 

Just in return for the kick he gave, 

Bidding me call on the prophet's name ; 

Even a dog by this may save 

Skin from the knife and soul from the flame ; 

My soul ! if he can let the prophet burn it, 

But life is sweet if a word may earn it. 

2 7 o LYALL 

A bullock's death, and at thirty years ! 

Just one phrase, and a man gets off it ; 
Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears 

Whining aloud the name of the prophet ; 
Only a formula easy to patter, 
And, God Almighty, what can it matter? 

' Matter enough,' will my comrade say 
Praying aloud here close at my side, 

* Whether you mourn in despair alway, 
Cursed for ever by Christ denied ; 

Or whether you suffer a minute's pain 

All the reward of Heaven to gain.' 

Not for a moment faltereth he, 

Sure of the promise and pardon of sin \ 

Thus did the martyrs die, I see, 
Little to lose and muckle to win ; 

Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it, 

But what shall I do if I don't believe it ? 

Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, 
Fain would I speak one word and be spared ; 

Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, 
If I were only sure God cared ; 

If I had faith, and were only certain 

That light is behind that terrible curtain. 

But what if He listeth nothing at all, 

Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say ? 

That mighty God who created all 

To labour and live their appointed day ; 

Who stoops not either to bless or ban, 

Weaving the woof of an endless plan. 

He is the Eeaper, and binds the sheaf, 
Shall not the season its order keep ? 

Can it be changed by a man's belief ? 
Millions of harvests still to reap ; 

Will God reward, if I die for a creed, 

Or will He but pity, and sow more seed ? 

LYALL 271 

Surely He pities who made the brain, 

When breaks that mirror of memories sweet, 

When the hard blow falleth, and never again 
Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat ; 

Bitter the vision of vanishing joys ; 

Surely He pities when man destroys. 

Here stand I on the ocean's brink, 

Who hath brought news of the further shore ? 
How shall I cross it ? Sail or sink, 

One thing is sure, I return no more ; 
Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be 
Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea? 

They tell fair tales of a far-off land, 
Of love rekindled, of forms renewed ; 

There may I only touch one hand 
Here life's ruin will little be rued ; 

But the hand I have pressed and the voice I 
have heard, 

To lose them for ever, and all for a word ! 

Now do I feel that my heart must break 
All for one glimpse of a woman's face ; 

Swiftly the slumbering memories wake 
Odour and shadow of hour and place ; 

One bright ray through the darkening past 

Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last, 

Showing me summer in western land 
Now, as the cool breeze murmureth 

In leaf and flower And here I stand 
In this plain all bare save the shadow of 
death ; 

Leaving my life in its full noonday, 

And no one to know why I flung it away. 

Why ? Am I bidding for glory's roll ? 

I shall be murdered and clean forgot ; 
Is it a bargain to save my soul ? 

God, whom I trust in, bargains not ; 
Yet for the honour of English race, 
May I not live or endure disgrace. 

272 WEBB 

Ay, but the word, if I could have said it, 

I by no terrors of hell perplext ; 
Hard to be silent and have no credit 

From man in this world, or reward in the 

next ; 

None to bear witness and reckon the cost 
Of the name that is saved by the life that 
is lost. 

I must be gone to the crowd untold 

Of men by the cause which they served 

Who moulder in myriad graves of old ; 

Never a story and never a stone 
Tells of the martyrs who die like me, 
Just for the pride of the old countree. 

Sir Alfred Lyall. 



FROM domes and palaces I bent my way 
Where, like some Titan by Jove's thunder marred, 
From the old battered portal-towers that guard 
The storied ruins of a glorious fray. 
In patient stillness house and bastion lay, 
As they had fallen ; for the fight was hard 
That saw their walls by myriad bullets scarred, 
When those few steadfast warriors stood at bay. 
There, by the English tombs of those that fell 
In that fierce struggle 'twixt the East and West, 
A few green mounds are seen, where peaceful rest 
India's brave sons who perished fighting well 
For England too. What heart its feud can keep 
Beside these graves where our dark comrades sleep ? 

William Trego Webb. 

WEBB 273 



SPEAK gently, gently tread, 

And breathe one sigh profound ; 

In memory of the dead 
Each spot is holy ground. 

Theirs was no common doom, 
And some were young to die ; 

Within this narrow tomb 
Women and infants lie. 

They drank the bitter cup 

Of fear and anguish deep, 
Ere they were rendered up 

To death's unruffled sleep. 

Meek be our sorrow here, 
For them we could not save ; 

And soft be Pity's tear 

Above the children's grave. 

Quenched here be passion's heat, 
Let strife and vengeance cease ; 

Within their garden sweet 
Leave them to rest in peace. 

For Nature hath made clean 

This place of human guilt ; 
And now the turf is green 

Where English blood was spilt. 

Earth's healing hand hath spread 
Her flowers about their tomb ; 

Around the quiet dead 

Trees wave and roses bloom. 

Then lift not wrathful hands, 

But pass in silence by ; 
Their carven Angel stands 

And watches where they lie. 

William Trego Webb. 

274 WEBB 



THE cool and pleasant days are past, 
The sun above the horizon towers ; 

And Eastern Spring, arriving fast, 
Leads on too soon the sultry hours. 

From greener height the palm looks down ; 

A livelier hue the peepuls share ; 
And sunlit poinsianas crown 

With golden wreaths their branches bare. 

The ships that, by the river's brim, 
At anchor, lift their shining sides 

Against the red sun's westering rim, 
Swing to the wash of stronger tides. 

No insects hum in sylvan bower ; 

In spectral stillness stand the trees ; 
Come, blessing of our evening hour, 

Come forth and blow, sweet southern breeze ! 

To us the ocean freshness lend 

Which from the wave thy breath receives ; 
Ripple these glassy tanks and send 

A murmur through the silent leaves ! 

See, blurred with amber haze, the sun 
'Neath yon dim flats doth sink to rest ; 

And tender thoughts, that homeward run, 
Move fondly with him to the west. 

They leave these hot and weary hours, 
The iron fate that girds us round, 

And wander 'mid the meadow flowers 
And breezy heights of English ground. 

The sun is set ; we'll dream no more ; 

Vainly for us the vision smiles ; 
Why did we quit thy pleasant shore, 

Our happiest of the Happy Isles ! 

William Trego Webb, 




STILL stand thy ruins 'neath the Indian sky, 

Memorials eloquent of blood and tears ! 
! for the spirit of those days gone by 

To wake a strain amid these later years 
Worthy of thee and thine ! I seem to see, 

When thinking on thy consecrated dead, 
From thy scarred chambers start 

The heroes whom thy fiery travail bred 
And made thee for us English what thou art ! 

Green grows the grass around thy crumbling walls 

Where glorious Lawrence groaned his life away ! 
And childhood's footsteps echo through those halls 

Wherein thy wounded and thy dying lay ! 
While blent with infant laughter seems to rise 

The far-off murmur of thy battle roll, 
The prayer the shout the groan 

Outram's unselfish chivalry of soul, 
And white-haired Havelock's strong, commanding 

Yet, what are names ? The genius of the spot, 

Born of our womanhood and manhood brave, 
Shall fire our children's children ! Ne'er forgot 

Shall be the dust of thy historic grave 
While Reverence fills the sense with musing calm, 

While Glory stirs the pulse of prince or clown, 
While blooms on British sod 

The glorious flower of our fair renown, 
Our English valour and our trust in God ! 

The memory of the Living ! Lo, they stand 
Engirt with honour while the day draws in, 

An ever lessening and fraternal band 
Linked in chivalric glory and akin 


To earth's immortals ! Time may bow the frame 
And plough deep wrinkles 'mid their honoured 


But Death-like Night which brings 
To earth the blaze majestic of the stars, 
Shall but enhance their glory with his wings ! 

The memory of the Dead ! A pilgrim, I 

Have bowed my face before thy honoured shrine, 
With pride deep-welling while the moments by 

Sped to a human ecstasy divine 
Tingling my very blood, to think that they, 

Martyrs and victors in our English need, 
Were children of the earth 

Yet better heroes of our island breed 
And men and women of our British birth ! 

John Renton Denning. 


Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the 

Isles and Sea, 
Brothers in bond of battle and blood wherever the battle 

may be; 
A song and a thought for your fighting line, a song for 

the march and camp, 
A song to the beat of the rolling drums, a song to the 

measured tramp, 
When the feet lift up on the dusty road 'math sun and 

moon and star, 
And the prayer is prayed by mother and maid for their 

best beloved afar I 

What say the Plains the Plains that stretch along 
From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre ? 

' Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song 
And now reaps harvest 'mid the tribesmen's fire ! 


The Spirit of a mightier world than springs 

From his poor village led him on 
To glory ! Yea to glory ! ' Ever sings 

The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone ! 

What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed 

The bull-dogs of the East ? From crest and vale 
Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed 

On falling waters or the mountain gale ! 
4 Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth ; 

They were our sons ; we bred them even we 
To face thy foemen, Islands of the North, 

We know their worth and sing it thus to thee ! ' 

What say the Passes ? There the requiem 

Of battle lingers o'er the undying dead 
' Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem 

Of honour glitters in the nullah bed, 
Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine, 

Or on the sangared steep a solemn ray 
That touches thus the thing that once hath been, 

With glory glory ! ' So the Pastas say ! 

And so the great world hears and men's eyes blaze 

As each one to his neighbour cries ' Well done ! ' 
A little thing this speech this flower of praise, 

Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun ! 
Not here alone for here we know them well ; 

But tell our English, waiting on the shore 
To welcome back their heroes : * Lo ! these fell 

Even as ours as brave for evermore ! ' 

I hear the roar amid the London street : 

The earth hath not its equal, whether it be 
For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet 

That press therein and eyes that turn to see 
Know nothing of our sepoys let them know 

That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs 
A battle-virtue kindred with the glow 

That fires the leaping pulses of their sons ! 


Tis worth proclaiming. Yea, it seems to me 

This loyalty to death lies close akin 
To all the noblest human traits that be, 

Engendered whence we know not yet within 
Choice spirits nobly gathered. Lo ! we stand, 

Needs must, against the world, Yet war's alarms 
Are nothing to our mightiest Motherland, 

While Nation circles Nation in her arms ! 

John Renton Denning. 



WHAT are the bugles saying 

With a strain so long and so loud ? 
They say that a soldier's blanket 

Is meet for a soldier's shroud ! 
They say that their hill-tossed music, 

Blown forth of the living breath, 
Is full of the victor's triumph 

And sad with the wail of death ! 
Bugles of Talavera / 

What are the bugles saying ? 

They tell of the falling night, 
When a section of dog-tired English 

Drew close for a rear-guard fight ; 
With an officer-boy to lead them, 

A lost and an outflanked squad, 
By the grace of a half -learned drill book, 

And a prayer to the unseen God ! 
Bugles of Talavera ! 

What are the bugles saying 

Of the stand that was heel to heel ? 

The click of the quick-pressed lever, 
The glint of the naked steel, 


The flame of the steady volley. 

The hope that was almost gone, 
As the leaping horde of the tribesmen 

Swept as a tide sweeps on ! 
Bugles of Talavera ! 

What are the bugles saying ? 

They say that the teeth are set, 
They say that the breath conies thicker, 

And the blood-red Night is wet ; 
While the rough blunt speech of the English, 

The burr of the shires afar, 
Falls with a lone brave pathos 

'Mid the hills of the Saransar ! 
Bugles of Talavera ! 

What are the bugles saying ? 

They say that the English there 
Feel a breath from their island meadows 

Like incense fill the air ! 
They say that they stood for a moment 

With their dear ones by their side, 
For their spirits swept to the Homeland 

Before the English died ! 
Bugles of Talavera ! 

And aye are the bugles saying, 

While the dust lies low i' the dust, 
The strength of a strong man's fighting, 

The crown of the soldier's trust 
The wine of a full-brimmed battle, 

The peace of the quiet grave, 
And a wreath from the hands of glory 

Are the guerdon of the brave ! 
Bugles of Talavera I 

John Renton Denning. 




GALLANT was our galley from har carven steering- 

To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered 
steel ; 

The leg-bar chafed the ankle and we gasped for 
cooler air, 

But no galley on the water with our galley could 
compare ! 

Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts 

were stepped in gold 

We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the Mold ; 
The white foam spun behind us, and the black 

shark swam below, 
As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made 

that galley go. 

It was merry in the galley, for we revelled now and 

If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought 

and loved like men ! 
As we snatched her through the water, so we snatched 

a minute's bliss, 
And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lovers' 


Our women and our children toiled beside us in the 

They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them 

to the shark 
We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley 

We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn 

our dead. 


Bear witness, once my comrades, what a hard-bit 

gang were we 
The servants of the sweep-head but the masters of 

the sea ! 
By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged 

and yawed and sheered, 
Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything 

we feared ? 

Was it storm? Our fathers faced it and a wilder 

never blew ; 
Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the 

galley struggle through. 
Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, 

Parting, Death ? 
Nay, our very babes would mock you had they time 

for idle breath. 

But to-day I leave the galley and another takes my 

place ; 
There's my name upon the deck-beam let it stand a 

little space. 
I am free to watch my messmates beating out to 

open main 
Free of all that Life can offer save to handle sweep 


By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of 

clinging steel, 
By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars 

that never heal ; 
By eyes grown old with staring through the sunwash 

on the brine, 
I am paid in full for service would that service still 

were mine ! 

Yet they talk of times and seasons and of woe the 

years bring forth, 
Of our galley swamped and shattered in the rollers of 

the North. 


When the niggers break the hatches and the decks 

are gay with gore, 
And a craven-hearted pilot crams her crashing on 

the shore. 

She will need no half-mast signal, minute-gun, or 

When the cry for help goes seaward, she will find 

her servants there. 
Battered chain-gangs of the orlop, grizzled drafts of 

years gone by, 
To the bench that broke their manhood, they shall 

lash themselves and die. 

Hale and crippled, young and aged, paid, deserted, 
shipped away 

Palace, cot, and lazaretto shall make up the tale that 

When the skies are black above them, and the decks 
ablaze beneath, 

And the topmen clear the raffle with their clasp- 
knives in their teeth. 

It may be that Fate will give me life and leave to 

row once more 
Set some strong man free for fighting as I take 

awhile his oar. 
But to-day I leave the galley. Shall I curse her 

service then? 
God be thanked whate'er comes after, I have lived 

and toiled with Men ! 

Rudyard Kipling. 




FAR up among the forest-belted mountains, 
Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey, 
Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming 


To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay, 
A valley opens to the noontide ray, 
With green savannahs shelving to the brim 
Of the swift river, sweeping on its way 
To where Umt6ka tries to meet with him, 
Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim. 

There, couched at night in hunter's wattled 


How wildly -beautiful it was to hear 
The elephant his shrill reveille pealing, 
Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear ! 
While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, 
How fearful to look forth upon the woods, 
And see those stately forest-kings appear, 
Emerging from their shadowy solitudes 
As if that trump had woke Earth's old gigantic 

broods ! 

Look round that vale ! behold the unburied bones 
Of Ghona's children withering in the blast ! 
The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans, 
Whispers ' The spirit hath for ever passed ! ' 
Thus, in the vale of desolation vast, 
In moral death dark Afric's myriads lie ; 
But the appointed day shall dawn at last, 
When, breathed on by a spirit from on high, 
The dry bones shall awake, and shout 
' Our God is nigh ! ' 

Thomas Prwgle. 

286 HALL 




ACROSS the streaming flood, the deep ravine, 

Through hurricanes of shot, through hells of fire, 

To rocks where myriad marksmen lurk unseen, 
The steadfast legions mount, mount always higher. 

Earth and her elements protect the foe : 

His are the covered trench, the ambushed hill, 

The treacherous pit, the sudden secret blow, 

The swift retreat but ours the conquering will. 

Against that will in vain the fatal lead, 

Vain is the stubborn heart, brute cunning vain : 

Strong in the triumphs of thy dauntless dead, 
Advance, Imperial Race, advance and reign ! 

William John Court hope. 


WE cheered you forth brilliant and kind and 


Under your country's triumphing flag you fell ; 
It floats, true heart, over no dearer grave. 
Brave and brilliant and kind, hail and farewell ! 

William Ernest Henley. 



SUN-SHOWERED land ! largess of golden light 
Is thine ; and well-befitting since the night 
Of England voiced again 
Canute's command ; ah, not in vain ! 

COOK 287 

Backward the tides of savagery drew ; 

And still the bright sands gain 

On the retreating main : 

A lost world leaping to the light and blue. 

In state the mountains greet an eve so fair, 
And sunset-crowns and robes of purple wear : 
A sea of glass the ocean, gold-inwrought 
Pathway apocalyptic. From the prow 
A long bright ripple to the land is roll'd. . . . 
Haste thee and tell, tell of our love, with lips of 


In soft sea-music tell ! 
And thou, sweet bird, whose snowy wings have 


The universal glory, carry thou 
To that dear shore farewell our hearts' farewell ! 

Arthur Vine Hall. 



*WELL done!' The cry goes ringing round the 

O'er land and sea, wherever pulse throbs fast 

At tales of courage, for relief at last 
Is theirs and ours : so dawn's bright flag unfurled 
Hath challenge to the powers of darkness hurled, 

And made one glory of the empyrean vast ; 

And when this day to history's tome is passed 
Its name shall stand on golden page impearled. 

O God ! our Help, our Hope, our Refuge strong 
In days of trouble, still be Thou our Guide ; 

So shall we pass the coming days along 
In certain trust whatever may betide, 

And on Thine Empire shine the glorious sun 

Till at last Thou say to her * Well done ! ' 

Hilda Mary Agnes Cook. 





BY the Boer lines at Congella, 

Where the west wind sheds its rain, 

All the yellow sands grew crimson 
With the wounded and the slain. 

Etched upon the deadly sky-line, 
Mark for guns behind each dune, 

Flashed the silver of the bayonets 
In the lethal night's high noon. 

Far across the bay the booming 

Of the cannon rose and fell ; 
Echoing to bluff and island, 

Rang the soldier's passing-bell. 

Blood of England shed for Empire 

At our southern Trasimene 
Such it is that fosters heroes, 

Keeps the graves of valour green. 

All life's nobler thoughts are strengthened 

By the valiance of our sires, 
As it glows undimmed, undying, 

Like Rome's cherished vestal-fires. 

Ever burning happy omen 
For the progress of the State ! 

Patriots give their lives as incense 
On the altars reared by Fate. 

Such pure light streamed o'er the cities 

Of the pulsing Punic world ; 
Lit their galleys through the Pillars 

Of the West, with sails unfurled. 

In wild camps it thrilled Rome's legions, 
Stemmed the East at Marathon ; 

Bore sea-heroes through the Syrtes, 
Through strange seas and tropic dawn. 


Diaz and Da Gama snatched it 

From their Lusitanian pyre ; 
Bore it over hungry surges 

To the Cape of Storms and Fire ; 

And it gleamed upon our verdure 
From their storm-vexed caravel 

Land of afternoon undying 
O'er tired visions cast its spell. 

Clear the deathless flame was glowing 

By the wide bay's tender blue, 
When their blood was shed for England 

By the men of 'Forty-two. 

Robert Russell. 





THE seaman slept all nature sleeps ; a sacred still- 
ness there 

Is on the wood is on the waves is in the silver air. 
The sky above the silent sea with stars were all 

aglow ; 
There shone Orion and his belt Arcturus and his 

bow ! 
The seaman slept or does he sleep? what chorus 

greets him now ? 
Wild music breaking from the deep around the 

vessel's bow ? 
He starts, he looks, he sees rise shadowy can he 

only dream ? 
A sovereign form, wrathful, yet beauteous in the 

moon's cold beam ! 

* Mortal, hath fallen my star in the hour 
Of the dread eclipse, that thou scornest my power ? 
Herald thus soon of that mystic race 
Fated to reign in my people's place, 
Bringing arts of might working wondrous spells 
Where now but the simple savage dwells ; 
Before whom my children shall pass away, 
As the morntide passes before the day. 
The time is not yet, why dost thou come, 
The bale of thy presence to cast o'er my home ? 
Its shadow of doom is on air and waves 
E'en the still soft gloom of my deep sea caves 
A shudder has reached ; over shore and bay 
Bodeful the shivering moonbeams play ! 
The Spirit of this zone am I 
Mine are the isles and yon mainlands nigh ; 


And roused from my rest by the wood-wraith's 


And the sea-maid's moan on the coral reef 
Voices never till now foreboding grief 

Hither I fly- 
Here at the gate of my South Sea realm 
To bid thee put back thy fateful helm ! 
Not yet is the hour, why art thou here 
Presaging dole, and scaith, and fear ? ' 

Not yet is the time 

Woe-bringer, go back to thy cloud-wrapped clime ! 

Meeter for thee the drear Northern sky, 

And where wintry breakers ceaseless roar, 

And strew with wrecks a dusky shore ; 

Where the iceberg rears its awful form, 

Where along the billows the petrels cry 

For, like thee, that dark bird loves the storm ! 

Thou child of the clime of the Vikings wild 

Who wert nursed upon the tempest's wing, 

A boy on the wind -beaten mast to cling 

Whose quest is prey, who hailest the day 

When gleam the red swords and the death-bolts 

ring ! 

Thy joy is with restless men and seas, 
What dost thou in scenes as soft as these ? 

The hour is not yet, but the doom appears 
As I gaze thro' the haze of long distant years. 
A mighty people speaking thy tongue, 
Sea-borne from their far, dark strands 
Shall spread abroad over all these lands 
Where man now lives as when Time was young. 
I see their stately cities rise 
Thro' the clouds where the future's horizon lies ; 
Thro' the purple mists shrouding river and plain, 
Where the white-foaming bay marks the hidden 

main ; 

And clearer now I behold more clear 
Great ships sails swelling to the breeze, 


Their keels break all the virgin seas ; 
Vast white-winged squadrons, they come and go 
Where only has skimmed the light canoe ! 
Yes, the seats and the paths of empire veer, 
A highway of nations will yet be here ! 
As Tyre was in an ancient age ; 
As Venice of palaces, strong and sage ; 
As the haughty ports of your native shore 
Whose fleets override the waters' rage, 
So shall the pride of yon cities soar. 
From the frigid Pole to the torrid Line, 
Their sway shall stretch their standards shine ! ' 

Gerald Henry Supple. 


I REMEMBER the lowering wintry morn, 

And the mist on the Cotswold hills, 
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's 

Not far from the seven rills. 
Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Glair, 

Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr, 
And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, 

And black Tom Oliver. 
And one who rode on a dark brown steed, 

Clean-jointed, sinewy, spare, 
With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, 
And the resolute eye that loves the lead, 

And the quarters massive and square 
A tower of strength, with a promise of speed 

(There was Celtic blood in the pair). 

I remember how merry a start we got, 
When the red fox broke from the gorse, 

In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, 
That the hound could outpace the horse ; 


I remember how few in the front rank show'd, 

How endless appeared the tail, 
On the brown hillside, where we cross'd the road 

And headed towards the vale. 
The dark brown steed on the left was there, 

On the right was a dappled grey, 
And between the pair on a chestnut mare 

The duffer who writes this lay. 
What business had 'this child ' there to ride ? 

But little or none at all ; 
Yet I hold my own for awhile in the pride 

That goeth before a fall. 
Though rashness can hope but for one result, 

We are heedless when fate draws nigh us, 
And the maxim holds good, l Quern perdere vult 

Deus demented prius* 

The right-hand man to the left-hand said, 

As down in the vale we went, 
4 Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, 

And set your face as flint ; 
Solid and tall is the rasping wall 

That stretches before us yonder ; 
You must have it at speed or not at all, 

'Twere better to halt than to ponder ; 
For the stream runs wide on the take off side, 

And washes the clay bank under ; 
Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride, 

And a broken neck if you blunder ! ' 

No word in reply his comrade spoke, 

Nor waver'd, nor once look'd round, 
But I saw him shorten his horse's stroke 

As we splash'd through the marshy^round ; 
I remember the laugh that all the while 

On his quiet features played : 
So he rode to his death, with that careless smile, 

In the van of the Light Brigade ; 
So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer 

Rang out while he toppled back, 
From the shattered lungs as merry and clear 

As it did when it roused the pack. 


Let never a tear his memory stain, 

Give his ashes never a sigh, 
One of the many who fell not in vain 


I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, 

And two to the flanks of the brown, 
And still as a statue of old he sat, 

And he shot to the front, hands down ; 
I remember the snort and the stag-like bound 

Of the steed six lengths to the fore, 
And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, 
He turned in his sadle and glanced around ; 

I remember but little more, 
Save a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream, 

A jarring thud on the wall, 
A shock, and the blank of a nightmare's dream, 

I was down with a stunning fall ! 

Adam Lindsay Gordon. 



(January I, 1901) 

AH, now we know the long delay 
But served to assure a prouder day, 
For while we waited, came the call 

To prove and make our title good 
To face the fiery ordeal 

That tries the claim to Nationhood 
And now, in pride of challenge, we unroll, 
For all the world to read, the record-scroll 
Whose bloody script attests a Nation's soul. 

O ye, our Dead, who at the call 
Fared forth to fall as heroes fall, 
Whose consecrated souls we failed 

To note beneath the common guise 
Till all-revealing Death unveiled 
The splendour of your sacrifice, 


Now, crowned with more than perishable bays, 
Immortal in your country's love and praise, 
Ye too have portion in this day of days ! 

And ye who sowed where now we reap, 
Whose waiting eyes, now sealed in sleep, 
Beheld far off with prescient sight 

This triumph of rejoicing lands 
Yours too the day ! for though its light 
Can pierce not to your folded hands, 
These shining hours of advent but fulfil 
The cherished purpose of your constant will 
Whose onward impulse liveth in us still. 

Still lead thou vanward of our line 
Who, shaggy, massive, leonine, 

Couldst yet most finely phrase the event 

For if a Pisgah view was all 
Vouchsafed to thine uncrowned intent, 

The echoes of thy herald-call 
Not faintlier strive with our saluting guns, 
And at thy words through all Australia's sons 
The ' crimson thread of kinship ' redder runs. 

But not the memory of the dead, 
How loved soe'er each sacred head, 
To-day can change from glad to grave 

The chords that quire a Nation born 
Twin-offspring of the birth that gave, 

When yester-midnight chimed to morn, 
Another age to the Redeemer's reign, 
Another cycle to the widening gain 
Of Good o'er 111 and Remedy o'er Pain. 

Our sundering lines with love o'ergrown, 
Our bounds the girdling seas alone 
Be this the burden of the psalm 

That every resonant hour repeats, 
Till day-fall dusk the fern and palm 
That forest our transfigured streets, 


And night still vibrant with the note of praise 
Thrill brotherhearts to song in woodland ways, 
When gum-leaves whisper o'er the camp-fire's 

The Charter's read ; the rites are o'er ; 
The trumpet's blare and cannon's roar 
Are silent, and the flags are furled ; 
But not so ends the task to build 
Into the fabric of the world 

The substance of our hope fulfilled 
To work as those who greatly have divined 
The lordship of a continent assigned 
As God's own gift for service of mankind. 

O People of the onward will, 
Unit of Union greater still 

Than that to-day hath made you great, 
Your true Fulfilment waiteth there, 
Embraced within the larger fate 

Of Empire ye are born to share 
No vassal progeny of subject brood, 
No satellite shed from Britain's plenitude, 
But orbed with her in one wide sphere of 
good ! 

James Brunton Stephens. 



NOT 'mid the thunder of the battle guns, 
Not on the red field of an Empire's wrath, 

Rose to a nation Australasia's sons, 

Who trod to greatness Industry's pure path. 

Behold a people through whose annals runs 
No damning stain of falsehood, force or wrong,- 
A record clear as light, and sweet as song, 

Without one page the patriot's finger shuns ! 


Where 'mid the legends of old Rome, or Greece, 
Glows such a tale ? Thou canst not answer, Time ! 
With shield unsullied by a single crime, 

With wealth of gold and still more golden fleece, 
Forth stands Australia, in her birth sublime, 

The only nation from the womb of Peace ! 

Percy Russell. 



THERE are boys to-day in the city slum and the home 

of wealth and pride 
Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and 

fight for it side by side, 
Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured hells that 

batter a coasted town, 
Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls 

come crashing down ; 
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her 

home to-day, 
Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist 

of our dawn away 
Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud 

of the distant gun, 
And know the sorrow that has no tears when a 

battle is lost or won, 
As a mother or wife, in the years to come, will 

kneel, mild-eyed and white, 
And pray to God in her darkened home for the 

* men in the fort to-night.' 

But, O ! if the cavalry charge again as they did 

when the world was wide, 
'Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in 

that glorious race to ride, 
And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that 

is grand and brave, 
And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul 

to save. 


He must lift the saddle, and close his * wings,' and 

shut his angels out, 
And steel his heart for the end of things, who'd ride 

with the stockman scout, 
When the race is rode on the battle track, and the 

waning distance hums, 
And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like 

stockwhips amongst the gums 
And the * straight ' is reached, and the field is 

* gapped,' and the hoof -torn sward grows red 
With the blood of those who are handicapped with 

iron and steel and lead ; 
And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with 

the spirit and with the shades 
Of the world-wide rebel dead who'll rise and rush 

with the Bush Brigades. 

All creeds and trades will have soldiers there give 

every class its due 
And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride 

of the jackeroo. 
They'll fight for honour, and fight for love, and a few 

will fight for gold, 
For the devil below, and for God above, as our 

fathers fought of old ; 
And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some 

stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, 
For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old 

eternal pride. 
The soul of the world they will feel and see in the 

chase and the grim retreat 
They'll know the glory of victory and the grandeur 

of defeat. 

They'll tell the tales of the nights before ' and the 

tales of the ship and fort, 
Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers 

took to sport, 
Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright 

at the tales of chivalry, 
And every boy will want to fight, no matter what 

cause it be 


When the children run to the doors and cry, ' 0, 

mother, the troops are come ! ' 
And every heart in the town leaps high at the first 

loud thud of the drum. 
They'll know, apart from its mystic charm, what 

music is at last, 

When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regi- 
ment marches past ; 
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend's clutch, no 

matter how low or mean, 
Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch of the 

man he might have been. 
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the 

city skies aflame, 
Will have something better to talk about than a 

sister's or brother's shame, 
Will have something nobler to do by far than to jest 

at a friend's expense, 

Or to blacken a name in a public bar or over a back- 
yard fence. 
And this you learn from the libelled past (though its 

methods were somewhat rude), 
A nation's born when the shells fall fast, or its lease of 

life renewed ; 
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife for the crimes 

of the peace we boast 
And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes 


Henry Lawson. 



COME, my hearties work will stand- 
Here's your Mother calling ! 

Wants us all to lend a hand, 
And go out Uncle-Pauling. 

ADAMS 303 

Catch your nags, and saddle slick, 

Quick to join the banners ! 
Folks that treat the fam'ly thick 

Must be taught their manners. 

Who would potter round a farm 

Fearful of clubbed gunstroke, 
And, keeping cosy out of harm, 

Die of loafer's sunstroke ? 
Gusts of distant battle-noise 

Tell that men are falling ; 
Get your guns, my bonny boys, 

Here's your Mother calling ! 

Buckle on your cartridge belts, 

Waste no time about it ! 
Force is massing on the veldts, 

We must off and rout it. 
What if fate should work its worst ! 

Men can grin in falling ; 
Come on, chaps, and be the first, 

Here's your Mother calling ! 

Arthur Maquarie. 


THEY lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places, 
In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces, 

Where seldom human tread 
And never human trace is 

The dwellings of our dead ! 

No insolence of stone is o'er them builded ; 
By mockery of monuments unshielded, 

Far on the unfenced plain 
Forgotten graves have yielded 

Earth to free earth again. 

304 ADAMS 

Above their crypts no air with incense reeling, 
No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing ; 

But ever over them 
The evening breezes kneeling 

Whisper a requiem. 

For some the margeless plain where no one passes, 
Save when at morning far in misty masses 

The drifting flock appears. 
Lo, here the greener grasses 

Glint like a stain of tears ! 

For some the common trench where, not all fame- 

They fighting fell who thought to tame the 

And won their barren crown ; 
Where one grave holds them nameless 
Brave white and braver brown. 

But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning, 
A dream of mother-country in them burning, 

They whisper their despair, 
And one vague, voiceless yearning 

Burdens the pausing air. . . . 

* Unchanging here the drab year onward presses, 
No Spring conies trysting here with new-loosed tresses, 

And never may the years 
Win Autumn's sweet caresses 

Her leaves that fall like tears. 

And we would lie 'neath old-remembered beeches, 
Where we could hear the voice of him who preaches 

And the deep organ's call, 
While close about us reaches 

The cool, grey, lichened wall' 


But they are ours, and jealously we hold them ; 
Within our children's ranks we have enrolled them, 

And till all Time shall cease 
Our brooding bush shall fold them 

In her broad -bosomed peace. 

They came as lovers come, all else forsaking, 
The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking ; 

They lie in splendour lone 
The nation of their making 

Their everlasting throne ! 

Arthur Adams. 



THE camp-fire gleams resistance 

To every twinkling star ; 
The horse-bells in the distance 

Are jangling faint and far ; 
Through gum -boughs lorn and lonely 

The passing breezes sigh ; 
In all the world are only 

My star-crowned Love and I. 

The still night wraps Macquarie ; 

The white moon, drifting slow, 
Takes back her silver glory 

From watching waves below ; 
To dalliance I give over, 

Though half the world may chide, 
And clasp my one true Lover 

Here on Macquarie side. 

The loves of earth grow olden 
Or kneel at some new shrine ; 

Her locks are always golden 
This brave Bush-Love of mine ; 


And for her star-lit beauty, 

And for her dawns dew-pearled, 

Her name in love and duty 
I guard against the world. 

They curse her desert places ! 

How can they understand, 
Who know not what her face is 

And never held her hand ? 
Who may have heard the meeting 

Of boughs the wind has stirred, 
Yet missed the whispered greeting 

Our listening hearts have heard. 

For some have travelled over 

The long miles at her side, 
Yet claimed her not as Lover 

Nor thought of her as Bride : 
And some have followed after 

Through sun and mist for years, 
Nor held the sunshine laughter, 

Nor guessed the raindrops tears. 

If we some white arms' folding, 

Some warm, red mouth should miss 
Her hand is ours for holding, 

Her lips are ours to kiss ; 
And closer than a lover 

She shares our lightest breath, 
And droops her great wings over 

To shield us to the death. 

The winds of Dawn are roving, 

The river- oaks astir . . . 
What heart were lorn of loving 

That had no Love but her ? 
Till last red stars are lighted 

And last winds wander West, 
Her troth and mine are plighted 

The Lover I love best ! 

William Ogilvie, 

EVANS 307 



IN the greyness of the dawning we have seen the 

pilot- star, 

In the whisper of the morning we have heard the 
years afar. 

Shall we sleep and let them be 
When they call to you and me ? 
Can we break the land asunder God has girdled with 
the sea ? 

For the Flag is floating o'er us, 
And the track is clear before us ; 
From the desert to the ocean let us lift the mighty 

For the days that are to be. 

We have flung the challenge forward : * Brothers 

stand or fall as one ! ' 

She is coming out to meet us in the splendour of the 
sun ; 

From the graves beneath the sky 
Where her nameless heroes lie, 

From the forelands of the Future they are waiting 
our reply ! 

We can face the roughest weather 
If we only hold together, 

Marching forward to the Future, marching shoulder- 
firm together ; 

For the Nation yet to be. 

All the greyness of the dawning, all the mists are 

overpast ; 

In the glory of the morning we shall see her face 
at last. 

He who sang, * She yet will be,' 
He shall hail her, crowned and free ! 

308 O'HAEA 

Gould we break the land asunder God had girdled 
with the sea ? 

For the Flag is floating o'er us, 
And the star of Hope before us, 
From the desert to the ocean, brothers, lift the 
mighty chorus 

For Australian Unity ! 

George Essex Evans. 



HE left his island home 
For leagues of sleepless foam, 
For stress of alien seas, 
Where wild winds ever blow ; 
For England's sake he sought 
Fresh fields of fame, and fought 
A stormy world for these, 
A hundred years ago. 

And where the Austral shore 

Heard southward far the roar 
Of rising tides that came 
From lands of ice and snow, 

Beneath a gracious sky 

To fadeless memory 

He left a deathless name 
A hundred years ago. 

Yea, left a name sublime 
From that wild dawn of Time, 
Whose light he haply saw 
In supreme sunrise flow, 
And from the shadows vast, 
That filled the dim dead past, 
A brighter glory draw, 
A hundred years ago. 

O'HARA 309 

Perchance, he saw in dreams 
Beside our sunlit streams 

In some majestic hour 

Old England's banners blow ; 
Mayhap, the radiant morn 
Of this great nation born, 

August with perfect power, 

A hundred years ago. 

We know not, yet for thee 
Far may the season be, 

Whose harp in shameful sleep 

Is soundless lying low ! 
Far be the noteless hour 
That holds of fame no flower 

For those who dared our deep 

A hundred years ago ! 

John Bernard O'Hara. 



Lo, 'tis the light of the morn 
Over the mountains breaking, 

And our Empire's day is born, 
The life of a Nation waking 

To the triumph of regal splendour, 
To the voice of conquering fate 
That cries ' No longer wait ! ' 

To the rising hopes that send her 
Fearless upon her way 

With no thoughts of her yesterday, 
But dreams of a mighty State 

Great 'mid the old grave nations, 

Divine in her aspirations ; 

Blest be the men who brought her, 

Freedom's starriest daughter, 
Out of the night 
Into the light, 

3 io O'HARA 

A power and a glory for evermore ! 
Let the old world live in the pages 
Time wrote in the dark of the ages, 
For us 'tis the light of the morning breaking on 
sea and shore ! 

They found her a maiden with dower 

Only of seasons sunny, 
Blue skies and the frail white flower 

Of Peace with its song's sweet honey, 
And the joy of her wild seas flinging 

Their voices on fairy strands 
Where only the winds' soft singing 
Broke on the sleep of day, 
Or a whistling spear by the dim green way 

Of the water and the lands. 
Green were the woodlands round her, 
Blue were the seas that bound her, 
Soft was the sky above her, 
A dreamily lonely lover ; 
Streams and dells 
And the mountain wells, 
And the voice of the forest were hers alone, 
And the life of the grim grave ranges, 
The night and the noon and the changes 
Of light on the topmost peaks when the rose of the 
dawn was blown. 

Lift up thine honoured head ! 

The skies are all aflame ; 
The east to morn is wed ; 
Lift up thine honoured head, 

And fearless keep thy fame ! 
There is work for thee to do, 

A nation's work is thine ; 

O land, beloved, mine ! 
Gird thee for life anew ! 
With strength, that fails not, keep 

Thy pathway bright with Good ; 

O'HARA 311 

Let Honour, Justice, sweep 
Aside the weeds that creep 
Grim Error, Unbelief, 

And their Titanic brood, 
Be thine the task to rear 
The spacious halls of Art, 

To hearken to sweet Song, 
Be thine the pride to fear 
No foe while in thy heart 

The love of Truth is strong, 
To help the weak, and be 
Beloved and great and free, 

Even as thy Mighty Mother the Grey Queen of the 

John Bernard O'Hara. 



GOD of Nations ! at Thy feet 
In the bonds of love we meet, 
Hear our voices, we entreat, 

God defend our free land ! 
Guard Pacific's triple star 
From the shafts of strife and war. 
Make her praises heard afar, 

God defend New Zealand ! 

Men of every creed and race 
Gather here before Thy face, 
Asking Thee to bless this place, 

God defend our free land ! 
From dissension, envy, hate, 
And corruption guard our State, 
Make our country good and great, 

God defend New Zealand ! 

Peace, not war, shall be our boast, 
But, should foes assail our coast, 
Make us then a mighty host, 

God defend our free land ! 
Lord of Battles, in Thy might, 
Put our enemies to flight, 
Let our cause be just and right, 

God defend New Zealand ! 

Let our love for Thee increase, 
May Thy blessings never cease, 
Give us plenty, give us peace, 

God defend our free land ! 
From dishonour and from shame 
Guard our country's spotless name, 
Crown her with immortal fame, 

God defend New Zealand ! 


May our mountains ever be 
Freedom's ramparts on the sea, 
Make us faithful unto Thee, 

God defend our free land ! 
Guide her in the nations' van, 
Preaching love and truth to man, 
Working out Thy glorious plan, 

God defend New Zealand ! 

Thomas Bracken. 



A PERFECT peaceful stillness reigns, 

Not e'en a passing playful breeze 

The sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs : 

The vale and slopes of rising hills 

Are thickly clothed with yellow grass, 

Whereon the sun, late risen, throws 

His rays, to linger listlessly. 

Naught the expanse of yellow breaks, 

Save where a darker spot denotes 

Some straggling bush of thorny scrub ; 

While from a gully down the glen, 

The foliage of the dull-leaved trees 

Rises to view ; and the calm air 

From stillness for a moment waked 

By parakeets' harsh chattering, 

Swift followed by a tui's trill 

Of bell-like notes, is hushed again. 

The tiny orbs of glistening dew 

Still sparkle, gem-like, 'mid the grass ; 

While morning mist, their Mother moist, 

Reluctant loiters on the hill, 

Whence presently she'll pass to merge 

In the soft depths of the blue heav'ns. 

This fertile Isle to us is given 

Fresh from its Maker's hand ; for here 

No records of the vanished past 

Tell of the time when might was right, 


And self-denial weakness was ; 
But all is peaceful, pure, and fair. 
Our heritage is hope. We'll rear 
A Nation worthy of the land ; 
And when in age we linger late, 
Upon the heights above life's vale, 
Before we, like the mist, shall merge 
In depths of God's eternity, 
We'll see, perchance, our influence 
Left dew-like, working for the good 
Of those whose day but dawns below. 

Alexander Bathgate. 



I SEND to you 
Songs of a Southern Isle, 
Isle like a flower 
In warm seas low lying : 

Songs to beguile 
Some wearisome hour, 
When Time's tired of flying. 

Songs which were sung 

To a rapt listener lying, 

In sweet lazy hours, 

Where wild-birds' nests swing, 

And winds come a-sighing 

In Nature's own bowers. 

Songs which trees sing, 

By summer winds swayed 

Into rhythmical sound ; 

Sweet soul-bells sung 

Through the Ngaio's green shade, 

Unto one on the ground. 


Songs from an Island 
Just waking from sleeping 
In history's morning ; 
Songs from a land 
Where night shadows creep 
When your day is dawning. 

O songs, go your way, 

Over seas, over lands, 

Though friendless sometimes, 

Fear not, comes a day 

When the world will clasp hands 

With my wandering rhymes. 

Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery. 



COOEE I I send my voice 

Far North to you, 
Rose of the water's choice, 

Dear England true ! 
Guardian angels three 

Faith, Hope, and Charity 
Welcome the strong sons free 

Born unto you. 

Cooee ! Through flamegirt foam 

Speeds now my soul 
Straight to thy hero home. 

Blue waters roll 
Round where Immortals trod 
Shakespeare half man, half God 
Laughed, with divining rod, 

Sounding the soul. 

Thou shining gem of sea ! 

Angels on wing, 
Resting where men are free, 

Teach them to sing 


Such songs blind Milton heard, 
Coleridge and Wordsworth stirred, 
Keats', and our own lost bird's 
Haunting, sweet ring. 

Cooee ! North, hear the song 

On the South's breath, 
Laurels to life belong ; 

Cypress to death ! 
Wreathe in song's garland fair, 
Culled with a Nation's care, 
My cypress leaf a prayer, 

Warm with South's breath ! 

Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery. 




Agincourt, or the English Bowman's Glory. To a pleasant new 
Tune. Quoted in Hey wood's King Edward IV., and, therefore, 
popular before 1600. This ballad has been severely edited, and I 
omit several stanzas. It is printed in full in Hazlitt's edition of 
Collier's ' Shakespeare's Library,' vol. i. (Reeves & Turner, 1825). 

Published in 1589. 

Both were published in Poemes Lyrick and Pastorall (1605?) and 
Poemes (1619). As to the first : 1. 6. Caux (' commonlie called 
Kidcaux,' says Holinshed) was the district north-east of the mouth 
of the Seine. 

1. 83. bilbos. Swords, from Bilbao. 
92. ding. To belabour with blows. 

The first is from John of Gaunt's dying speech (King Richard II. , 
Act ii. sc. i). King Richard II. was probably written early in 
1593. It was published anonymously in 1597. The second is from 
King John, Act v. sc. 7. 1594 is the date assigned to Shake- 
speare's King John, which was first printed in the First Folio (1623). 
These and the two succeeding numbers follow the text of ' The 
Globe Edition ' of Shakespeare's Works. I am indebted to the 
publishers of that edition, Messrs. Macmillan & Co., and to the 

324 NOTES 

Delegates of the Clarendon Press, Oxford, for kindly extending 
to readers of this volume the benefits of the scientific labours of 
Dr. W. G. Clark and Mr. W. A. Wright. 


From various parts of King Henry V. The play was written in 
1598, and performed for the first time early in 1599. The first 
complete version was published in the First Folio (1623). 
1. 23. riv<ige '. The shore. 

27. sternage. (To sternage of = astern of, so as to follow.) 

40. puissance. Strength. 

87. battle. An army, or division of an army. 

90. accomplishing. Equipping. 

144. Crispian. ' The daie following,' says Holinshed, ' was the 
five and twentieth of October in the year 1415, being then fridaie, 
and the feast of Crispine and Crispinian, a daie faire and fortunate 
to the English, but most sorrowfull and unluckie to the French.' 

174. Whiffler. Herald or usher. 

183. ostent. Clear, visible. 


King Henry VIII. , Act ii. sc. 3. 


Printed by Percy {Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 1765). 
' From an old black-letter copy.' 
Caillver (1. 2i)=Caliver, a kind of light musket. 

There are broadsides of this ballad in the Roxburghe and Bag- 
ford Collections. The version here given is taken from Mr. Hen- 
ley's volume, Lyra Heroica (David Nutt, 1891), by permission of 
editor and publisher. The full title of the Roxburghe broadside 
is as follows : ' The Honour of Bristol, shewing how the Angel 
Gabriel of Bristol fought with three ships, who boarded as many 
times, wherein we cleared our Decks, and killed five hundred of 
their Men, and wounded many more, and make them fly into Cales, 
where we lost but three men, to the Honour of the Angel Gabriel 
of Bristol. To the tune of Our Noble King in his Progress. 1 

Gale's (1. 13), pronounced as a dissyllable, is, of course, Cadiz. 

NOTES 325 

The first is entitled : To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652 : 
On the Proposals of certain Ministers at tJie Committee for Pro- 
pagation of the Gospel, and was written against the intolerant 
Fifteen Proposals of John Owen and the majority of the Com- 
mittee. This sonnet first appeared at the end of Philip's Life of 
Milton (1694). 

Hireling wolves (1. 14)= the paid clergy. 

The second is from the chorus of Samson Agonistes (11. 1268- 
1286). Samson Agonistes was first published in 1671, in the small 
octavo volume which contained Paradise Regained. 


The Horatian Ode was first printed in 1776, in Captain Edward 
Thompson's edition of Marvell's Works. 
1. 15. side. Party. 

32. Bergamot. A kind of pear. 

67, &c. The finding of the human head at Rome, regarded as 
a happy omen, is mentioned by Pliny (Nat. Hist., xxviii. 4). 
The second appeared in Poems (1681). 


Produced in 1643. The author was a famous ballad-monger of 
Charles I.'s time. The original refrain was ' When the King comes 
home in peace again ' (Roxburghe Collection of Ballads, iii. 256 ; 
Loyal Garland, 1671 and 1686 ; Ritson, Ancient Songs'], The 
song was written to support the declining cause of the Royal 
Martyr. It helped to keep up the spirits of the Cavaliers in the 
days before the Restoration (1660), which event it was used to 
celebrate. When the Revolution (1688) drove the Stuarts into 
exile, this song became a weapon in the hands of the Jacobites. 


This was a very popular loyal song in the reign of Charles II. 
Both words and music are given in Playford's Musical Companion 


The first is from Dryden's opera, King Arthur, or the British 
Worthy (1691). As to the first : ' A battle is supposed to be given 

326 NOTES 

behind the scenes, with drums, trumpets, and military shouts and 
excursions ; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the 
victory, sing this song of triumph.' Author's Note. 
The second is an extract from Annus Mirabilis (1667). 

This famous song, which Heine once declared expressed the 
whole character of the English people, made its first appearance in 
The Masque of Alfred (1740). 

This song is at least as old as the reign of Queen Anne. In the 
British Museum there are many half-sheet copies, with music. The 
earliest begins, ' Here's a health to the Queen,' &c. 

The first print of our National Anthem is to be found in Har- 
monica Anglicana, a collection of part songs (circa 1742). This 
copy consists of two stanzas only. The third made its appearance 
when Harmonica Anglicana was extended to two volumes, with the 
new title Thesaurus Musicus. The copy printed in the Gentleman's 
Magazine (October 1745) contains the three stanzas given here, and 
is called, ' A Song for Two Voices sung at both play-houses. ' 


Sung in Garrick's pantomime, The Harlequin's Invasion, pro- 
duced December 31, 1759. 


Odes (' Printed for A. Millar in the Strand,' 1746), and Dodsley's 
Museum (iv. , 1749). 

xxiv xxv 

The first was written ' after reading Hume's History in 1780 ' 
(Benham). The second was written in September 1782. The 
Royal George (108 guns) was being repaired at Spithead (August 
29, 1782), when she capsized and sank instantly. Rear- Admiral 
Richard Kempenfelt was then under orders to proceed to the relief 
of Gibraltar. 

NOTES 327 


The first is from The Oddities^ a Table Entertainment (1789- 
1790), and its original title was Poor Tom, or the Sailor s Epitaph. 
The second was first sung in The Wags, or the Camp of Pleasure 
(October 18, 1790). The third was first sung in A Tour to Land's 
End (1798), and its original title was Yo heave ho! The first 
collected edition of Charles Dibdin's songs was issued in five 
volumes from 1790 to 1799. 


The air of The British Grenadiers is at least as old as the reign 
of Elizabeth, and is one of the most characteristic of the English 
National airs. The words here given are from a copy (with music) 
about a hundred and fifty years old. 

Chappell dates this song 1758. The matter is not free from 
doubt, but the reference in the second stanza to ' Brighton Camp ' 
is a clue. There were encampments along the south coast (1758-9) 
when Hawke and Rodney were watching the French fleet in Brest 
Harbour. The song appears to be English, although it has appeared 
in several collections of Irish music. I have omitted several stanzas 
which appear in Chappell's version (Popular Music of the Olden 
Time, vol. ii. p. 710). 


From Lock and Key, ' a musical entertainment,' first performed 
at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (circa 1790). 


From two of the Prophetic Books entitled Jerusalem and Milton 
respectively, and both published in 1804. 


Poems (1807). Composed August 1802. ' On August 29th left 
Calais at 12 in the morning for Dover. . . , Bathed and sat on 

3 28 


the Dover Cliffs, looked upon France. We could see the shores 
about as plain as if it were an English lake. Mounted the coach 
at half-past four, arrived in London at six. 1 (Dorothy Wordsworth's 


Poems (1807). The first and second were composed in Sep- 
tember 1802, the third in 1803, and the fourth in 1806. The fifth 
is from the third stanza of the Thanksgiving Ode (1816). The sixth 
and seventh were 'composed or suggested during a Tour in the 
Summer of 1833,' and were published in Yarrow Revisited and 
Other Poems (1835). 


From the Introduction to the first canto of Marmion (1808). 


The Snug Little Island, or The March of Invasion was first 
sung by 'Jew' Davis in The British Raft at Sadler's Wells 
on Easter Monday, 1797. Tune' The Rogue's March.' The 
author's title for the next number (Last Lays, 1833) is A Soldier's 

Poetical Works, vol. iii. (Longmans, 1838). This is number 
xxxiii. of the 'Inscriptions.' 


The first two were published with Gertrude of Wyoming (1809). 
The first (written at Altona during the winter of 1800-1) is based 
on a seventeenth-century song which Campbell used to sing. As 
to the second (written in 1805), I omit stanzas 5, 6, and 8, an im- 
provement suggested by Mr. Henley. The third appeared in 
Theodoric and Other Poems (Longmans, 1824). 


Songs and Poems (edited by Peter Cunningham, 1847). 

NOTES 329 


The first is from Childe Harolds Pilgrimage (canto iii. stanza 2, 
and canto iv. stanzas 8, 9, 10). The third canto was published in 
1816, and the fourth in 1818. Byron left England never to return 
on April 24, 1816. 

1. 22. The poet's body was sent home to England, and was buried 
in the family vault at Hucknall Torkard, near Newstead Abbey, 

32. The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Spartan General, 
to the strangers who praised the memory of her son. 

The second is from the third canto of Don Juan (1821). 

The third is from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (canto iii. stanzas 
21-28). The Duchess of Richmond's famous ball took place on 
June 15, 1815, the eve of Quatre Bras, at the Duke's house in the 
Rue de la Blanchisserie, Brussels. 

20. Brunswick's fated chieftain. The Duke of Brunswick (1771- 
1815) was killed at Quatre Bras. His father, author of the famous 
manifesto against the French Republic (July 15, 1792), had fallen 
at Jena (1806). 

54. Evans Donald's. Sir Evan Cameron (1629-1719) and his 
grandson Donald Cameron of Lochiel (1695-1748). The former 
fought at Killiecrankie (1689), and the latter, celebrated by Camp- 
bell in Lochiel 's Warning, was wounded at Culloden (1746). 

55. Ardennes. The general term is applied to the forest of 
Soignies, which at this time occupied the whole country between 
Brussels and Waterloo. 


First published (without the author's permission) in the Newry 
Telegraph (April 19, 1817), and reprinted in many other journals. 
Highly praised by Byron (1822) ' Such an ode as only Campbell 
could have written ' this poem was attributed to Byron himself, 
and claimed by many impostors. The question of authorship was 
settled in 1841 by the discovery of an autograph copy in a letter 
from Wolfe to a college friend. 


Works, with a Memoir (7 vols., William Blackwood & Sons, 
1839). Most of Mrs. Hemans' poems were first published in 
periodicals, such as The Edinburgh Monthly Magazine and The 

330 NOTES 

New Monthly Magazine. The latter was, for a time, edited by 
Thomas Campbell, not very successfully. The ' Author's Note ' on 
the first number is as follows : ' It is supposed that war was 
anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different 
directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow ; and that 
peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and, 
therefore, straight.' 

The first (reprinted from Knight's Quarterly Magazine] was in- 
cluded in the 1848 edition of the Lays of Ancient Rome. It is 
dated 1832. 


Alma and other Poems (1855), an ^ Poems (New Edition, 2 
vols., Macmillan & Co., 1885). By permission of Mr. A. Chenevix 

Last Poems (Smith, Elder & Co., 1862). This volume was 
published after the author's death. By permission of the publishers. 

The first two appeared in Poems (2 vols., Edward Moxon, 1842). 
The third is from The Princess : a Medley (Edward Moxon, 1847). 
The fourth is from the lines entitled, To the Queen, forming the 
Dedication of the Seventh Edition of Poems (London : 1851). The 
fifth and sixth first appeared in The Examiner, in 1852 ; the former 
on January 31, and the latter on February 7. The seventh is from 
the Ode on the Death of the Duke of \Vellington, published 
separately in November 1852 (Edward Moxon), and reprinted 
with Maud (1855). 


The first appeared in The Examiner, December 9, 1854, and 
was reprinted with Maud (1855). Written on December 2nd, in a 
few minutes, after reading the description in The Times, in which 
occurred the phrase ' someone had blundered. ' (Memoir, i. p. 
381.) The second is from Maud, 

NOTES 331 


The Return of the Guards and Other Poems (Macmillan & Cc. , 
1866). By permission of the publishers. The poem deals with 
an incident of the war with China (1860) : ' Some Seiks (Sikhs) 
and a private of the Buffs (or East Kent Regiment) having remained 
behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On 
the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and 
commanded to perform the Ko tou. The Seiks obeyed ; but Moyse, 
the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself 
before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the 
head, and his body thrown upon a dunghill.' Quoted by the author 
from The Times. 


Bells and Pomegranates (vii. 1845). The first was written in Italy. 
The second was written in pencil on the cover of an Italian book 
during Browning's first journey to Italy. He sailed in a merchant 
vessel from London to Trieste, and was the only passenger (1838). 
A letter from the poet to Miss Haworth gives an account of the 
voyage. (Life and Letters, edited by Mrs. Sutherland Orr, 2nd 
edition, p. 97.) 


Songs jor Music (Routledge, 1856), a reprint of a series of songs 
from The Illustrated London News (1852-1855). 


The first is from Songs in Absence (1852), and was probably com- 
posed during the author's voyage across the Atlantic. The second 
appears in Poems with Memoir by F. T. Palgra-ve (Macmillan & 
Co., 1862). By permission of Messrs. Macmillan & Co. 


Andromeda and Other Poems (1858). Written in 1854. 


Edinburgh Courant, 1852. 

1. 3. The Vengeur's crew. The Vengeur was sunk in Lord 
Howe's action against the French fleet on ' the glorious first of 

332 NOTES 

June' (1794), off the coast of Brittany. For the final account of 
her sinking see Carlyle (Miscellanies ' Sinking of the Vengeur'}. 


lonica (George Allen, 1891). By permission of Mrs. Cory. The 
poem was written in 1861, and was privately printed in 1877. The 
' School Fencibles ' are the members of the Volunteer Corps of 
Eton College, whose grey uniform, with light-blue facings, is the 
' meek attire of blue and grey ' referred to in 1. 10. 


Verses i, 2, 4, and 9 of Hymn No. 143 in Hymns Ancient and 
Modern. By permission of the Society for Promoting Christian 


Sonnets and Other Poems (A. & C. Black, 1900). By permission 
of author and publishers. 

Points of War (Bell & Daldy, 1855), and Wagers of Battle (Mac- 
millan & Co., 1900). By permission of the author and Messrs. 


Both from Visions of England (Macmillan & Co., 1881). By 
permission of the publishers. 

1. i. Isle of Roses. Within the temple of Athena at Lindus, in 
the island of Rhodes, Pindar's seventh Olympian Ode was engraved 
in golden letters. 

40. Changing at the font. Alfred was god-father to Guthrun, 
the Danish leader, when baptized after his defeat at Ethandun 


Balder (Smith & Elder, 1854). 

NOTES 333 

This poem first appeared in The Times (October 31, 1899), was 
reprinted separately byjMessrs. Skeffington & Sons, and is included 
in the author's last volume, The Finding of the Book and Other 
Poems (Hodder & Stoughton, 1900). By permission of the author, 
the editor of The Times, and the publishers above mentioned. 

Legends and Lyrics (1858). Written in 1855. 


HavelocKs March and Other Poems (Trubner & Co., 1859). By 
permission of the author. 


Collected Poems (Macmillan & Co., 1900). By permission of the 


Songs and Rhymes (Elliot Stock, 1896). By permission of the 


Poems Narrative and Lyrical (Pickering, 1853). By permission 
of the author. 

Poems (Elkin Mathews, 1893). By permission of the author. 


The Bab Ballads, with which are included Songs of a Savoyard 
(George Routledge & Sons, 1897). By permission of the author. 
This is one of the songs in the comic opera Utopia, Limited. 

xcn xcin 

Both from A Jubilee Greeting at Spithead (John Lane, 1897). 
By permission of the author. 

334 NOTES 


The first three numbers are from Poems and Ballads, 3rd series 
(Chatto & Windus, 1889). The first is part viii. section ii. of The 

As to the second, Drumossie Muir (1. 16), in Inverness-shire, 
was the scene of the battle of Culloden (1746). 
1. 17. ayont. Beyond. 
25. moo I. Mould. 
laps. Wraps. 
40. wotsna. Knows not. 

45. weird for dreeing. To ' dree a weird ' is to abide a fate. 
47. thole. To endure. 
65. Wansbeck. A Northumberland stream. 
69. thae. Those. 

The fourth number is from the dedicatory lines in Astrophel and 
Other Poems (Chatto & Windus, 1894). By permission of author 
and publishers. 


The Graphic (November n, 1899). By permission of the author 
and the editor of The Graphic. 

xcix c 

The first appeared in The St. James's Magazine (now defunct), 
October, 1877, and was included in the second edition of Proverbs 
in Porcelain (1878), and in At the Sign of the Lyre (Kegan Paul, 
1889). By permission of author and publisher. 

Gloriana (1. 25) = Queen Elizabeth. 

The second appeared in The Sphere (February 3, 1900). By 
permission of the author and the editor of The Sphere. 


Poetical Works (voL ii., Smith, Elder & Co., 1899). By per- 
mission of author and publishers. 

cn cm 

Songs of the Maid (A. Constable & Co., 1896). By permission 
of author and publishers. 

NOTES 335 


London Voluntaries and Other Poems (David Nutt, 1894), and 
Poems (David Nutt, 1898). By permission of author and 


A Song of the Sea and Other Poems (Methuen & Co., 1895). 
By permission of Miss Marie Corelli and the publishers. 

Literature (July i, 1899). By permission of the author and the 
editor of Literature. 


The Violet Crown and Songs of England (Edward Arnold, 
1891). By permission of author and publishers. This poem is 
dated ' Athens, 1890.' 


Collected Poems (John Lane, 1895). By permission of the 

Cix ex 

Songs of Action (Smith, Elder & Co., 1898). By permission of 
author and publishers. The Song of the Bow first appeared in The 
White Company (Smith, Elder & Co., 1891). 


The Daily Chronicle, October 28, 1899. By permission of the 
author and the editor of The Daily Chronicle. 

cxn cxiv 

Admirals All (Elkin Matthews, 1897). By permission of author 
and publisher. As to the first : 

1. i. Effingham. Charles, Lord Howard of Emngham (1536- 
1624), commanded the English fleet sent against the Spanish 
Armada (1588). 



Grenville. Sir Richard Grenville, naval commander (1541 ?-i59i). 
See Mr. Gerald Massey's poem, supra, p. 113. 

Raleigh. Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1616), soldier, sailor, courtier, 
adventurer, and writer. 

Drake. Sir Francis Drake (1540 7-1596). 

3. Benbow. Vice-admiral John Benbow (1653-1702). 

Collingivood. Vice-admiral Cuthbert, Lord Collingwood (1750- 
1810), second in command at Trafalgar. 

Byron. Vice-admiral John Byron (1723-1786), grandfather of 
the poet. 

Blake. Robert Blake (1599-1657), next to Nelson, the greatest 
English admiral. 

8. Nelson. Horatio, Viscount Nelson (1758-1805). 

13. Essex. Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex (1567-1601), 
commanded the land attack on Cadiz (1596) when the city was 
taken by the English. 

30. Duncan. Admiral Adam, Viscount Duncan (1731-1804), who 
defeated the Dutch in the fight off Camperdown (October n, 

31. Texel. One of the mouths of the Zuyder Zee. 

38. The Sound. The strait between Sweden and Denmark lead- 
ing into the Baltic Sea. The English fleet entered the Sound 
on April i, 1801, and next morning Nelson, acting under orders 
from Sir Hyde Parker, attacked the Danish batteries. 

52. Rodneys. Admiral George Brydges, first Baron Rodney 

The third is an extract from the poem entitled Laudabunt Alii. 


The Seven Seas. (Methuen & Co., 1896.) By permission of 
author and publishers. 

1. 9. Bergen. A town on the west coast of Norway. 
10. Disko. An island off the west coast of Greenland. 

floe. The surface ice of polar seas. 

12. Dogger. A sandbank in the middle of the North Sea. 
18. Musk-ox. A long-haired animal of the ox tribe, found in 
Arctic America. 

21. Virgins. A group of small islands in the West Indies. 
23. sea-egg. Sea-urchin. 

25. Keys. Islands near the coast (Spanish cayo, a sandbank). 
37. Kuriles. A group of islands in the North Pacific. 
39. Praya. Capital of the Cape Verde Islands. 
Kovjloon. A town in China, near Hong-Kong. 

NOTES 337 

43. Hoogli. The Ganges. 
50. Winds. Scents, smells. 


The Times (July 17, 1897). Suggested by the celebration of 
Queen Victoria's ' Diamond Jubilee ' (June 22). By permission of 
the author and the editor of The Times. 


The Spectator (December 16, 1899). By permission of the author 
and the editor of The Spectator. The poem is written to an old 
Gaelic air. 


A Gun-Room Ditty Box (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission 
of author and publishers. ' Snotties ' is the naval equivalent of 


Published (with The Progress of Poetry} in 1757. 
1. 5. hauberk. Coat of mail. 

8. Cambria. Wales ; a Latinised form of ' Cymru.' 
13-14. Gloster. Mortimer. English nobles and Lords of the 
Welsh Marches. 

28. Hoel. King of Brittany and nephew of King Arthur. 
Llewellyn. A famous Welsh prince of the eleventh century. 

29. Cadwallo. King of North Wales in the seventh century. 
31. Urien. A Welsh hero of the fifth century. 

33. Mordred. Nephew of Arthur. 

34. Plinlimmon. A mountain in Cardiganshire. 

35. Arvon. ' The shores of Carnarvonshire opposite the Isle of 
Anglesea. 'Gray. 

56. Edward II. was murdered in Berkeley Castle (September 

21, 1327). 

57. Isabella, wife of Edward II. 
67. Edward, the Black Prince. 
71, &c. The reign of Richard II. 




83-96. The Wars of the Roses. 

87. The Tower of London was said to have been begun by 
Julius Ccesar. 

89. Consort. Margaret of Anjou. 
father. Henry V. 

90. meek usurper. Henry VI. 

93. The silver boar was the badge of Richard III. 
115. Queen Elizabeth. 

121. Taliessin. A Welsh bard of the sixth century. 
126. Spenser's Faerie Queene. 
128. Shakespeare's plays. 
131. Milton. 
133. ' The succession of poets after Milton's time.' Gray. 

Poetical Works (1832). Bodryddan is near Rhuddlan, in Flint- 


Works, with a Memoir (Wm. Blackwood & Sons, 1839). As to 
the first, 

1. 2. Hirlas. From ' hir,' long, and ' glas,' blue or azure. 
14. Eryri is the Welsh name for the Snowdon Mountains. 

As to the second, 

Prince Madog, a natural son of Llywelyn, was the leader of the 
Welsh Rebellion (1294-1295), occasioned by the levying of taxes by 
Edward I. to pay for his projected expedition to Gascony. 


Poems (Roberts, 1869). Translated from the Welsh. 

1. i. Glyndwr. Owain ap Gruffydd, commonly called Owen 
Glendower (1359 7-1416?), joined the Percies and Mortimers in 
their rebellion against Henry IV. 


From the Ode written at the request of the Llywelyn Memorial 
Committee (Bangor : Jarvis & Foster, 1895). By permission of the 
author. Llywelyn ap Gruffydd (died 1282) was the last champion 
of Welsh liberty. 

NOTES 339 

1. 29. Lloegrian. Lloegria was one of the ancient names of 

40. Cwmhir. Cwmhir Abbey in Radnorshire. 

67. lorwerth's happier son. Llywelyn ap lorwerth (died 1240), 
commonly called Llywelyn the Great. 


This translation of the famous Welsh poem, Morfa Rhuddlan 
(i.e., 'Red Marsh') is in the metre of the original. Published 
(September, 1894) in Wales, a monthly magazine. By permission 
of the editor of Wales and the author's representatives. Three 
stanzas (2, 5, and 6) are omitted. Morfa Rhuddlan, on the banks 
of the Clwyd in Flintshire, was the scene of many battles between 
Britons and Saxons. In the battle described in the poem (A.D. 
795), the Britons under Caradoc were defeated and their leader 
slain. Those who escaped the sword were driven into the 
river. The original poem is said to have been composed by 
Caradoc's bard immediately after the battle. 

cxxvi cxxvn 

Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century, First Series (Bangor : 
Jarvis & Foster, 1896). By permission of author and publishers. 

As to the first, Idris ( = Cader Idris), Berwin, and Plynlimmon 
(1. 8, &c.) are mountains in Wales. 

As to the second, Cymru (1. i) = Wales. 


The Tea-Table Miscellany: a Collection of Choice Songs 
Edinburgh, 4 vols., 1724-7). 


This ' matchless wail ' (as Scott called it) was written in 1756. 
For some time it was thought to be a genuine relic of the past. 
Burns was one of the first to insist that it was a modern composi- 
tion. The ' Forest ' is, of course, Ettrick Forest, that romantic 
district comprising most of Selkirkshire and the neighbouring parts 

340 NOTES 

of Peebles and Edinburgh shires. A few straggling thorns and 
solitary birches are the sole remaining traces of this ' fein foreste,' 
once the favourite hunting-ground of the Scottish kings. 

bandsters. Binders of sheaves. 

bogle. ' Hide and seek.' 

buchts. Pen in which ewes are enclosed at milking-time. 

daffln'. Making merry. 

dool. Sorrow. 

dowie. Doleful. 

fleechiri . Coaxing. 

gabbiri '. Talking pertly. 

har'st. Harvest. 

ilk, ilka. Every. 

liltin. Singing. 

loanin'. Lane. 

laighlin. Milking pail. 

lyart. Hoary-headed. 

mair. More. 

runkled. Wrinkled. 

swankies. Lively young fellows. 

wae. Sad. 

wede. Weeded. 


Written on the Marquess of Huntley's departure for Holland, 
with the English forces, under the command of Sir Ralph Aber- 
cromby, in 1799. 

cxxxi cxxxiv 

The first is number 259 in vol. iii. of Johnson's Musical Museum 
(1790), signed ' Z.' ' The first half stanza of this song is old the 
rest is mine.' Author's note in interleaved copy. 

The second was written in 1793, and first published in the 
Morning Chronicle (May, 1794). The old air, Hey, tuttie, taitie, 
to which Burns 'fitted' this poem, is said to have been Bruce's 
marching tune at Bannockburn. 

The third appeared in the Edinburgh Courant (May 4, 1795), 
and in the Dumfries Journal (May 5, 1795), and is number 546 in 
vol. ii. of Johnson's Musical Museum (1803). 

The fourth was written in 1795 for the Irish air Humours of Glen, 
and published in the Edinburgh Magazine (May, 1797), and in 
vol. ii. of Thomson's Scottish Airs (1799). 

NOTES 341 


The first is the opening stanza of the sixth canto of The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel (1805). 

The second consists of part of stanza 33, and the whole of stanza 
34 of the sixth canto of Marmion (1808). 

1. 5. vaward. Vanguard. 

7. The horn of Roland, nephew of Charlemagne, the sound 
of which carried a fabulous distance. 

The third was written for Albyris Anthology (1816). ' Donuil 
Dhu' means ' Donald the Black.' 


The first is from The Monastery (1820). 

1. 8. the Queen. Mary, Queen of Scots. 
9. hirsels. Flocks. 

The second, written in 1825, first appeared in The Doom of 
Devergoil (1830), Act ii. scene 2. 

' The air of Bonnie Dundee running in my head to-day,' Scott 
writes (22nd December), ' I wrote a few verses to it before dinner, 
taking the keynote from the story of Clavers leaving the Scottish 
Convention of Estates in 1688-9. / wonder if thev are good!' 
(Journal, i. 60). 

barkened. Tanned. 

car line. Old woman. 

couthie. Kind. 

douce. Quiet. 

duniewassals. Yeomen. 

flyting. Scolding. 

gang. Go. 

ilk. Every. 

paw. Pate. 

target. A round shield. 

The full title of the third number is ' War Song of the Royal 
Edinburgh Light Dragoons.' It was written under the apprehen- 
sion of a French invasion. The corps of volunteers to which the 
song is addressed was raised in 1797, and consisted of Edinburgh 
gentlemen mounted and armed at their own expense. 


From Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 3 vols. (1802- 
1803). The first four lines of the fourth stanza appear on the title- 
page of Marmion. 

342 NOTES 


First published in Cromek's Remains of Nithisdale and Galloway 
Song (1810), when the author was a working mason. 


Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. iii. (1790). A similar song, The 
Clans are Coming, is included in Ritson's Scottish Songs (1794). 


Collected Works, edited by William Anderson (1851). I have 
found many versions of this old song, but none to equal Gilfillan's. 


Both from Songs of Travel (Chatto & Windus, 1896). By per- 
mission of Charles Baxter, Esq., executor of the author. 

The second was written at Vailima, Samoa, and is addressed 
1 To S. R. Crockett, Esq.' The author writes from Vailima to Mr. 
Crockett {May 17, 1893) : ' I shall never set my foot again upon 
the heather. Here I am until I die, and here will I be buried. 
The word is out, and the doom written.' Letters, vol. ii. p. 287 
(Methuen & Co., 1899). 

1. 3. Whaups. Curlews. 
ii. Peewees. Lapwings. 


Blackwood s Magazine (January 1900). By permission of the 
author and the editor of Blackwood 's Magazine. 



The first number is given in Hogg's Jacobite Relics, Second Series 
(Wm. Blackwood, 1821). 

As to the second, there are many versions of this old song. 
Hogg has two versions, both different to that given here. 

NOTES 343 

The third number is attributed to Hogg by Chambers and other 

The fourth is said to have been written by Lady Keith (nde Lady 
Maria Drummond), daughter of the Earl of Perth, and mother of 
James Francis Edward, commonly called Marshal Keith (1698- 
1758), who fought under Frederick the Great in the Seven Years' 

birken. Birch. 

laverock. Lark. 

Moidart. In Inverness. 

croo house. Hovel. 

tike. Family. 

lyart. Hoary. 

eild. Old age. 

clishmaclaver. Idle discourse. 


The first is number 127 of vol. ii. of Johnson's Musical Museum 
(1788). Unsigned. 

The second is number 302 of vol. iv. of Johnson's Musical 
Museum (1792). Unsigned. 

1. 2. felly. Relentless. 
5. maun. Must. 
9. mirk. Gloomy. 

The third is number 359 of vol. iv. of Johnson's Musical Museum 
(1792). Unsigned. This song has not been found in any earlier 

The fourth is number 497 of vol. v. of Johnson's Musical Museum 
(1796). Unsigned. Based on an old ballad, ' Unkind Parents ' 
(Roxburghe Ballads, vol. vii.). 

1. 15. gae. Gave. 
28. lee-lang. Live-long. 


Lays from Strathearn (1746). These new versions of old songs 
were first published anonymously. 

As to the second, gar mony ferlie (1. 2)= 'cause great excite- 


Given in Hogg (Second Series), and reprinted in Poetical Remains 
of William Glen, with Memoir (1874). Written to the old tune, 
1 Johnnie Faa.' 

344 NOTES 

1. 12. lilt o' dool. Song of grief. 
22. maist. Almost. 
38. fairly. Completely. 


Songs of the North, vol. i. (Cramer & Co., 1885). By permission 
of the author, who wrote the words to fit an old and stirring air 
with which he became acquainted when on a visit to the Hebrides. 

By permission of the author and the editor of The Celtic Monthly, 
in which publication (May, 1894) these verses first appeared. 



Lines 83-97 of The Deserted Village (1769). 


This, the best and most widely known of the Irish street ballads, 
dates from the year 1798. Caubeen (1. i5)=hat. 


All from the famous series of Irish Melodies, the publication of 
which began in 1807, and continued at irregular intervals till 1834. 

As to the second, 

1. 3. Mononia. Munster. 
4. Kincora. Brien's Palace. 

22. Ossory 's plain. The ancient kingdom of Ossory comprised 
parts of Queen's County and Kilkenny. 

As to the third, 

1. i. Tara's halls. The hill of Tara, in Meat, was the meet- 
ing-place for the election of the kings of Ireland ; but most writers 
on Irish antiquities are of opinion that there was no royal dwelling 
there. It would seem, therefore, that ' Tara's halls ' never existed 
but in the imagination of poets. 

As to the fifth, Robert Emmet (1778-1803), United Irishman, the 
leader of ' Emmet's Rising ' (1803), was arrested by Major Sirr 

NOTES 345 

(the capturer of Lord Edward Fitzgerald), tried September 19, and 
hanged next day (1803). He was engaged to be married to Sarah 
Curran, daughter of the great lawyer, and it was to this lady Moore 
addressed his famous poem. The lady subsequently (November 24, 
1805) married Major Sturgeon of the Royal Staff Corps. 

Minor Poems of Charlotte Elizabeth (1848). Published in the 
author's lifetime over the signature ' Charlotte Elizabeth.' 


Mangan's poems appeared in Dublin magazines and journals 
The Dublin University Magazine, The Nation, and The Dublin 
Penny Journal. There is no complete edition of his works. 

As to the second, ' Dark Rosaleen,' is, of course, a mystical 
name for Ireland. 


Songs, Poems, and Verses (John Murray, 1884). By permission 
of the Marquess of Dufferin and Ava. The second is dated 1845. 


Dublin University Magazine (1834). As to the first, Fiagh Mac- 
Hugh O' Byrne, one of the most powerful Irish chieftains in the 
sixteenth century, was killed in a skirmish with the forces of the 
Lord Deputy (1597). Gall (1. 17)=' foreigners.' 

The second is the first two stanzas of a very close translation, in 
the original metre, of an Irish song of unknown authorship, dating 
from the seventeenth century. The refrain has never been satis- 
factorily translated. 


The Poems of Thomas Davis, now first collected (Dublin : James 
Duffy, 1846). These poems made their first appearance in The 

The second is a ' Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill,' 
commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill (15907-1649), patriot and 
general, who led the Irish against the Scotch and Parliamentary 
forces in Ireland (1642-1649). 

346 NOTES 

The Author's Note is as follows : ' Time. November 10, 1649. 
Scene. Ormond's camp, county Waterford. Speakers. A 
veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen, just 
arrived with an account of his death.' 

1. 2. Poison. There is no truth in the assertion that O'Neill was 
poisoned. He died a natural death. 

7. Sacsanach. Saxon, English. 

8. Cloc Uachtar. Clough Oughter, in county Cavan, where 
the O'Reillys had a stronghold. 

19. Beinn Burb. Benburb, on the Blackwater, where O'Neill 
defeated the Scotch army under Monro (June 5, 1646). 


Innisfail and Other Poems (Macmillan & Co. , 1877), and Poetical 
Works, six vols. (Macmillan & Co., 1884). By permission of author 
and publishers. 

The Little Black Rose' (1. i) and ' The Silk of the Kine ' (1. 5) 
were mystical names applied to Ireland by the bards. Athenry 
(1. 12), in county Galway, was the scene of a battle in which the 
Irish under Felim O' Conor were defeated by the English forces 
under Sir William de Burgh (1316). 


The first appeared in The Nation, ist April 1843, and both are 
included in Sonnets and Other Poems (A. & C. Black, 1900). By 
permission of author and publishers. 


Bards oj the Gael and Gall (T. Fisher Unwin, 1897). By per- 
mission of author and publisher. Both are translations from Irish 
poems of the seventeenth century. 

As to the first, O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, and O'Donnell, Earl of 
Tyrconnell, hearing that the Government had determined to seize 
them on a charge of conspiracy, apparently groundless, suddenly 
left Ireland, sailing from Rathmullan, on Lough Foyle, to France 
(1607). Their estates were confiscated, and 'The Plantation of 
Ulster ' began. 

NOTES 347 


From Dublin Verses (Elkin Mathews, 1895) a collection of 
poems by members of Trinity College, Dublin. By permission 
of author and publisher. 


Macmillari s Magazine (September, 1900). By permission of the 
author and the editor of Macmillari s Magazine. 


The Rising of the Moon and Other Poems (1869). By permission 
of Messrs. Cameron & Ferguson, the present publishers. 
1. 2. ma bouchal. My boy. 
ii. banshee. The fairy spirit of doom (Irish, ban-sidhe}. 


Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland (Dublin : Gill & Son, 
1888). By permission of the author. Clonmacnois, founded by 
St. Kieran in the sixth century, was for many generations one of 
the greatest ecclesiastical establishments and centres of learning 
in Ireland. It was the chosen burial-place of many royal and noble 


The Wind in the Trees (Grant Richards, 1898). By permission 
of the author. 


Poems (Elkin Mathews, 1895). By permission of author and 

1. 2. Inisfail (i.e. 'The Isle of Destiny'), an ancient name of 

348 NOTES 



Poems (Toronto : Dudley & Burns, 1888). By permission of the 
author. The Nile Expeditionary Force for the relief of General 
Gordon was conveyed up the river in flat-bottomed boats navigated 
by Canadian Indians (uoyageurs]. 

Lays of Canada (Montreal : John Lovell & Son, 1890). By 
permission of the author. 


Laura Second and Other Poems (Toronto, 1887). By permission 
of the author's representatives. 


A Treasury of Canadian Verse (J. M. Dent & Co., 1900). By 
permission of the author's representatives. 


Toronto Daily Mail (July 23, 1885). By permission of the 
author. The call for volunteers was occasioned by the ' Half- 
Breed Rebellion ' in North- West Canada (1884-5). 


Published separately (McCorquodale & Co., 1900), and sold for 
the benefit of the Canadian Patriotic Fund. By permission of the 


In Divers Tones (Boston: Small, Maynard & Co., 1887). By 
permission of the author. 

cxcvn cxcvin 

Beyond the Hills of Dream (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
1899). By permission of author and publishers. The first had 
previously appeared in The Westminster Gazette (August, 1897), 
and the second in The Toronto Globe (Christmas Number, 1899). 

NOTES 349 


The first is from Poems Old and New (Toronto : William 
Briggs, 1900), and the second from The Soul's Quest and Other 
Poems (London : Kegan Paul & Co., 1888). By permission of 
the author. 


Canadian Monthly (August, 1897). By permission of the author. 


Watchers of Twilight (Montreal : T. H. Warren, 1894). By 
permission of the author. Line 2 is a quotation from William 
Watson's Last Words to the Colonies. 

In Various Moods (Toronto : William Briggs, 1894). By per- 
mission of the author. 



Miscellaneous Verses (Calcutta : Sanders, Cones & Co., 1848). 
Gunga (1. 49)= the Ganges. 


Cornhill Magazine (September, 1868), and Verses Written in 
India (Kegan Paul & Co., 1889). By permission of author and 

The massacre which suggested this poem took place near 
Mohundi, in Oudh (June, 1857). The lives of all the English 
prisoners would have been spared had they consented to profess 
Mahometanism by repeating the usual short formula. 

ccvi ccvm 

Indian Lyrics (Calcutta : Thacker, Spink & Co. , 1884). By per- 
mission of the author. 

350 NOTES 

The Author's Note on the second is as follows : ' Over the well 
rises a pedestal supporting a statue in white marble the Angel of 
Pity. Below is the inscription : Sacred to the perpetual memory of 
a great company of Christian people, chiefly women and children, 
who near this spot were cruelly massacred by the followers of the 
rebel Nana Dhoondoo Punth of Bithoor ; and cast, the dying with 
the dead, into the well below, on the i$th day of July 1857.' 

As to the third, 

1. 7. peepuls. The peepul (or pepul) tree. 

8. poinsianas. The poinciana regia, a flowering shrub intro- 
duced from Madagascar. 

ccix ccxi 

All three appeared first in The Times of India, and are included 
in Soldierin (Bombay: Indian Textile Journal Co., 1899). By 
permission of author and publishers. 

As to the second, 1. 28. sangared. Sangars are temporary stone 
shelters for riflemen. 

As to the third, During the operations in Tirah (1897) the pass 
of Saransar (or Saran Sur) was the retreat of the hillmen known as 
the Lakka Khels. On November 9, a reconnaissance in force was 
made up the pass. The firing from the heights was deadly and 
continuous, and, in the evening, when our troops were retreating 
down the pass, a small party of the 48th (Northamptonshire Regi- 
ment) under Second Lieutenant Macintyre and Colour-Sergeant 
Luck, were cut off and surrounded by the enemy. It was found 
impossible to save them, and the following morning their dead 
bodies were found together. 

1. 9. Talavera. The 48th are known as ' The Talavera Boys,' 
having distinguished themselves at the battle of Talavera, in the 
Peninsular War (July 27 and 28, 1809). 

Departmental Ditties (Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1886. 
London : George Newnes, Ltd. , 1899). By permission of the author 
and Messrs. George Newnes, Limited. ' The Galley-Slave ' is 
understood to be a mystical name for the Indian Civil Servant. 



Ephemerides (London : 1828). 

NOTES 351 


By permission of the author and the editor of Literature^ in which 
publication (December 9, 1899) the poem first appeared. 


Published in G. W. Steevens' posthumous volume, Things Seen : 
with Memoir by W. E. Henley (Blackwood, 1900). By permission 
of the author. The quatrain is inscribed ' G. W. S. , December 10, 
1869 January 15, 1900. ' The lines were written of G. W. Steevens, 
journalist and war correspondent, who died at Ladysmith during 
the siege. 


England Revisited (Cape Town: J. C. Juta & Co., 1900). By 
permission of the author. 

Cape Argus (May 6, 1901). By permission of the author and the 
editor of the Cape Argus. 


Natal: The Land and its Story (Pietermaritzburg: Davis & Sons, 
Fifth Edition, 1897). By permission of the author. 

l.i. Congella. Hostilities having begun in Natal (1842), Captain 
Smith led the English forces out of Durban for a night attack on 
Pretorius' position at Congella. It was a moonlight night, and 
the advance was observed. Our men were shot down as they 
marched along the shore without cover. The survivors retreated 
to Durban, and the Boers immediately invested the town. A 
despatch-rider having made his way through the Boer lines, rein- 
forcements were sent by sea, and the siege was raised (June 25, 
1842). Natal was annexed the following year, and the Boer was 
thus headed off from the sea. 



From Dampier's Dream: an Australian Foreshadowing (Mel- 
bourne : George Robertson & Co. , 1892). By permission of the 
author's representatives. 

352 NOTES 

William Dampier (1652-1715), pirate, circumnavigator, and 
captain in the navy, made several voyages to the South Seas. 


Poems (Melbourne : A. H. Massina & Co., 1884). By permission 
of the publishers. 


From Australia Federata (The Times, January i, 1901). This 
poem appeared the same day in the leading journals of all the 
States of the Commonwealth of Australia. By permission of Sir 
Horace Tozer, K.C.M.G., Agent-General for Queensland. 


First published in a Tasmanian newspaper. By permission of 
the author. 


In the Days "when the World was Wide (Sydney : Angus & 
Robertson. London : The Australian Book Co. , 1895). By per- 
mission of Messrs. Angus & Robertson. 

Jackeroo (1. 24). 

Literature (November n, 1899). By permission of the author 
and the editor of Literature. 


Maoriland and other Verses (Sydney : The Bulletin Newspaper 
Co., 1899). By permission of the publishers. 
1. 2. tussock. ' Tussock ' is a coarse grass. 

Fair Girls and Grey Horses (Sydney : The Bulletin Newspaper 
Co., 1899). By permission of the publishers. This poem first 
appeared in the Sydney Bulletin. 

1. 9. Macquarie. The river Macquarie rises in the Blue Mountains, 
eighty miles west of Sydney. After following a north-westerly 
course of 280 miles its waters are lost in the Macquarie marshes. 

NOTES 353 


First appeared in The Brisbane Courier (August 8, 1899). 


The first appeared in Songs of the South (Ward, Lock & Co., 
1891), and the second is an extract from The Commonwealth: an 
Ode (Melbourne Age, January 1901). By permission of the author. 

As to the first, Matthew Flinders (1774-1814), discoverer and 
captain in the navy, was one of the first surveyors of the east coast 
of Australia. He spent many years in exploring the country adja- 
cent to the coast. 



Musings in Maoriland (Sydney : Arthur T. Keirle & Co. , 1890). 
By permission of the publishers. 

First published in the Dunedin Saturday Advertiser (June 22, 
1878), and included in Far South Fancies (Griffith, Farran & Co., 
1889). By permission of the author. 

1. 15. Parakeet's. The parakeet resembles a parrot in appear- 
ance, and is one of the native birds of New Zealand. 

16. Tui's. The tui is a mocking-bird, and has two tufts of 
white feathers on its neck, the rest of its plumage being jet black. 
It is commonly called the ' Parson Bird, 1 from its supposed re- 
semblance to a clergyman in a white tie. 

ccxxxn ccxxxni 

The first is from Songs of the Singing Shepherd (Wanganui, New 
Zealand : A. D. Willis, 1885), and the second from The Pilgrim 
of Eternity (Wanganui: Wanganui Herald Co., 1892). By per- 
mission of the author. 

As to the second, Cooee (1. i). The signal-call of the aborigines 
of New Zealand ('cooee' or 'cooey') can be heard at a great 




Across the streaming flood, the deep ravine . .286 

After dead centuries 168 

Agincourt, Agincourt ...... 3 

Ah, now we know the long delay .... 297 

Amid the loud ebriety of War 96 

An effigy of brass . . . . . . 133 

A perfect peaceful stillness reigns . . . .316 

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer . 225 
Are you not weary in your distant places . .196 
Arvon's heights hide the bright sun from our gazing 171 

A terrible and splendid trust 239 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 

praise ........ 74 

Attend you, and give ear awhile . . . .21 

Away with bayonet and with lance .... 63 

A wee bird cam' to our ha' door .... 205 

A wonderful joy our eyes to bless . . . .122 

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain 

are flying 196 

Bonnie Charlie's noo awa' . . . . .198 
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead . .183 
Britain fought her sons of yore . . . .85 
By crag and lonely moor she stands . . . .254 

By the Boer lines at Congella 288 

By this, though deep the evening fell . . .183 

Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg . . .199 
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold ..... 44 

Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer . 35 

Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound . . 31 

Come, my hearties work will stand . . . 302 

Cooee ! I send my voice . . . . . .318 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear . . . 17 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud . 24 

Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say . . 55 
Dear Cymru, 'mid thy mountains soaring high . 173 


358 INDEX 


Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee 216 

Despond who will / heard a voice exclaim . . 51 
Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe 

O'Neill 227 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat . . . .181 
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile 

away 149 

Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake . . . 1 50 

Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh,, Drake . . . 147 
England, awake ! awake ! awake . . . .45 
England, England, England . . . . .252 
England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate 

girdle enrings thee round . . . . .125 
Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes . .215 

Fair stood the wind for France ..... 5 
Fareweel to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean . .177 
Far up among the forest-belted mountains . .285 
Fierce on this bastion beats the noon-day sun . .258 
First pledge our Queen this solemn night . . 84 
Forests that beard the avalanche . . . .121 
Frae the friends and land I love .... 202 
Free as the wind that leaps from out the North . 139 
From domes and palaces I bent my way . . .272 

Glyndwr, see thy comet naming . . . .167 

God be with the" Irish host 224 

God of Nations ! at Thy feet 315 

God of our fathers, known of old . . . .154 
God save our Lord, the King ..... 34 
Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 93 

Green Flodden ! on thy bloodstained head . .190 
Growing to full manhood now 258 

Half a league, half a league ..... 87 

Harp of the mountain-land ! sound forth again . 166 

Have done with care, my hearts ! aboard amain . 4 

Heard ye the thunder of battle .... 104 

He left his island home ...... 308 

Her court was pure ; her life serene ... 83 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling . . 39 

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more . 46 

Here's a health to the King and a lasting peace . 34 

Here's a health unto His Majesty . . . 31 

How great the loss is thy loss to me . . . 233 

INDEX 359 


' How many?' said our good captain . . .108 
How sleep the brave who sink to rest ... 36 

I know 'tis but a loom of land 117 

I may sit in my wee croo house .... 200 

I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill ... 43 

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary 222 

In all my wanderings round this world of care . 211 
In a quiet water'd land, a land of roses . . .236 
In the greyness of the dawning we have seen the 

pilot-star 307 

In the Highlands, in the country places . . 195 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him . . 80 

I remember the lowering wintry morn . . . 295 

I send to you 317 

It is not to be thought of that the flood ... 47 

It's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be . . 193 

It was a' for our rightfu' king ..... 203 

It wasna from a golden throne ..... 207 
I've heard the lark's cry thrill the sky o'er the 

meadows of Lusk ...... 234 

I've heard the liltin' at our ewe-milkin' . . .177 

Jack dances and sings, and is always content . . 40 
King Philip had vaunted his claims . . . .132 

Last night, among his fellow-roughs ... 90 

Lest it be said ........ 260 

Let rogues and cheats prognosticate ... 30 

Listen ! my brothers of Eton and Harrow . . 157 

Lo, how they come to me . . . . 155 

Lo, our land this night is lone . . . . -231 

Lo, 'tis the light of the morn 309 

Lying here awake, I hear the watchman's warning . 100 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale . . .186 

Men of England ! who inherit 62 

Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of 

the Isles and Sea 276 

Methinks already from this chymic flame . . 32 
My England, island England, such leagues and 

leagues away . . . . . . .141 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here . 180 
My name, d'ye see, 's Tom Tough, I've seed a little 

sarvice . . . . . . . 41 

360 INDEX 


New Year, be good to England. Bid her name . 129 
Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West 

died away 92 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . . 69 

Not 'mid the thunder of the battle guns . . . 299 

Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing . . 233 

Now all the youth of England are on fire . . 12 

O, Bay of Dublin ! how my heart you're troublin' . 222 
Oh ! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling 204 
O Child of Nations, giant-limbed .... 250 
O England, thou hast many a precious dower . . 99 

Of Nelson and the North 60 

Of old sat Freedom 011 the heights . . . .82 
Oft in the pleasant summer years .... 268 
O gallant was our galley from her carven steering- 
wheel 280 

O ! he was lang o' comin' 199 

O how comely it is, and how reviving ... 24 
O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie .... 202 

O land of Druid and of Bard 165 

O ! my dark Rosaleen . . . . . .219 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more . . 64 
e On with the charge ! ' he cries, and waves his 

sword ........ 244 

O, Paddy dear ! an' did ye hear the news that's 

goin' round . . . . . . .211 

O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter 243 
O, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, tell me why you 

hurry so ........ 235 

O, the red rose may be fair ..... 237 

O, to be in England 91 

O, 'twas merry down to Looe when the news was 

carried through . . . . . . .118 

O undistinguished Dead . . . . . 133 

Our second Richard Lion-Heart . . . .113 

O, where, Kincora ! is Brien the Great . . .218 

O, where's the slave so lowly 214 

O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie 

gone . . . . . . . . .178 

O ! why left I my hame 194 

O ye, who with your blood and sweat . . . 246 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 185 

INDEX 361 


Rain came down drenchingly ; but we unblench- 

ingly 13 * 

Remember the glories of Brien the brave . .213 
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King . . . .161 

Sang one of England in his island home . . . 262 
Say not the struggle naught availeth ... 94 
Scots,, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . . .180 
See, see where Royal Snowdon rears . . .172 

She is a rich and rare land 226 

She is far from the land where her young hero 

sleeps 215 

She stands alone : ally nor friend has she . .124 
She stands, a thousand- wintered tree . . .143 
Shy bird of the silver arrows of song . . . 247 
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules . 42 
Son of the Ocean Isle . . . . .72 

Sons in my gates of the West 136 

Speak gently, gently tread 273 

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing . . 207 
Steep is the soldier's path ; nor are the heights . 58 
Still stand thy ruins 'neath the Indian sky . . 275 
Sun-showered land ! largess of golden light . . 286 
Sye, do yer 'ear thet bugle callin' . . . .147 

The Campbells are comin', O-ho, O-ho . . .193 
The camp-fire gleams resistance .... 305 
The cool and pleasant days are past . . .274 

The feast is spread through England . . .112 

The fifteenth day of July 18 

The forward youth that would appear . . -25 
The harp that once through Tara's halls . . .213 
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon . ...... 182 

The Isle of Roses in her Lindian shrine . . . 103 
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece . . .65 
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last . . 229 
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone . . .212 
The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen . . . 205 
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home 

of wealth and pride ...... 300 

There's a land, a dear land, where the rights of the 

free 92 

There was a sound of revelry by night ... 67 
There was heard the sound of a coming foe 71 

362 INDEX 


The seaman slept all nature sleeps ; a sacred still- 293 

ness there 

The waves are dashing proudly down . . . 267 
The weary day rins down and dies . . . .126 
They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time . 50 
They lie uuwatched, in waste and vacant places . 303 
They say that ( war is hell/ the ' great accursed' . 109 
This England never did,, nor never shall . . .11 
This royal throne of kings,, this sceptr'd isle . . 1 1 
Thy voice is heard through rolling drums . . 83 
To-day the people gather from the streets . .120 
To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies . . .189 

Toll for the Brave 38 

To mute and to material things . . . .51 

To my true king I offered free from stain . . 77 
To Thee, our God, we fly . . . . . .99 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke 187 
Truth, winged and enkindled with rapture . .129 

Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine . . .231 
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent ... 48 

War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of 

toil 248 

We cheered you forth brilliant and kind and brave 286 
We come from tower and grange . . . .134 
We come in arms, we stand ten score ... 97 
Welcome, wild North-easter . .... 94 
'Well done!' The cry goes ringing round the 

world 287 

We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea . . .201 
What are the bugles saying ..... 278 
Whate'er of woe the Dark may hide in womb . .123 
What have I done for you . . . . 137 

What of the bow 143 

When Britain first at Heaven's command . . 33 
When I have borne in memory what has tamed . 47 
When the British warrior queen .... 36 
Where Foyle her swelling waters . . . .216 
Where the remote Bermudas ride .... 28 
Who 'as 'eard the Ram a callin' on the green fields 

o' the sea .... .... 141 

Who carries the gun 144 

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight . . . 229 
Who is he that cometh, like an honour' d guest . 85 

INDEX 363 


Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he . . . 48 

' Who'll serve the King?' cried the sergeant aloud 57 

Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own . . 78 

Who to the murmurs of an earthly string . . 50 
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? We 

have made them a curse . . . .89 
Why is it that ye grieve, O weak in faith . . 249 
Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day . 166 
Wide are the plains to the north and the westward . 262 
Winds of the World, give answer ! They are whim- 
pering to and fro 150 

Ye Mariners of England 59 

Yes, let us own it in confession free ... 78 
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease . . . .81 
You brave heroic minds 8 

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. 
Edinburgh &> London 





Messrs. CX Arthur Pearson's 
List of New and Important 
Publications issued for the 
Autumn of 19O1, announo 
ing the Best Books upon a 
variety of subjects -* -* <+> 

Cyprus to Zanzibar by the Egyptian 

Delta. The Adventures of a Journalist in the Isle of 
Love, the Home of Miracles, and the Land of Cloves* 
By EDWARD VIZETELLY. With many Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 
Price 155. 

Few have had better opportunities of studying the vicissitudes through which 
the little island of Cyprus has passed than Mr. VIZETELLY. From Cyprus he 
leads the reader through the stirring times of the occupation of Egypt, and thence 
to Zanzibar. He has clothed the dry bones of political history with the living 
flesh of graphic description and humorous incident. 

Ellen Terry and Her Sisters. An Authorised 


By T. EDGAR PEMBERTON, Author of " The Kendals," &c. With 
abundant Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price i6s. 

Mr. T. EDGAR PEMBERTON has been cordially assisted by Miss Terry and 
Sir Henry Irving in the preparation of this book. Miss Terry has gained so 
high a position in the public estimation, that such a book cannot fail to be of the 
greatest interest to all, whether playgoers or not. 


Modern Billiards 

By JOHN ROBERTS, Champion of the World, and Other Experts. 
With nearly 1000 Diagrams, including Illustrations of complete sets 
of some famous breaks. Demy 8vo. Price 6s. 

This should prove an invaluable book to lovers of the game. Strokes of all 
kinds are explained and illustrated, and diagrams illustrating each stroke of 
several long breaks by famous players are given. Such authority as that of 
Mr. John Roberts must necessarily give the book a value not attained by any 
other on the subject. 

London: C. A. *Pearson, Ltd., Henrietta 3*f. 9 W.C. 

SBooks of General Interest 

The Romance of ILeligion 

By OLIVE VIVIAN and HERBERT VIVIAN, Author of "Abyssinia," 
" Tunisia," " Servia." With 32 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price 6s. 
Mr. and Mrs. HERBERT VIVIAN have conjointly written a book describing 
many of the curious religious ceremonies which obtain in many parts of the 
world. The style is bright, the description vivid, and the information valuable. 
The book is exquisitely illustrated. 


The Log of 3Li\ Island Wanderer. Travels 

in the Southern Pacific* 

By EDWIN PALLANDER. Extra crown 8vo. Profusely Illustrated. 
Price 6s. 

These are the experiences of a wanderer in the South Sea Islands, and are 
both interesting and amusing. The book is profusely illustrated with excellent 


Patriotic Song 

By ARTHUR STANLEY. An Anthology of Patriotic Verse of Great 
Britain and her Colonies. Crown 8vo. 53. 

How Our Navy is R.un 

By ARCHIBALD KURD. With an Introduction by Rear- Admiral 
LORD CHARLES BERESFORD. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 
8vo. Cloth. Price 55. 

This is a book which will interest all Britons, knowing, as they do, that on the 
efficiency of the Navy depends the integrity of the Empire. The author knows 
his subject intimately in all its details, technical and otherwise, and has treated it 
in a popular and highly interesting manner. The book is well illustrated. 

French's Cavalry Campaign 

By J. G. MAYDON, Member of the Legislative Assembly of Natal. 
Large crown 8vo. Cloth. Price 35. 6d. 

The author claims that the campaign in South Africa was essentially one for 
cavalry, and that it was by means of cavalry that most of our great successes 
were effected. 


Lord Kitchener 

By HORACE G. GROSER, Author of "The Life of Lord Roberts," 
&c. With Portrait and other Illustrations. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 
Price 2s. 6d. 

An ably written biography of the Hero of Omdurman and the present Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the British forces in South Africa. Well illustrated. 

London: C.A.Tearson, Ltd., Henrietta *St.,W.C. 

6/~ Novels 

Willowderve Will 

By HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE. Author of " Ricroft of Withens," &c. 

A highwayman whose exploits appear to be the outcome of exuberant spirits 
and love of adventure rather than a desire to prey on his fellow-creatures, is 
different from the generally accepted idea of gentlemen of the road. His jovial 
and generous nature enlists one's sympathies at once ; his various escapes and 
the ludicrous situations in which he leaves his would-be captors combine to 
make an extremely interesting and amusing book. 


The Goddess of Gravy's Inn 

By G. B. BURGIN, Author of " Settled Out of Court," "The Way Out," &c. 

Mr. BURGIN has chosen as the shrine of his goddess the cold-looking buildings 

of Gray's Inn. But the author of " Tuxter's Little Maid" has modelled his 

heroine with so delicate a touch as to transform the old inn into a temple of love. 



By EWAN MARTIN, Author of " The Knight of King's Guard," &c. 

This is a very exciting story of adventure in Ireland during the relentless sup- 
pression of the Rebellion by Cromwell and his ironsides. The incidents are 
told with graphic force and power of description. 

A Stolen Opera 


This story is one of great power and dramatic force founded on an original 
plot. All the situations hinge on a stolen opera, and the interest is worked up 
to the climax, which comes at the very end of the story when the opera is 
played in public and the thief discovered. A strong love interest runs through 
the story, and this supplies the motive for the theft. 


The Peril of the Prince 

By HEADON HILL, Author of "The Sentence of the Court," "The 
Plunder Ship," &c. 

Mr. HEADON HILL'S stories are always of thrilling interest, and " The Peril of 
the Prince " is inferior to none of his previous works, if indeed it is not his best. 
Lord Myvors through a faux pas falls into the toils of a band of anarchists, and 
it is through him they make successive but futile attempts to assassinate the Prince 
of Wales. These attempts and the means by which they are frustrated are told 
in the author's best style, and captivate the attention till the end of the story. 



By CLIVE HOLLAND, Author of " My Japanese Wife," &c. 

This is a sequel to Mr. CLIVE HOLLAND'S very successful story "My 
Japanese Wife," and like its forerunner it is daintily written. The daintiness 
of the story is enhanced by that of the illustrations and binding, which combine 
to make a book eminently suited to adorn one's bookshelf or for presentation. 

London: C.A. Tearson, Ltd., Henrietta S*t., W.C. 

JSeu; 6~ Hovels 

Don or Devil? 

By WILLIAM WESTALL, Author of " With the Red Eagle," &c. 

The most critical reader could not describe Mr. WESTALL' s stories as slow. 
In the present case the story opens with a mutiny on board a ship bound for 
South America with restless spirits searching for further adventure in one or 
other of the republics. Incident follows incident in rapid succession. English 
pluck and Spanish duplicity being much in evidence. 


The Strange DisacppeaLrecnce of La-dy 

By LOUIS TRACY, Author of " The Final War," " The Invaders," &c. 
All Mr. TRACY'S stories are worth reading. His latest has for its plot the 
strange disappearance of a Baronet's wife. The complications are so cleverly 
worked out, and the interest so well sustained, that the reader has no suspicion 
as to the identity of the culprit until the very end of the story. 

Hooks for the 

MOOSWQL, Send Others of the Boundaries 

By W. A. FRASER. With 12 Illustrations. Extra crown 8vo. 
Price 6s. 

This is a story for old and young alike. Animals which talk have, of course, 
a natural attraction for children, and the moral that is pointed is the necessity 
for kindness to animals. The illustrations are exceptionally good. 


The Mighty Deep and What we Know 
of It 

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "The Sun, Moon, and Stars," 
" Roy," &c. With Illustrations. Extra crown 8vo. Cloth. Price 55. 
Miss GIBERNE has already proved her claim beyond question to be con- 
sidered as one of the foremost of Nature's careful and observant students. Her 
latest work deals with the deep and its inhabitants, and the laws by which they 
are governed. The book is well illustrated. 


Heroes of the Nineteenth Century 


Vol. III. Gladstone, Bismarck, Havelock, and Lincoln. 
With 1 6 Illustrations. Large crown 8vo. Cloth, bevelled edges. 
Price 53. 

London: C.A.1*earjon, Ltd., Henrietta S'f^W.C. 

IBooks for the 


Important ^/Announcement 

Messrs. Pearson have taken over the publication of all Mr. George 
Edward Farrovrfs charming children* s books, and are now issuing them 
at a uniform price of %s. each, handsomely bound in cloth gilt and gilt 
edges. It would be impossible to find a more delightful series of gift- 
books for children than this. It is sufficient praise to mention that the 
Press has declared Mr. Farrow to be the worthy successor to Lewis Carroll, 
the celebrated author of 11 Alice in Wonderland." Appended is a list: 

15he Wallypug of Why 

'She Missing Prince 

T5he Wallypug in London 

T5he Little Panjandrum's Dodo 

'She Mandarin's Kite 

Adventures in Wallypugland 

The two following will be issued in the early autumn : 

Backer Minor a.nd the Dragon 

15he New 

All the above are abundantly illustrated by either Harry Furniss and 
Dorothy Furniss or by Alan Wright. 

Write for an Illustrated Catalogue of Mr. Farrow's works 

Boys' Book of Bravery 

By ROBERT P. BERREY. With 8 Illustrations. Extra crown 8vo. 
Cloth. Price 53. 

An illustrated account of notable acts of bravery performed by British soldiers 
and sailors. Well illustrated. 

London: C. A.T ear son, Ltd., Henrietta *SY., W.C. 

5 2 A 

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With Words and Music by A. S. SCOTT-GATTY, and profusely 
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A collection of amusing songs for children by Mr. ALFRED SCOTT-GATTY, 
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with comic drawings in colours. 

From Franklin to Na^nsen. Tales of Arctic 


Retold by G. FIRTH SCOTT, Author of "The Last Lemurian," &c. 
With numerous Illustrations. New edition. Demy 8vo. Cloth. 
Price 33. 6d. 


Printed on Antique Cream-laid Paper. Large crown 8vo. With Eight 
Original Illustrations. Price 2s. each volume. A Handsome 
Edition of Standard Works by Popular Authors at a ridiculously 
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'She Pilgrim's Progress 

By JOHN BUNYAN. Illustrated by H. M. BROCK. 

15he Wide, Wide World 


Uncle Tom's Cacbirv 

By H. BEECHER STOWE. With 8 Illustrations by Louis BETTS. 

Ben H\ir 

By GENERAL LEW WALLACE. Illustrated by H. M. BROCK. 

[Jusi published. 
To be followed by many others. 

London: C.A. Tearson, Ltd., Henrietta .57., W.C. 

IBooks Useful &t Instructive 

The Home Arts Self-Teacher 


The publication of this important work of reference in parts is now 

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"The Home Arts Self-Teacher" you are enabled to teach yourself 









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Pearson's New Reciter atnd Reader 

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Football Who's Who. 1901-1902 

Second Year of Issue. Cloth. Price is. net. 

Heat.ds, a^nd How to R.eatd Them. A Popular 

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IPearson's Gossipy Guides 

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Price 6d. 

4. NORTH CORNWALL. Price is. 

6. SOUTH DEVON. Price is. 
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" A brightly- written and handy guide-book at a moderate price." Morning Post. 

"A thorough guide, interesting and illustrated. Complete yet compact; and 
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London: C. A. Tearson, Ltd., Henrietta S't^W.C. 




LB 21-50 w-1,'3 

YB I 1712