PATRIOTIC SONG
PATRIOTIC SONG
A BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE
Being an Anthology of the Patriotic Poetry of the
British Empire from the Defeat of the Spanish
Armada till the Death of Queen Victoria
SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY
ARTHUR STANLEY
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE
RIGHT REVEREND J. E. C. WELLDON
LORD BISHOP OP CALCUTTA
LATE HEAD-MASTER OP HARROW SCHOOL
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. '
Tennyson.
LONDON
C. ARTHUR PEARSON, Limited
1901
THIS BOOK
is
to tfje
OF
THAT GLORIOUS COMPANY OF MEN
WOMEN AND CHILDREN
WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES
FOR ENGLAND^ SAKE
253290
EDITOR'S PREFACE
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
ix
x EDITOE'S PREFACE
obligations to Professor Dowden, Mr. W. E.
Henley, and Mr. A. T. Quiller- Couch are very
great.
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.
INTRODUCTION
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
xi
xii INTRODUCTION
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.
J. E. C. CALCUTTA.
October 1901.
LIST OF CONTENTS
CONTENTS
I.— ENGLAND
PAGE
ANONYMOUS (c. 1580).
I. SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN . . 3
GEORGE PEELE (15587-1592?).
II. FAREWELL TO DEAKE AND NORRIS . . 4
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631).
III. BALLAD OF AGINCOURT .... 5
IV. THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE .... 8
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616).
V. A PICTURE OF ENGLAND . . . .II
VI. ENGLAND INVINCIBLE . . . .II
VII. ENGLAND AT WAR 12
VIII. WOLSEY TO CROMWELL . . . -17
BALLADS—
IX. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY (c. 1590) . l8
X. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL (c. 1626) . .21
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674).
XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL .... 24
XII. DELIVERANCE 24
ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678).
XIII. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN
FROM IRELAND 25
XIV, SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA . 2§
XV
xvi CONTENTS
PAGE
MARTIN PARKER (ob. 1656?).
XV. THE KING'S EXILE 3°
ANONYMOUS (c. 1667).
xvi. HEBE'S A HEALTH UNTO HIS MAJESTY 31
JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701).
XVII. A SONG OP KING ARTHUR . . • 31
XVJII. LONDON IN l666 32
JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748)..
XIX. RULE BRITANNIA . 33
JOHN DYER (c. 1708).
XX. DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN . . 34
ANONYMOUS (c. 1740).
XXI. GOD SAVE THE KING .... 34
DAVID GARRICK (1717-1779)-
XXII. HEARTS OF OAK . . • • • 35
WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759).
XXIII. THE SLEEP OP THE BRAVE ... 36
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800).
XXIV. BOADICEA 36
XXV. THE ROYAL GEORGIA .... 38
CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814).
XXVJ. TOM BOWLING 39
XXVII. THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR ... 40
XXVIII. TOM TOUGH 4 1
ANONYMOUS (c. 1750).
XXIX. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS ... 42
ANONYMOUS (c. 1758).
XXX. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME -43
PRINCE HOARE (i755-i834)-
XXXI. THE ARETHUSA 44
WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827).
XXXII. JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND , . . 45
CONTENTS xvii
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850).
XXXIII. ON LANDING IN ENGLAND ... 46
XXXIV. DESTINY 47
XXXV. THE MOTHERLAND 47
XXXVI. TO THE MEN OP KENT .... 48
XXXVII. THE HAPPY WARRIOR .... 48
XXXVIII. AFTER WATERLOO 50
XXXIX. MERRY ENGLAND 50
XL. HOPE 51
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832).
XLI. IN MEMORIAM 51
THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841).
XLII. THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND 55
XLIII. THE MERRY SOLDIER ... 57
ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843).
XLIV. THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS 58
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844).
XLV. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND ... 59
XLVI. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC . . 60
XLVII. MEN OF ENGLAND 62
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842).
XLVIII. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG . . 63
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824).
[XLIX. ON LEAVING ENGLAND .... 64
L. THE ISLES OF GREECE .... 65
LI. THE EVE OF WATERLOO ... 67
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823).'
LII. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE . 69
FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835).
LIII. THE BENDED BOW 71
LIV. ENGLAND'S DEAD 72
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859).
LV. THE ARMADA 74
LVI. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH .... 77
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH (1807-1886).
LVII. THE TASK 78
LVIII. THE UNFORGOTTEN .... 78
b
xviii CONTENTS
ELIZABETH BAKKETT BROWNING (1809-1861).
LIX. THE FORCED RECRUIT 80
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892).
LX. THE ANSWER 8 1
LXI. FREEDOM 82
LXII. BATTLE SONG 83
LXIII. VICTORIA'S REIGN 83
LXIV. HANDS ALL ROUND .... 84
LXV. BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN ! 85
LXVI. WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL'S. . . 85
LXVII. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 87
LXVIII. THE USE OF WAR 89
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1888).
LXIX. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS . . 90
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889).
LXX. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD . 91
LXXI. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA . 92
CHARLES MACKAY (1814-1889).
LXXII. A SONG OF ENGLAND .... 92
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861).
LXXIII. GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND . . 93
LXXIV. THE RALLY 94
CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875).
LXXV. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND . . 94
SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889).
LXXVI. THE BIRKENHEAD 96
WILLIAM CORY (1823-1892).
LXXVII. SCHOOL FENCIBLES .... 97
WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW (1823-1897).
LXXVIII. A NATIONAL HYMN .... 99
JOHN KELLS INGRAM (b. 1823).
LXXIX. A NATION'S WEALTH .... 99
SIR FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON (b. 1823).
LXXX. THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS IOO
CONTENTS xix
PAGE
FKANCIS TURNEE PALGRAVE (1824-1897).
LXXXI. ALFRED THE GREAT . . . . IO3
LXXXII. TRAFALGAR 104
SYDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874).
LXXXIII. A SEA ADVENTURE . . . . IO8
WILLIAM ALEXANDER, ARCHBISHOP OF AR-
MAGH (b. 1824).
LXXXIV. WAR 109
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER (1825-1864).
LXXXV. THE LESSON OF THE WAR . . .112
GERALD MASSEY (b. 1828).
LXXXVI. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT 113
THOMAS EDWARD BROWN (1830-1897).
LXXXVII. LAND, HO ! 117
BENN WILKES JONES TREVALDWYN (b. 1830).
LXXXVIII. THE GEORGE OF LOOE . . . . Il8
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (b. 1832).
LXXXIX. THE FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE
VICTORIA CROSS . . . . I2O
RICHARD GARNETT (b. 1835).
XC. ABROAD 121
WILLIAM SCHWENK GILBERT (b. 1836).
XCI. THE ENGLISH GIRL . . . .122
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON (6. 1836).
XCII. THE BREATH OF AVON . . . .123
XCIII. ENGLAND STANDS ALONE . . .124
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (6. 1837).
XCIV. ENGLAND 125
xcv. A JACOBITE'S EXILE . . . .126
xcvi. NEW YEAR'S DAY 129
XCVII. TO WILLIAM MORRIS . . . 129
THOMAS HARDY (6. 1840).
XCVIII. THE GOING OF THE BATTERY . -131
xx CONTENTS
AUSTIN DOBSON (b. 1840).
XCIX. BALLAD OP THE ARMADA . . .132
C. BANK AND FILE 133
ROBERT BRIDGES (b. 1844).
CI. THE FAIR BRASS 133
JOHN HUNTLEY SKRINE (b. 1848).
Oil. THE GENTLE 134
CIII. THE MOTHER AND THE SONS . .136
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (b. 1849).
CIV. ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND . . .137
ERIC MACKAY (1851-1898).
CV. A SONG OF THE SEA . . . .139
WILLIAM SHARP (b. 1856).
CVI. THE BALLAD OF THE RAM . . . 14!
SIR RENNELL RODD (b. 1858).
CVII. SPRING THOUGHTS .... 141
WILLIAM WATSON (b. 1858).
CVIII. ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES . . 143
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (b. 1859).
CIX. THE SONG OF THE BOW . . .143
CX. A BALLAD OF THE RANKS . . . 144
BARRY PAIN (b. 1860).
CXI. OUR DEAD 147
HENRY NEWBOLT (b. 1862).
CXII. ADMIRALS ALL 147
CXIII. DRAKE'S DRUM 149
CXIV. A TOAST 150
RUDYARD KIPLING (b. 1865).
CXV. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND . . -ISO
CXVI. RECESSIONAL 154
LAUCHLAN MACLEAN WATT (b. 1867).
CXVII. THE GREY MOTHER . . . -155
GEORGE FREDERIC STEWART BOWLES (6. 1877).
CXVIII. THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES . • 1S7
CONTENTS xxi
[I.— WALES
PAGE
THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771).
CXIX. THE BAED l6l
JAMES HENEY LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859).
CXX. BODKYDDAN 165
FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835).
CXXI. THE HABP OF WALES . . . . 1 66
cxxii. PEINCE MADOG'S FAEEWELL . .166
JOHN JONES (1810-1869).
CXXIII. THE MAECH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH 167
SIR LEWIS MORRIS (6. 1833).
CXXIV. LLEWELYN AP GEUFFYDD . . . 1 68
RICHARD BELLIS JONES (1837-1900).
CXXV. EHUDDLAN MAESH . . . . 171
EDMUND OSBORNE JONES (b. 1858).
CXXVT. LIBEETY 172
CXXVII. THE POETS OF WALES . . . .173
III.— SCOTLAND
ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758).
CXXVIII. FAEEWELL TO LOCHABEE . . .177
JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805).
CXXIX. THE FLO WEES OF THE FOEEST . .177
ANNE MACIVAR GRANT (1755-1838).
CXXX. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE . . .178
ROBERT BURNS (I759-I7Q6).
cxxxi. MY HEAET'S IN THE HIGHLANDS . 180
CXXXII. BEUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBUEN l8o
CXXXIII. THE DUMFEIES VOLUNTEEES . . l8l
CXXXIV. THEIE GEOVES O' SWEET MYETLE . 182
XX11
CONTENTS
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832).
CXXXV. THE OUTCAST 183
CXXXVI. FLODDEN FIELD 183
CXXXVII. GATHERING - SONG OF DONALD THE
BLACK 185
CXXXVIIT. OVER THE BORDER .... 1 86
CXXXIX. BONNIE DUNDEE 187
CXL. WAR SONG 189
JOHN LEYDEN (1775-1811).
CXLI. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN . . 190
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842).
CXLII. LOYALTY 193
ANONYMOUS (e. 1790).
CXLIII. THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN' . -193
ROBERT GILFILLAN (1798-1850).
CXLIV. MY AIN COUNTRIE .
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894).
CXLV. IN THE HIGHLANDS .
CXLVI. EXILED
NEIL MUNRO (b. 1864).
CXLVII. TO EXILES
. 194
: III
. 196
JACOBITE SONGS
ANONYMOUS.
CXLVIII. THE KING OVER THE WATER
CXLIX. WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE!
CL. CAM' YE BY ATHOL? .
CLI. LADY KEITH'S LAMENT
198
199
199
200
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)-
CLII. O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE . . 2OI
CLIII. A SONG OF EXILE .... 2O2
CLIV. KENMURE'S MARCH . . . . 202
CLV. A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL . . . 203
CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN (1766-1845).
CLVI. CHARLIE IS MY DARLING . . . 204
CLVII. WHA'LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE? . 205
CONTENTS xxiii
PAGE
WILLIAM GLEN (1789-1826).
CLVIII. WAB'S MB FOB PRINCE CHARLIE . 205
HAROLD BOULTON (6. 1859).
CLIX. SKYE BOAT-SONG 207
SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON.
CLX. A KISS OF THE KING'S HAND . . 2O7
IV.— IRELAND
OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1725-1774).
CLXI. HOME 211
ANONYMOUS (c. 1798).
CLXII. THE WEARIN' o' THE GREEN . .211
THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852).
CLXIII. THE MINSTREL BOY . . . .212
CLXIV. A SONG OF THE IRISH . . . .213
CLXV. DEPARTED GLORY . . . .213
CLXV1. THE CHOICE 214
CLXVII. A SONG OF TRUE LOVE . . .215
CLXVIII. TO ERIN 215
CLXIX. THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP . . 2l6
CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH TONNA (1790-1846).
CLXX. THE MAIDEN CITY . . . . 2l6
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803-1849).
CLXXI. KINCORA 2l8
CLXXII. DARK ROSALEEN . . . .219
HELEN, LADY DUFFERIN (1807-1867).
CLXXIII. THE BAY OF DUBLIN . . . 222
CLXXIV. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT . 222
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886).
CLXXV. O'BYRNE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF
WICKLOW 224
CLXXVI. THE HILLS OF IRELAND . . . 225
xxiv CONTENTS
PAGE
THOMAS DAVIS (1814-1845).
CLXXVII. MY LAND 226
CLXXVIII. THE DEAD CHIEF .... 227
AUBREY DE VERE (b. 1814).
CLXXIX. THE LITTLE BLACK EOSE . . 229
JOHN KELLS INGRAM (b. 1823).
CLXXX. THE MEMOEY OF THE DEAD . . 229
CLXXXI. NATIONAL PEESAGE . . . .231
GEORGE SIGERSON (6. 1839).
CLXXXII. THE FLIGHT OF THE EAELS . .231
CLXXXIII. LAMENT FOE EOGHAN EUA O'NEILL 232
GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG (6. 1845).
CLXXXIV. THE OLD COUNTEY .... 233
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES (b. 1846).
CLXXXV. THE SONGS OF EEIN . . . 234
JOHN KEEGAN CASEY (1846-1870).
CLXXXVI. THE EISING OF THE MOON . 235
THOMAS WILLIAM ROLLESTON (b. 1857).
CLXXXVII. THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS . . 236
KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (b. 1861).
CLXXXVIII. SHAMEOCK SONG .... 237
LIONEL JOHNSON (b. 1867).
CLXXXIX. WAYS OF WAE 239
V.— CANADA
WILLIAM WYE SMITH (&. 1827).
CXC. THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE . 243
DUNCAN ANDERSON (b. 1828).
CXCI. THE DEATH OF WOLFE . . . 244
SARAH ANNE CURZON (1833-1898).
CXCII. THE LOYALISTS 246
CONTENTS xxv
PACK
THEODORE HARDING RAND (1835-1900).
CXCIII. THE WHITETHROAT .... 247
ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE (6. 1837).
CXCIV. WELCOME HOME .... 248
OLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY (b. 1855).
CXCV. THEIR TESTAMENT . . . .249
CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS (b. 1860).
CXCVI. CANADA 250
WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL (b. 1861).
CXCVII. ENGLAND 252
CXCVIII. THE WORLD-MOTHER . . . 254
FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT (6. 1861).
CXCIX. QUEBEC 258
CO. IN MEMORIAM 258
FRANCIS SHERMAN (b. 1871).
CCI. A WORD FROM CANADA . . . 260
ARTHUR STRINGER (6. 1874).
CCII. CANADA TO ENGLAND . . . 262
STUART LIVINGSTON (b. 1876).
CCIII. THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS . . 262
VI.— INDIA
SHOSHEE CHUNDER DUTT (1824-1883).
cciv. THE HINDU'S ADDRESS TO THE
GANGES 267
SIR ALFRED LYALL (b. 1835).
CCV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS . . . 268
WILLIAM TREGO WEBB (b. 1847).
CCVI. THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD . . 272
CCVII. THE MEMORIAL WELL . . . 273
CCVIII. SPRING IN CALCUTTA .... 274
xxvi CONTENTS
JOHN RENTON DENNING (b. 1858).
CCIX. THE LUCKNOW GARRISON . . . 275
CCX. SOLDIERS OF IND .... 276
CCXI. SARANSAR 278
RUDYARD KIPLING (b. 1865).
CCXII. THE GALLEY-SLAVE . . . 280
VII.— SOUTH AFRICA
THOMAS PRINGLE (1789-1834).
CCXIII. THE DESOLATE VALLEY . . . 285
WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE (b. 1842).
CCX1V. ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA . . 286
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (b. 1849).
CCXV. FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA . 286
ARTHUR VINE HALL (b. 1862).
CCXVI. ON LEAVING TABLE BAY . . . 286
HILDA MARY AGNES COOK (b. 1865).
CCXVII. THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING . . 287
ROBERT RUSSELL (6. 1867).
CCXVIII. THE VANGUARD 288
VIII.— AUSTRALIA
GERALD HENRY SUPPLE (1822-1898).
ccxix. DAMPIER'S DREAM .... 293
ADAM LINDSAY GORDON (1833-1870).
CCXX. BY FLOOD AND FIELD . . . 295
JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS (6. 1835).
CCXXI. FULFILMENT 297
PERCY RUSSELL (b. 1847).
CCXXII. THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA . . 299
HENRY LAWSON (b. 1867).
CCXXIII. THE WAR OF THE FUTURE . . 300
CONTENTS xxvii
PACK
ARTHUR MAQUARIE (&. 1876).
CCXXIV. A FAMILY MATTER .... 302
ARTHUR ADAMS.
CCXXV. THE DWELLINGS OF CUE DEAD . 303
WILLIAM OGILVIE.
CCXXVI. THE BUSH, MY LOVER . . . 305
GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.
CCXXVII. A FEDERAL SONG . . . .307
JOHN BERNARD O'HARA.
CCXXVIII. FLINDERS 308
CCXXIX. THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH . 309
IX.— NEW ZEALAND
THOMAS BRACKEN (6. 1843).
CCXXX. NEW ZEALAND HYMN . . . -315
ALEXANDER BATHGATE (6. 1845).
CCXXXI. OUR HERITAGE 316
ELEANOR ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY.
CCXXXII. TO ONE IN ENGLAND . . . -317
CCXXXIII. A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND . . 318
NOTES 323
INDEX OF FIRST LINES . . 357
I
ENGLAND
I
ENGLAND
SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN
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 !
PEELE
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 !
Anonymous.
FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS
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,
DEAYTON
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.
in
BALLAD OF AG1NCOURT
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.
6 DEAYTON
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 ;
DEAYTON
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.
DEAYTON
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.
IV
THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE
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.
DEAYTON
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
Virginia
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.
io DRAYTON
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)
0 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.
SHAKESPEARE 1 1
A PICTURE OF ENGLAND
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-
land,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their
birth,
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
land.
William Shakespeare.
VI
ENGLAND INVINCIBLE
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.
12 SHAKESPEAEE
VII
ENGLAND AT WAR
THE PREPARATION
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 !
AT SEA
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
SHAKESPEARE 13
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 ?
KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS
(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,
14 SHAKESPEAEE
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 ! "
THE EVE OF BATTLE
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. 0 now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band
SHAKESPEAKE 15
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.
' 0 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, 0
Lord,
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.'
1 6 SHAKESPEARE
ST. CRISPIN'S DAY AT AGINCOURT
(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.'
THE WELCOME HOME
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
sea,
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.
SHAKESPEARE 17
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.
VIII
WOLSEY TO CROMWELL
* 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 :
B
1 8 ANONYMOUS
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, 0
Cromwell,
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. 0 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.
IX
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY
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 :
ANONYMOUS 19
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.
20 ANONYMOUS
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
ANONYMOUS 21
To fight with foreign enemies,
And set our country free,
And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Anonymous.
THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL
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 :
22 ANONYMOUS
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 ! '
ANONYMOUS 23
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.
24 MILTON
At Bristol we were landed,
And let us praise God still,
That thus hath blest our lusty hearts
And our Angel Gabriel.
Anonymous.
XI
TO THE LORD GENERAL
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.
XII
DELIVERANCE
0 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,
MARVELL 25
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.
XIII
HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S
RETURN FROM IRELAND
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.
26 MARVELL
'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 ;
MAEVELL 27
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.
28 MAKVELL
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.
XIV
SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In the Ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this song.
MAEVELL 29
* 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.
3o PARKER
XV
THE KING'S EXILE
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.
DEYDEN 31
XVI
HERE'S A HEALTH
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 /
Anonymous.
XVII
A SONG OF KING ARTHUR
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.
32 DRYDEN
XVIII
LONDON IN 1666
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.
THOMSON 33
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.
XIX
RULE BRITANNIA
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.
c
34 ANONYMOUS
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.
xx
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN
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.
XXI
GOD SAVE THE KING
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 !
GARRICK 35
0 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.
XXII
HEARTS OF OAK
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
men,
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
men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
36 COWPEE
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
men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
David Gar rid:.
XXIII
THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE
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.
XXIV
BOADICEA
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 :
COWPEE 37
' 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.
38 COWPEE
XXV
THE ROYAL GEORGE
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 :
DIBDIN 39
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
William Cowper.
XXVI
TOM BOWLING
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.
40 DIBDIN
XXVII
THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR
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
bombs,
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
press,
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.
DIBDIN 41
XXVIII
TOM TOUGH
MY name, d'ye see, 's Tom Tough, I've seed a little
sarvice,
Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow ;
I've sailed with valiant Howe, I've sailed with noble
Jarvis,
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
foe.
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
quickly,
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,
42 ANONYMOUS
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
commission,
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
ho!'
Charles Dibdin.
XXIX
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS
SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as
these,
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
fears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
Grenadiers !
ANONYMOUS 43
Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand
grenades,
We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies'
ears,
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
clothes,
May they and their commanders live happy all their
years,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
Grenadiers !
Anonymous.
XXX
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME
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.
44 HOAEE
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.
Anonymous.
XXXI
THE ARETHUSA
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
stuff,
But they knew not the handful of men, how
tough,
On board of the Arethusa.
BLAKE 45
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.
XXXII
JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND
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.
46 WORDSWORTH
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.
XXXIII
ON LANDING IN ENGLAND
HERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more.
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that
sound
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.
WOEDSWORTH 47
XXXIV
DESTINY
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.
XXXV
THE MOTHERLAND
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.
48 WOEDSWORTH
XXXVI
TO THE MEN OF KENT
(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.
XXXVII
THE HAPPY WARRIOR
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 ;
WORDSWOETH 49
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 ;
D
50 WORDSWORTH
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.
XXXVIII
AFTER WATERLOO
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.
XXXIX
MERRY ENGLAND
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
SCOTT 51
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.
XL
HOPE
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.
XLI
IN MEMORIAM
(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 ?
52 SCOTT
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,
0 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.
SCOTT 53
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 ;
54 SCOTT
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
DIBDIN 55
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.
XLII
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND
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.
56 DIBDIN
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
lick'd,
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
duck
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
tune,
In each saying, ' This shall be my land ' ;
DIBDIN 57
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.
XLIII
THE MERRY SOLDIER
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-
pletely.'
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
back,
Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a
crack.
In sword and sash cut a dash,
Spurr'd and booted, next recruited
58 SOUTHEY
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
bluff,
Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life
enough.
* 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
strife,
And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a
wife
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.
XLIV
THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS
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
CAMPBELL 59
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.
XLV
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
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
60 CAMPBELL
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.
XLVI
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC
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.
CAMPBELL 6 1
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.
62 CAMPBELL
XLVII
MEN OF ENGLAND
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.
CUNNINGHAM 63
XLVIII
THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG
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.
64 BYRON
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.
XLIX
ON LEAVING ENGLAND
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
prevail.
BYRON 65
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.
Byron.
L
THE ISLES OF GREECE
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.
E
66 BYEON
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 !
BYRON 67
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 !
Byron.
LI
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
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 !
68 BYRON
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 ! '
WOLFE 69
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
ears!
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
low.
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.
LII
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
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.
70 WOLFE
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
head,
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.
HEMANS 71
LIII
THE BENDED BOW
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,
72 HEMANS
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.
LIV
ENGLAND'S DEAD
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 ; —
HEMANS 73
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.
74 MACAULAY
LV
THE ARMADA
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
vain
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of
Spain.
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
coast,
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
Grace.
MACAULAY 75
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance
the bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon
swells.
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient
crown,
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
pride.
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
sea,
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.
76 MACAULAY
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
woke.
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.
MACAULAY 77
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
Carlisle.
Macaulay.
LVI
A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH
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 ;
78 TRENCH
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.
LVII
THE TASK
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.
LVIII
THE UNFORGOTTEN
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.
TRENCH 79
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.
So BROWNING
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).
LIX
THE FORCED RECRUIT
(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 —
TENNYSON 81
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.
LX
THE ANSWER
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.
82 TENNYSON
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.
Tennyson.
LXI
FREEDOM
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 :
TENNYSON 83
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 !
Tennyson.
LXII
BATTLE SONG
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.
Tennyson.
LXIII
VICTORIA'S REIGN
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.
Tennyson.
84 TENNYSON
LXIV
HANDS ALL ROUND
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.
Tennyson.
TENNYSON 85
LXV
BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN !
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 ! '
LXVI
WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL'S
WHO is he that cometh, like an honour 'd guest,
With banner and with music, with soldier and with
priest,
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 ;
86 TENNYSON
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 ;
TENNYSON 87
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 !
m.
LXVII
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
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.
88 TENNYSON
* 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
TENNYSON 89
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 !
Tennyson.
LXVIII
THE USE OF WAR
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
worse
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
head,
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,
90 DOYLE
When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a
burial fee,
And Timour- Mammon grins on a pile of children's
bones,
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.
LXIX
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS
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.
BROWNING 91
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.
LXX
HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
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 !
92 MACKAY
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.
LXXI
HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA
NOBLY, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West
died away ;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz
Bay;
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.
LXXII
A SONG OF ENGLAND
THERE'S a land, a dear land, where the rights of the
free,
Though firm as the earth are as wide as the sea ;
CLOUGH 93
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.
LXXIII
GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND
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.
94 KINGSLEY
LXXIV
THE RALLY
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.
LXXV
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND
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.
KINGSLEY 95
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.
LXXVI
THE BIRKENHEAD
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-
mand.
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
steeled
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
chin,
But steeped in honour and in discipline !
Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred
name,
Long since divorced from Hope suggests but
shame,
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.
LXXVII
SCHOOL FENCIBLES
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.
G
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
mien;
And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,
Breaks through the shield of love to pierce
our Queen.
William Cory.
INGRAM 99
LXXVIII
A NATIONAL HYMN
To Thee, our God, we fly
For mercy and for grace ;
0 hear our lowly cry,
And hide not Thou Thy face !
0 Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
And guard and bless our Fatherland !
Arise, 0 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
LXXIX
A NATION'S WEALTH
0 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-
ioo LUSHINGTON
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.
LXXX
THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS
(1854)
LYING here awake, I hear the watchman's
warning —
' Past four o'clock ' — on this February morning ;
Hark ! what is that ? — there swells a joyous
shiver
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
war.
Yes — there they go, through the February
morning,
To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn
warning ;
And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that
cheer
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.
LUSHINGTON 101
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
bore
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.
TO* LTJSHlNGTON
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
Cross,
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
trembling,
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.
PALGKAVE 103
LXXXI
ALFRED THE GREAT
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 0 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 !
104 PALGEAVE
— 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.
0 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 !
0 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.
LXXXII
TRAFALGAR
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 !
PALGRAVE 105
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
coast,
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,
io6 PALGRAVE
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,
ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY, —
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.
— 0 in that interval grim, ere the furies of slaughter
embrace,
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.
PALGEAVE 107
As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters
attack,
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
stroke.
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
pure,
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.
io8 DOBELL
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
pours
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
men.
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.
LXXXIII
A SEA ADVENTURE
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 !
ALEXANDEE 109
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
foe, —
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.
no ALEXANDEE
LXXXIV
WAR
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 —
ALEXANDER 1 1 1
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 higher1,
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
crown,
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.
ii2 PROCTER
LXXXV
THE LESSON OF THE WAR
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,
MASSEY 113
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.
LXXXVI
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT
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.
H
U4 MASSEY
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 ;
MASSEY 115
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 !
n6 MASSEY
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.
LXXXVII
LAND, HO!
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.
n8 TEEVALDWYN
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,
LXXXVIII
THE GEORGE OF LOOE
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.
TEEVALDWYN 119
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
done,
When we sighted of a frigate beating up against
the wind ;
And we put on all our sail till we came within her
hail,
And old Dann politely asked, ' Will you follow us
behind?'
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 ;
120 AENOLD
And we blest old Captain Dann, for we hadn't lost
a man,
And our wounded all were doing well a-down
below.
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
man,
And the good ship George that carried them to
victory ! '
Benn Wilkes Jones Trevdldwyn.
LXXXIX
THE FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE
VICTORIA CROSS
(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 !
GAENETT 121
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.
xc
ABROAD
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 !
122 GILBERT
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.
xci
THE ENGLISH GIRL
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.
WATTS-DUNTON 123
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
heather.
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.
xcn
THE BREATH OF AVON
TO ENGLISH-SPEAKING PILGRIMS ON SHAKESPEARE'S
BIRTHDAY
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.
124 WATTS-DUNTON
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.
XCIII
ENGLAND STANDS ALONE
(' ENGLAND STANDS ALONE — WITHOUT AN ALLY/
— 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
wore
Light's conquering glaive that strikes the conquered
free.
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 ! '
SWINBURNE 125
' 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.
XCIV
ENGLAND
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*
126 SWINBUKNE
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.
xcv
A JACOBITE'S EXILE
(1746)
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.
SWINBURNE 127
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.
0 weel were they that fell fighting
On dark Drumossie's day :
They keep their hame ayont the faem
And we die far away.
0 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.
128 SWINBURNE
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 0 gin I were there again,
Afar ayont the faem,
Cauld and dead in the sweet, saft bed
That haps my sires at name !
SWINBURNE 129
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.
XCVI
NEW YEAR'S DAY
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.
XCVII
TO WILLIAM MORRIS
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.
1 3o SWINBURNE
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
XCVIII
THE GOING OF THE BATTERY
RAIN came down drenchingly ; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through
mire,
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
them
Not to court peril that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded those eyes of
ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for
them
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
things —
Wait we — in trust — what Time's fullness shall
show.
Thomas Hardy.
132 DOBSON
XCIX
BALLAD OF THE ARMADA
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 ?
ENVOY
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.
BRIDGES 133
RANK AND FILE
0 UNDISTINGUISHED Dead !
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.
ci
THE FAIR BRASS
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 :
i34 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.
en
THE GENTLE
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
wave.
SKEINE 135
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
reign.
O for the blood that fell
So gladly given and well,
0 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.
136 SKRINE
cm
THE MOTHER AND THE SONS
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, 0 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.'
HENLEY 137
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.
civ
ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND
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,
England —
Round the world on your bugles blown !
138 HENLEY
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,
England —
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,
England —
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,
England —
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,
England —
Out of heaven on your bugles blown !
William Ernest Henley.
MACKAY 139
CV
A SONG OF THE SEA
FREE as the wind that leaps from out the North,
When storms are hurrying forth,
Up -springs the voice of England, trumpet -
clear,
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
bands
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
guile
Will much avail them in an English sea ;
We will not hurl them backward to the waves, —
We'll give them graves !
140 MACKAY
'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
CVI
THE BALLAD OF THE RAM
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'
free
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'
wet
That f oilers runnin' counter to a Ram.
For when the Terror lifts 'is 'ead an' goes for wot is
near,
I'm sorry for them ships wot sails so free :
It's best to up an' elsewhere, an' be werry far from
'ere,
When Rams 'ave took to bleatin' on the sea !
William Sharp.
cvn
SPRING THOUGHTS
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.
0 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
blows,
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
trees,
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
comes.
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
place,
The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother
face ! Sir Rennell Rodd.
CVIII
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES
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.
0 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.
cix
THE SONG OF THE BOW
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.
i44 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.
ex
A BALLAD OF THE RANKS
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.
i46 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.
NEWBOLT 147
CXI
OUR DEAD
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.
cxn
ADMIRALS ALL
A SONG OF SEA KINGS
EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,
Here's to the bold and free !
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
Hail to the Kings of the sea !
148 NEWBOLT
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
souls,'
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
shoaled,
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 ! '
NEWBOLT 149
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.
CXIII
DRAKE'S DRUM
DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile
away,
(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
seas,
(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.'
150 KIPLING
Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas
come,
(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.
CXIV
A TOAST
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.
cxv
THE FLAG OF ENGLAND
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
shirt?
KIPLING 151
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
floe;
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
lagoon.
Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
I waked the palms to laughter — I tossed the scud
in the breeze —
152 KIPLING
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-
tross,
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
before,
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 —
KIPLING 153
Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or
maid —
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
sky,
Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag
goes by.
154 KIPLING
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.
CXVI
RECESSIONAL
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.
CXVII
THE GREY MOTHER
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.
BOWLES 157
CXVIII
THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES*
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.
158 BOWLES
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.
II
WALES
CXIX
THE BARD
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, 0 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.
L
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
ring,
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
wait!
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
prey.
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, 0 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 0 ! 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,
hail!
' 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
wings.
' 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
cloud,
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
height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless
night.
Thomas Gray.
cxx
BODRYDDAN
0 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
CXXl
THE HARP OF WALES
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
thee.
Those were dark years ! — They saw the valiant fall,
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's
board,
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.
CXXII
PRINCE MADOG'S FAREWELL
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
seas!
'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.
CXXIII
THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH
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.
CXXIV
LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD
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.
MORRIS 169
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
hill.
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
head.
i;o MORRIS
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
life
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
cxxv
RHUDDLAN MARSH
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.
0 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-
brian,
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
dealing,
Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling !
Through the day Britons pray in their great an-
guish,—
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.
'. JONES
CXXVI
LIBERTY
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
CXXVII
THE POETS OF WALES
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.
Ill
SCOTLAND
CXXVIII
FAREWELL TO LOCHABER
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.
CXXIX
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST
A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN
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-
nin',
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-
most,
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.
cxxx
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
O WHERE, tell me where, is your Highland laddie
gone?
0 where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie
gone?
He's gone with streaming banners, where noble
deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely
home.
GEANT 179
O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie
stay?
0 where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie
stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid
Spey,
And many a blessing followed him, the day he went
away.
0 what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie
wear ?
O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie
wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of
war,
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
eye.
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie
bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie
bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious
wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-
like name resounds.
Anne Macivar Grant.
i8o BURNS
CXXXI
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS
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.
CXXXII
BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN
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.
CXXXIII
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS
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 !
0 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.
CXXXIV
THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE
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
palace,
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
cxxxv
THE OUTCAST
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.
CXXXVI
FLODDEN FIELD
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.
CXXXVII
GATHERING-SONG OF DONALD THE
BLACK
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.
CXXXVIII
OVER THE BORDER
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
CXXXIX
BONNIE DUNDEE
To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who
spoke,
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
be,
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
crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each
e'e,
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
Forth,
If there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the
North ;
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times
three
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
blown,
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
CXL
WAR-SONG
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.
190 LEYDEN
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.
CXLI
ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN
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
spears.
LEYDEN 191
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
Field.
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,
192 LEYDEN
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
ground.
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
host.
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.
ANONYMOUS 193
CXLII
LOYALTY
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
tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie ;
For it's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
0 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,
0 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,
0 it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie !
Allan Cunningham.
CXLIII
THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN'
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.
194 GILFILLAN
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 !
Anonymous.
CXLIV
MY AIN COUNTRIE
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.
STEVENSON 195
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.
CXLV
IN THE HIGHLANDS
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, 0 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
CXLVI
EXILED
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
races,
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
crying,
And hear no more at all !
Robert Louis Stevenson.
CXLVII
TO EXILES
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
muster
To shelter from the day's inclemency ;
And night will come, and then far through the
darkling
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
weep,
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
them, —
They're yours, and you are ours for evermore.
Neil Munro.
198 ANONYMOUS
JACOBITE SONGS
CXLVIII
THE KING OVER THE WATER
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 no1 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'
Than—
Will ye no come back again ?
Will ye no come back again ?
Better lo'ed ye canna be —
Will ye no come back again ?
Anonymous.
ANONYMOUS 199
CXLIX
WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE!
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 0 ! 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 !
Anonymous.
CL
CAM' YE BY ATHOL?
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 !
200 ANONYMOUS
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
Charlie!
Anonymous.
CLI
LADY KEITH'S LAMENT
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.
0 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.
Anonymous.
CLII
O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE
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, 0 ! 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
CLIII
A SONG OF EXILE
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.
CLIV
KENMURE'S MARCH
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.
CLV
A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL
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.
CLVI
CHARLIE IS MY DARLING
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
CLVII
WHA'LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE ?
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 aj 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.
CLVIII
WAE'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE
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
0 ! 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 0 ! 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 —
0 ! 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 —
0 ! wae's me for Prince Charlie !
But now the bird saw some red-coats,
An' he shook his wings wi' anger ;
4 0 ! 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.
ROBERTSON MATHESON 207
CLIX
SKYE BOAT-SONG
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.
CLX
A KISS OF THE KING'S HAND
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.
208 ROBERTSON MATHESON
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.
IV
IRELAND
CLXI
HOME
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.
CLXII
THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN
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
hand,
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
red,
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
caubeen,
But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin'
o' the green.
Anonymous.
CLXIII
THE MINSTREL BOY
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
CLXIV
A SONG OF THE IRISH
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
blood,
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.
CLXV
DEPARTED GLORY
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. —
2i4 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.
CLXVI
THE CHOICE
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.
CLXVII
A SONG OF TRUE LOVE
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.
CLXVIII
TO ERIN
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.
CLXIX
THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP
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.
CLXX
THE MAIDEN CITY
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.
218 MANGAN
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.
CLXXI
KINCORA
(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 ?
MANGAN 219
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
fled,
Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake,
0, my grief ! that I should live and Brien be
dead!
Dead, O, Kincora !
James Clarence Mangan.
CLXXII
DARK ROSALEEN
(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 !
220 MANGAN
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 ;
MANGAN 221
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,
0 ! 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 !
0 ! 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.
222 DUFFERIN
CLXXIII
THE BAY OF DUBLIN
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, —
0 ! 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.
CLXXIV
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
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.
DUFFEKIN 223
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, 0 ! 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.
224 FEEGUSON
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
morn,
When first you were my bride.
Lady Dufferin.
CLXXV
O'BYRNE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF
WICKLOW
(From the Irish)
GOD be with the Irish host !
Never be their battle lost !
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earned defeat.
FERGUSON 225
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.
CLXXVI
THE HILLS OF IRELAND
(From the Irish}
A. PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacdn duWi 0 !
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the
yellow barley ear,
Uileacdn dubh 0 1
P
226 DAVIS
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales
expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters
fann'd,
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 0 !
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
Uileacdn dubh 0 I
And I will make my journey, if life and health but
stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant
strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and
high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
CLXXVII
MY LAND
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 ;
0 ! 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.
CLXXVIII
THE DEAD CHIEF
* DID they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe
O'Neill?'
' 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
Roe!
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
way,
And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard's
Day.'
' 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
more.
228 DAVIS
Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won them
all.
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
true;
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
died!
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
blow —
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out
the sky —
0 ! 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.
INGEAM 229
CLXXIX
THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
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.
CLXXX
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
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.
SIGEESON 231
CLXXXI
NATIONAL PRESAGE
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.
CLXXXII
THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS
(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.
232 SIGERSON
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.
CLXXXIII
LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O'NEILL
(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 !
SAVAGE- ARMSTRONG 2 3 3
I stood at Cavan o'er thy tomb,
Thou spok'st no word through all thy gloom ;
0 want ! 0 ruin ! O bitter doom !
0 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 !
0 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.
CLXXXIV
THE OLD COUNTRY
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.
234 GRAVES
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.
CLXXXV
THE SONGS OF ERIN
(' 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.
CLXXXVI
THE RISING OF THE MOON
(1798)
' 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
moon.'
'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.'
236 ROLLESTON
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.
CLXXXVII
THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
(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
Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.
HINKSON 237
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
crosses
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.
CLXXXVIII
SHAMROCK SONG
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.
238 HINKSON
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.
0 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.
JOHNSON 239
CLXXXIX
WAYS OF WAR
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.
V
CANADA
241
cxc
THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE
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
top!
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 !
243
244 ANDERSON
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
top!
William Wye Smith.
CXCI
THE DEATH OF WOLFE
' 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
flame.
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
fall.
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
wield.
ANDEESON 245
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
again.
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
crown.
Twice struck, — he recks not, but still heads the
charge,
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
fall.'
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
gleam,
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
leaves.
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
wave.
246 QUEZON
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
boy.
And while broad England gleams with glorious
light,
And merry peals from every belfry ring ; —
One little village lies all dark and still,
No fires are lighted there — no battle songs they
sing.
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
all!
Duncan Anderson.
CXCII
THE LOYALISTS
0 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.
CXCIII
THE WHITETHROAT
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 ! '
0 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.
248 CHRISTIE
CXCIV
WELCOME HOME
(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,
PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY 249
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.
cxcv
THEIR TESTAMENT
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 5o 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.
CXCVI
CANADA
O CHILD of Nations, giant-limbed,
Who stand'st among the nations now
Unheeded, unadorad, unhymned,
With unanointed brow, —
EGBERTS 251
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.
0 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 !
0 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 ?
252 CAMPBELL
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.
CXCVII
ENGLAND
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,
CAMPBELL 253
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.
254 CAMPBELL
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.
CXCVIII
THE WORLD-MOTHER
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.
CAMPBELL 256
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.
256 CAMPBELL
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.
CAMPBELL 257
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
CXCIX
QUEBEC
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
span!
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.
cc
IN MEMORIAM
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.
260 SHERMAN
cc,
.
A WORD FROM CANADA
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
SHEEMAN 261
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.
262 LIVINGSTON
ecu
CANADA TO ENGLAND
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.
CCIII
THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS
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.
LIVINGSTON 263
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-
room,
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
him,
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-
room,
Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die,
264 LIVINGSTON
Was there one flinched ? Not a boy, not a boy of
them ;
Straight on they marched to the dread battle's
brunt —
Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them,
Canada's call found them all at the front.
Stuari Livingston.
VI
INDIA
CCIV
THE HINDU'S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES
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.
267
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.
ccv
THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS
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 7o 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
unknown,
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.
CCVI
THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD
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
CCVII
THE MEMORIAL WELL
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
CCVIII
SPRING IN CALCUTTA
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,
DENNING 275
CCIX
THE LUCKNOW GARRISON
STILL stand thy ruins 'neath the Indian sky,
Memorials eloquent of blood and tears !
0 ! 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
tone!
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
276 DENNING
To earth's immortals ! Time may bow the frame
And plough deep wrinkles 'mid their honoured
scars,
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.
ccx
SOLDIERS OF IND
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 !
DENNING 277
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 !
278 DENNING
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.
CCXI
SARANSAR
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,
DENNING 279
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.
280 KIPLING
CCXII
THE GALLEY-SLAVE
0 GALLANT was our galley from har carven steering-
wheel
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
then —
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'
kiss.
Our women and our children toiled beside us in the
dark —
They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them
to the shark —
We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley
sped
We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn
our dead.
KIPLING 281
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
again.
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.
282 KIPLING
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
rocket-flare,
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
day,
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.
VII
SOUTH AFRICA
CCXIII
THE DESOLATE VALLEY
FAR up among the forest-belted mountains,
Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,
Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming
fountains
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
shieling,
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.
285
286 HALL
CCXIV
ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA
(1899)
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.
ccxv
FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA
WE cheered you forth — brilliant and kind and
brave,
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.
CCXVI
ON LEAVING TABLE BAY
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
gold,
In soft sea-music tell !
And thou, sweet bird, whose snowy wings have
caught
The universal glory, carry thou
To that dear shore farewell — our hearts' farewell !
Arthur Vine Hall.
CCXVII
THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING
*WELL done!' The cry goes ringing round the
world,
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.
EUSSELL
CCXVIII
THE VANGUARD
(1842)
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.
RUSSELL 289
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.
VIII
AUSTRALIA
291
CCXIX
DAMPIER'S DREAM
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 ;
293
294 SUPPLE
And roused from my rest by the wood-wraith's
sigh,
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,
GORDON 295
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.
ccxx
BY FLOOD AND FIELD
I REMEMBER the lowering wintry morn,
And the mist on the Cotswold hills,
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's
horn,
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 ;
296 GORDON
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.
STEPHENS 297
Let never a tear his memory stain,
Give his ashes never a sigh,
One of the many who fell — not in vain —
A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY !
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.
CCXXI
FULFILMENT
(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,
298 STEPHENS
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,
EUSSELL 299
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
blaze.
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.
CCXXII
THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA
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 !
300 LAWSON
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.
CCXXIII
THE WAR OF THE FUTURE
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.
LAWSON 301
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 —
302 MAQUAEIE
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
uppermost.
Henry Lawson.
CCXXIV
A FAMILY MATTER
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.
ccxxv
THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD
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-
less,
They fighting fell who thought to tame the
tameless,
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'
OGILVIE 305
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.
CCXXVI
THE BUSH, MY LOVER
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 ;
3o6 OGILVIE
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
CCXXVII
A FEDERAL SONG
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
chorus
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.
CCXXVIII
FLINDERS
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.
CCXXIX
THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH
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,
3io 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
Sea!
John Bernard O'Hara.
IX
NEW ZEALAND
ccxxx
NEW ZEALAND HYMN
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 !
315
316 BATHGATE
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.
CCXXXI
OUR HERITAGE
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,
MONTGOMERY 317
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.
CCXXXII
TO ONE IN ENGLAND
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.
3i8 MONTGOMERY
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.
CCXXXIII
A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND
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
MONTGOMEKY 319
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.
NOTES
NOTES
I.— ENGLAND
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
323
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.
VII
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.
VIII
King Henry VIII. , Act ii. sc. 3.
IX
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.
XIII— XIV
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).
xv
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.
XVI
This was a very popular loyal song in the reign of Charles II.
Both words and music are given in Playford's Musical Companion
(1667).
XVII— XVIII
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. '
XXII
Sung in Garrick's pantomime, The Harlequin's Invasion, pro-
duced December 31, 1759.
XXIII
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
XXVI— XXVIII
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.
XXIX
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).
XXXI
From Lock and Key, ' a musical entertainment,' first performed
at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (circa 1790).
XXXII
From two of the Prophetic Books entitled Jerusalem and Milton
respectively, and both published in 1804.
XXXIII
Poems (1807). Composed August 1802. ' On August 29th left
Calais at 12 in the morning for Dover. . . , Bathed and sat on
328
NOTES
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
Journal.)
XXXIV— XL
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).
XLI
From the Introduction to the first canto of Marmion (1808).
XLII — XLIII
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
Life.
Poetical Works, vol. iii. (Longmans, 1838). This is number
xxxiii. of the 'Inscriptions.'
XLV — XLVII
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).
XLVII I
Songs and Poems (edited by Peter Cunningham, 1847).
NOTES 329
XLIX — LI
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,
Nottinghamshire.
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.
LII
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.
LIII— LIV
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.
LVII — LVIII
Alma and other Poems (1855), an^ Poems (New Edition, 2
vols., Macmillan & Co., 1885). By permission of Mr. A. Chenevix
Trench.
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).
LXVII — LXVIII
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
LXIX
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.
LXX — LXXI
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.)
LXXII
Songs jor Music (Routledge, 1856), a reprint of a series of songs
from The Illustrated London News (1852-1855).
LXXIII— LXXIV
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.
LXXV
Andromeda and Other Poems (1858). Written in 1854.
LXXVI
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'}.
LXXVII
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.
LXXVIII
Verses i, 2, 4, and 9 of Hymn No. 143 in Hymns Ancient and
Modern. By permission of the Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge.
LXXIX
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.
Macmillan.
LXXXI — LXXXII
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
(872).
LXXXIII
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.
LXXXV
Legends and Lyrics (1858). Written in 1855.
LXXXVI
HavelocKs March and Other Poems (Trubner & Co., 1859). By
permission of the author.
LXXXVII
Collected Poems (Macmillan & Co., 1900). By permission of the
publishers.
LXXXVIII
Songs and Rhymes (Elliot Stock, 1896). By permission of the
author.
LXXXIX
Poems Narrative and Lyrical (Pickering, 1853). By permission
of the author.
xc
Poems (Elkin Mathews, 1893). By permission of the author.
xci
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
XCIV — XCVII
The first three numbers are from Poems and Ballads, 3rd series
(Chatto & Windus, 1889). The first is part viii. section ii. of The
Armada.
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.
XCVIII
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.
ci
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
CIV
London Voluntaries and Other Poems (David Nutt, 1894), and
Poems (David Nutt, 1898). By permission of author and
publisher.
cv
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.
evil
The Violet Crown and Songs of England (Edward Arnold,
1891). By permission of author and publishers. This poem is
dated ' Athens, 1890.'
CVIII
Collected Poems (John Lane, 1895). By permission of the
publisher.
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).
CXI
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).
336
NOTES
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,
1797).
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
(1719-1792).
The third is an extract from the poem entitled Laudabunt Alii.
cxv
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.
CXVI
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.
CXVII
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.
CXVIII
A Gun-Room Ditty Box (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission
of author and publishers. ' Snotties ' is the naval equivalent of
'midshipmen.'
II.— WALES
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.
Y
33*
NOTES
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-
shire.
CXXI— CXXII
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.
CXXIII
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.
cxxiv
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
Britain.
40. Cwmhir. Cwmhir Abbey in Radnorshire.
67. lorwerth's happier son. Llywelyn ap lorwerth (died 1240),
commonly called Llywelyn the Great.
cxxv
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.
III.— SCOTLAND
The Tea-Table Miscellany: a Collection of Choice Songs
Edinburgh, 4 vols., 1724-7).
cxxix
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.
cxxx
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
CXXXV — CXXXVII
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.'
CXXXVIII— CXL
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.
CXLI
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
CXLII
First published in Cromek's Remains of Nithisdale and Galloway
Song (1810), when the author was a working mason.
CXLIII
Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. iii. (1790). A similar song, The
Clans are Coming, is included in Ritson's Scottish Songs (1794).
CXLIV
Collected Works, edited by William Anderson (1851). I have
found many versions of this old song, but none to equal Gilfillan's.
CXLV — CXLVI
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.
CXLVII
Blackwood s Magazine (January 1900). By permission of the
author and the editor of Blackwood 's Magazine.
JACOBITE SONGS
CXLVIII— CLI
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
critics.
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'
War.
birken. Birch.
laverock. Lark.
Moidart. In Inverness.
croo house. Hovel.
tike. Family.
lyart. Hoary.
eild. Old age.
clishmaclaver. Idle discourse.
CLII— CLV
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
collection.
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.
CLVI— CLVII
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-
ment."
CLVIII
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.
CLIX
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.
IV.— IRELAND
CLXI
Lines 83-97 of The Deserted Village (1769).
CLXII
This, the best and most widely known of the Irish street ballads,
dates from the year 1798. Caubeen (1. i5)=hat.
CLXIII — CLXIX
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.'
CLXXI— CLXXII
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.
CLXXIII— CLXXIV
Songs, Poems, and Verses (John Murray, 1884). By permission
of the Marquess of Dufferin and Ava. The second is dated 1845.
CLXXV— CLXXVI
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.
CLXXVII— CLXXVIII
The Poems of Thomas Davis, now first collected (Dublin : James
Duffy, 1846). These poems made their first appearance in The
Nation.
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).
CLXXIX
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).
CLXXX— CLXXXI
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.
CLXXXII— CLXXXIII
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
CLXXXIV
From Dublin Verses (Elkin Mathews, 1895) — a collection of
poems by members of Trinity College, Dublin. By permission
of author and publisher.
CLXXXV
Macmillari s Magazine (September, 1900). By permission of the
author and the editor of Macmillari s Magazine.
CLXXXVI
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}.
CLXXXVII
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
families.
CLXXXVIII
The Wind in the Trees (Grant Richards, 1898). By permission
of the author.
CLXXXIX
Poems (Elkin Mathews, 1895). By permission of author and
publisher.
1. 2. Inisfail (i.e. 'The Isle of Destiny'), an ancient name of
Ireland.
348 NOTES
V.— CANADA
cxc
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.
CXCII
Laura Second and Other Poems (Toronto, 1887). By permission
of the author's representatives.
cxcm
A Treasury of Canadian Verse (J. M. Dent & Co., 1900). By
permission of the author's representatives.
cxciv
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).
cxcv
Published separately (McCorquodale & Co., 1900), and sold for
the benefit of the Canadian Patriotic Fund. By permission of the
author.
CXCVI
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
CXCIX— CC
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.
CCI
Canadian Monthly (August, 1897). By permission of the author.
ecu
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.
VI.— INDIA
CCIV
Miscellaneous Verses (Calcutta : Sanders, Cones & Co., 1848).
Gunga (1. 49)= the Ganges.
CCV
Cornhill Magazine (September, 1868), and Verses Written in
India (Kegan Paul & Co., 1889). By permission of author and
publishers.
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.
VII.— SOUTH AFRICA
CCXIII
Ephemerides (London : 1828).
NOTES 351
CCXIV
By permission of the author and the editor of Literature^ in which
publication (December 9, 1899) the poem first appeared.
CCXV
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.
ccxvi
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.
CCXVIII
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.
VIII.— AUSTRALIA
CCXIX
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.
ccxx
Poems (Melbourne : A. H. Massina & Co., 1884). By permission
of the publishers.
ccxxi
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.
CCXXII
First published in a Tasmanian newspaper. By permission of
the author.
CCXXIII
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.
ccxxv
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
CCXXVII
First appeared in The Brisbane Courier (August 8, 1899).
CCXXVII I — CCXXIX
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.
IX.— NEW ZEALAND
ccxxx
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
distance.
INDEX OF FIKST LINES
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAOK
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
357
358 INDEX
PAGE
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
PACK
' 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
PAGE
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
PAGE
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
PAGE
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
PAGB
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
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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.
2ft
Dauntless
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
By CLARICE DANVERS.
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.
ig-
Mousmd
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
Delia.
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
By G. BARNETT SMITH.
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
Mr. G. E. FARROW'S BOOKS FOR
CHILDREN
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 of11 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
IBooks for the
Domestic Ditties
With Words and Music by A. S. SCOTT-GATTY, and profusely
Illustrated by A. T. S. SCOTT-GATTY. Crown 4to. Pictorial
boards. Price 2s. 6d.
A collection of amusing songs for children by Mr. ALFRED SCOTT-GATTY,
who is well known as the composer of Plantation Songs. The music was speci-
ally composed by Mr. SCOTT-GATTY, and the book is illustrated throughout
with comic drawings in colours.
From Franklin to Na^nsen. Tales of Arctic
Adventure*
Retold by G. FIRTH SCOTT, Author of "The Last Lemurian," &c.
With numerous Illustrations. New edition. Demy 8vo. Cloth.
Price 33. 6d.
THE ILLUSTRATED SCARLET
LIBRARY
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
low sum. The first four volumes in this series are : —
'She Pilgrim's Progress
By JOHN BUNYAN. Illustrated by H. M. BROCK.
15he Wide, Wide World
By SUSAN WARNER. Illustrated by FRED PEGRAM.
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
Edited by MONTAGUE MARKS.
The publication of this important work of reference in parts is now
completed, and it will be issued early in September in volume form. It
is a book that should be in the possession of every one who takes an
active and appreciative interest in the Arts and Crafts. By means of
"The Home Arts Self-Teacher" you are enabled to teach yourself
DRAWING — LITHOGRAPHY — ETCHING — ILLUSTRATING — WATER-COLOUR
PAINTING— PAINTING IN OILS — MINIATURE PAINTING — PAINTING IN PASTEL —
TAPESTRY PAINTING — DISTEMPER PAINTING— PAINTING ON SILK — FAN PAINTING
—ILLUMINATION— CHINA PAINTING— GLASS PAINTING— MODELLING IN CLAY-
MODELLING IN GESSO— WOOD CARVING— FRET SAWING— POKER WORK— PYRO-
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METAL HAMMERING— BENT-IRON WORK— APPLIED DESIGN— ORNAMENT— WALL-
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With over 500 Designs and Illustrations. Crown 4to. 75. 6d. net.
Pearson's New Reciter atnd Reader
Containing Choice Selections from the Writings of RUDYARD
KIPLING, LORD TENNYSON, ROBERT BROWNING, W. S. GILBERT,
MARK TWAIN, BRET HARTE, C. S. CALVERLEY, CHARLES
DICKENS, and many others. Extra crown 8vo. Cloth. Price 2s. 6d.
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
Guide to Phrenology in Everday Life*
By STACKPOOL E. O'DELL, the eminent phrenologist. Fully Illus-
trated. Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price is.
, a^nd How to Rea^d Them. A Popular
Guide to Palmistry*
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Pearson's Fortune Teller. By Cards and
Crystal, &c«
Edited by Prof. FOLI. Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price is.
How ShaJl I Word It? A Complete Letter^writer
for Ladies and Gentlemen*
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Things at Womatn Watnts to Know
Tips for Housekeepers, including an illustrated section on the Fold-
ing of Serviettes. Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price is.
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IPearson's Gossipy Guides
With New Maps and the latest information for all travellers, arranged
Alphabetically, and with beautiful Illustrations from photographs speci-
ally taken for this Series. Foolscap $>vo. Price is., and in a few cases
6d. each. Each Guide-book contains at least two Maps, and some-
times as many as five, whilst the number of Illustrations varies from
70 to 100.
The Series will consist of Guide-books to all seaside and inland
resorts of importance in England, Scotland, and Ireland, and to some
on the Continent.
No. i. BOURNEMOUTH AND DISTRICT (including the NEW
FOREST). By CLIVE HOLLAND. Price is.
„ 2. SWANAGE AND DISTRICT. By CLIVE HOLLAND.
Price 6d.
„ 3. ILFRACOMBE AND DISTRICT. Price is.
„ 4. NORTH CORNWALL. Price is.
„ 5. GLASGOW, THE CLYDE, AND EXHIBITION. Price is.
„ 6. SOUTH DEVON. Price is.
„ 7. THE ENGLISH LAKES. Price is. (Shortly.}
„ 8. GREAT YARMOUTH, LOWESTOFT, AND CROMER.
Price is. (Shortly.}
,, 9. WEYMOUTH. Price is. (Shortly.}
„ 10. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO SEA. Price is. (Shortly.}
„ n. THE ISLE OF WIGHT. Price is. (Shortly)
„ 12. LONDON. Price is. (Shortly.}
„ 13. CHANNEL ISLANDS, NORMANDY, AND BRITTANY.
Price is. (Shortly)
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,, 15. SCARBOROUGH AND DISTRICT. Price is. (Shortly.)
„ 16. OBAN AND THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS. (Shortly)
„ 17. BRIGHTON AND DISTRICT. (Shortly)
„ 18. PARIS. (Shortly)
„ 19. EDINBURGH AND DISTRICT. (Shortly)
„ 20. WORTHING AND DISTRICT. Price 6d. (Shortly)
To be followed by many others.
PRESS NOTICES OF THE SERIES
" The descriptions are clear and to the point. The illustrations are very numerous,
well chosen, and excellent." — Athcneeum.
" A brightly- written and handy guide-book at a moderate price." — Morning Post.
"A thorough guide, interesting and illustrated. Complete yet compact; and
ridiculously cheap." — Bookman.
London: C. A. Tearson, Ltd., Henrietta S't^W.C.
THIS BOOK
STAivJ-jrjy
OVERDUE.
LB 21-50 w-1,'3
YB I 1712
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253390
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