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Happy is England! 1 could be content 
To see no other verdtire thaji its own ; 
To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent. 











It is of the love of our country and the deeds of our 
heroes that these poems speak, and they are an enduring 
monument to the honour and high courage of the Island 
race. Therefore, the title "The Flag of England" has 
prevented me from including in this volume several poems of 
patriotism, such as " Barbara Frietchie," and Campbell'b 
lines on the downfall of Poland. To me Scotland is England, 
and England is Scotland, and to look back on the things 
they have done stirs a feeling deeper than pride. 

Of our present purpose I need not speak. The forces of 
William of Hohenzollern will meet the fate of all such hosts, 
and, when the curtain is lifted, it will be seen that the Old 
Flag will return from the battlefields of Europe as stainless 
as after Agincourt and Waterloo. As for the honour of the 
navy, it is in safe keeping. We know our men, and our 
enemies shall know them too. 

My cordial thanks are due to Mrs. W. E. Henley, 
Mr. Robert Bridges, Mr. Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur 
Conan Doyle, Mr. William Watson, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, 
Mr. Henry Hamilton, Mr. Frankfort Moore, Mr. 
Henry Newbolt, the executors of Mr. Swinburne, Mr. 


Mackenzie Bell, and Mr. Arthur Noyes for so kindly 
permitting me to use some copyright poems. I have 
included Lj yLtrseilLiis' because the soldiers of France and 
Britain are now, side by side, fighting a nation which is 
seeking, by methods unparalleled in the annals of atrocity, 
to set its heel upon a free people and to crush Liberty into 

J. F. 
October 14, 1914. 



Anonymous : 

Chevy-Chace 14 

Brave Lord Willoughby 32 

Sir Patrick Spens 36 

The Honour of Bristol 54 

John Barbour (1316-1395): 

Freedom 13 

Michael Drayton (1563-1631): 

The Ballad of Agincourt 24 

To the Virginian Voyage 29 

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) : 

King Henry V. Before Harfleur 39 

^' Set in the Silver Sea 41 

^ Naught Shall Make Us Rue 42 

,,^EN JONSON (1573-1637): 

Lines to a Friend urging Him to go to the Wars . . 43 

John Fletcher (1576-1625) : 

The Joy of Battle . . 45 

John Milton (1608-1674): 

The Oppressor 47 

Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) : 

Going to the Wars 48 

Anokew Marvell (1620-1678): 

An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland 49 

^^'' 7 



Henry Carey (1693-1743): 

God Save Our Gracious King 5^ 

James Thomson (1700- 1748): 

^iule, Britannia 59 

JViLLiAM Collins (1721-1759) : 
.^^ How Sleep the Brave Who sink to Rest . . .61 

^William Cowper (1731-1800): 

England 62 

^: Prince Hoare (1755- 1834) : 

The Arethusa 64 

William Blake (1757-1827): 

A War Song to EngUshnicn 6 

^' Robert Burns (1759-1796): 

y Robert Bruce's March to Bannockburn .... 68 
Lines from The Cotter's Saturday Night .... 69 

William Wordsworth (i 770-1850) : 

British Freedom . . 70 

The Happy Warrior 7^ 

My Country 74 

Britain, Firm as a Rock 75 

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): 

^ Breathes there the Man 76 

'^ One Crowded Hour 77 

'' Pibroch 78 

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) : 

Men of England 80 

The Battle of the Baltic 82 

Ye Mariners of England 85 

'Ebenezer Elliott (1781-1849): 

Battle Song .... 86 

George Gordon, Lord Byron (i 788-1 824) : 

The Night before the Battle of Waterloo .... 88 




Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 91 

J^EDERICK MaRRYAT (1792-1S48) : 

The Old Navy 93 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800-1859): 

The Armada 95 

^'Robert Stephen Hawker (1803-1875): 

The Song of the Western Men 100 

^foHN Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892): 

The Pipes at Lucknow I02 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892): 
The Charge of the Light Brigade 

Love Thou Thy Land 

,. Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 

^^ • You Ask Me, Why, Tho' ill at Ease ' . 
Lines from " The Third of February, 1852 " 
Hands All Round 



Oliver Wendell Holmes (i 809-1 894): 

Never or Now 128 

Sir Francis Hastincs Doyle (1810-1888): 

The Red Thread of Honour 129 

Robert Browning (1812-1889) : 
_, Home-Thoughts from the Sea 134 

William Edmonstone Aytoun (1813-1865); 

The Heart of the Bruce 135 

Eliza Cook (1818-1889): 

The Flag of the Free 144 

Walt Whitman (1819-1892): 

Beat ! Beat ! Drums ! 145 

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861): 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth .... 147 

y 9 



Sir Henry Yule (1820-1S89): 

The Birkenhead 148 

Adelaide Anne Procter (1S25-1864): 

Now 150 

Lines from the Lesson of the War 1 52 

Gerald Massey (1828-1907): 

England in I S59 ■ • I53 

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) : 

England, Queen of the Waves I54 

Bret Harte (1839-1902) : 

The Reveille i 57 

Thomas Hardy (h. 1840) : 

Song of the Soldiers I59 

Robert Bridges (b. 1844) : 

Thou Careless, Awake ! 16 1 

iViLLiAM Ernest Henley {1849-1903): 

The Bugles of England 1 63 

England, My England 164 

Frank Frankfort IMoore (b. 1855) : 

The Voices , . 166 

.^..^^'^ACKENZiE Bell : 

Britain's Appeal to Her Men i73 

William Watson (b. 185S) : 

The Battle of the Bight 175 

The Charge of the 9th Lancers 177 

Sons of Britain 179 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (b. 1859): 

A Ballad of the Ranks , iSl 

Henry John Newbolt (b. 1862) : 

Northumberland 184 

The Sailing of the Long- Ships 186 

Drake's Drum 188 

Admirals All 189 

■ 10 



John Steven McGroarty (b. 1862) : 

Blow, Bugles, Blow 192 

Henry Holcomb Bennett (b. 1863) : 

The Flag Goes By I93 

RuDYARD Kipling (b. 1865) : 

" For All We Have and Are '■ I9S 

^' Recessional I97 

fTenry Hamilton : 

The Call to Arms 199 

Alfred Noyes (b. 1880) : 

The Search-Lights 201 

The Marseillaise : 

An English Adaptation 203 

Claude Joseph Rouget De Lisle (1760-1836) : 

La Marseillaise 205 


A ! Fredome is a noble thing ! 

Fredome mayse man to haif liking i ; 
Fredome all solace to man giffis, 
He livis at ese that frely livis ! 
A noble hart may haif nane ese, 
Na ellys nocht ^ that may him plese, 
Git fredome fail'th ; for fre liking 
Is yharnit ^ ouer all othir thing. 
Na * he that ay has livit fre 
May nocht knaw well the properte, 
The anger, na the wretchit doom 
That is couplit to foul thraldome. 
But gif he had assayit it, 
Then all perquer ^ he suld it wit ; 
And suld think fredome mar to prise 
Than all the gold in warld that is. 
Thus contrar thingis evermar 
Discoweringis of the tothir are. 

John Barbour (131 6-9 5 ) . 

Liberty. '•^ Nor aught else. ^ Yearned for. 

* Nor. * Thoroughly. 



GOD prosper long our noble king, 
Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woeful hunting once there did 
In Chevy-Chace befall ; 

To drive the deer with hound and horn, 

Erie Percy took his way, 
The child may rue that is unborn, 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Erie of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take ; 

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Erie Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay : 

Who sent Erie Percy present word. 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English erle, not fearing that. 
Did to the woods resort 



With fifteen hundred bow-men bold ; 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chase the fallow deer : 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Ere day-light did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 

An hundred fat bucks slain ; 
Then having dined, the drovyers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The bow-men mustered on the hills, 

Well able to endure ; 
Their backsides all, with special care. 

That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 

The nimble deer to take, 
That with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went. 
To view the slaughter'd. deer ; 

Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised 
This day to meet me here, 

But if I thought he would not come. 

No longer would I stay. 
With that, a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the Erie did say : 



Lo, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, 

His men in armour bright ; 
Full twenty i.undred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 

All men of pleasant Tivydale, 

Fast by the river Tweed : 
O, cease your sports, Erie Percy said. 

And take your bows with speed : 

And now with me, my countrymen. 
Your courage forth advance ; 

For there was never champion yet. 
In Scotland or in France, 

That ever did on horseback come. 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spear. 

Erie Douglas on his milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his company. 

Whose armour shone like gold. 

Show me, said he, whose men you be. 

That hunt so boldly here, 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kill my fallow-deer. 

The first man that did answer make 

Was noble Percy he ; 
Who said, We list not to declare. 

Nor shew whose men we be ; 



Yet we will spend our dearest blood, 

Thy chiefest harts to slay. 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

And thus in rage did say. 

Ere thus I will out-brav&d be, 

One of us two shall die : 
I know thee well, an erle thou art ; 

Lord Percy, so am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were. 

And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battle try, 

And set our men aside. 
Accurst be he, Erie Percy said. 

By whom this is denied. 

Then stept a gallant squier forth, 
Witherington was his name. 

Who said, I would not have it told 
To Henry our king for shame. 

That ere my captain fought on foot, 

And I stood looking on. 
You be two erles, said Witherington, 

And I a squier alone : 

lie do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to stand : 

While I have power to wield ray sword 
He fight with heart and hand. 



Our English archers bent their bows, 
Their hearts were good and trew ; 

At the first flight of arrows sent, 
Full four-score Scots they slew. 

Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent, 
As Chieftain stout and good. 

As valiant Captain, all unmov'd 
The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three. 

As leader ware and try'd. 
And soon his spearmen on their foes 

Bare down on every side. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn, 

Douglas bade on the bent 
Two captains moved with mickle might 

Their spears to shivers went. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound : 

But still our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground : 

And, throwing strait their bows away, 
They grasp'd their swords so bright : 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found ; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 



God ! it was a grief to see, 
And likewise for to hear 

The cries of men lying in their gore, 
And scattered here and there. 

At last these two stout erles did meet, 
L,ike captains of great might : 

Like lions would, they laid on lode, 
And made a cruel fight : 

They fought until they both did sweat. 
With swords of tempered steel ; 

Until the blood, like drops of rain, 
They trickling down did feel. 

Yield thee, Lord Percy, Douglas said, 

In faith I will thee bring, 
Where thou shall high advanced be 

By James our Scottish king : 

Thy ransom I will freely give, 

And this report of thee, 
Thou art the most courageous knight, 

That ever I did see. 

No, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then, 
Thy proffer I do scorn ; 

1 will not yield to any Scot, 

That ever yet was born. 

With that, there came an arrow keen 

Out of an English bow. 
Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, 

A deep and deadly blow : 



Who never spake more words than these, 
Fight on, ray merry men all ; 

For why, my life is at an end ; 
Lord Percy sees my fall. 

Then leaving life, Erie Percy took 

The dead man by the hand ; 
And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life 

Would I had lost my land. 

O God ! my v^ry heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake ; 
For sure, a more redoubted knight 

Mischance could never take. 

A knight amongst the Scots there was 
Which saw Erie Douglas die. 

Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percye : 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, 
Who, with a spear most bright. 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight ; 

And past the English archers all, 

Without all dread or fear ; 
And through Erie Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear ; 

With such a vehement force and might 

He did his body gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard, and more. 


So thus did both these nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain : 

An English archer then perceiv'd 
The noble erie was slain ; 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Up to the head drew he : 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 

So right the shaft he set, 
The grey goose-wing that was thereon, 

In his heart's blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day, 

Till setting of the sun ; 
For when they rung the evening-bell. 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Erie Percy there was slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James that bold barbn : 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain. 
Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wayle. 

As one in doleful dumpes ; 
For when his legs were smitten off. 

He fought upon his stumpes. 


And with Erie Douglas, there was slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomerye, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too. 

His sister's son was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, 

Yet saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 
Did with Erie Douglas die : 

Of twenty hundred Scottish spears 
Scarce fifty-five did flie. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three ; 
The rest were slain in Chevy-Chace, 

Under the green wood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washt their wounds in brinish tears, 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple gore. 
They bare with them away : 

They kist them dead a thousand times, 
Ere they were clad in clay. 

The news was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Where Scotland's king did reign. 

That brave Erie Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain : 


heavy news, King James did say, 
Scotland may witness be, 

1 have not any captain more 

Of such account as he. 

Like tidings to King Henry came, 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slain in Chevy-Chace : 

Now God be with him, said our king, 

Sith it will no better be ; 
I trust I have, within my realm. 

Five hundred as good as he : 

Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say. 

But I will vengeance take : 
I'll be revenged on them all, 

For brave Erie Percy's sake. 

This vow full well the king pcrform'd 

After, at Humbledowne ; 
In one day, fifty knights were slain, 

With lords of great renown : 

And of the rest, of small account. 

Did many thousands die : 
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, 

Made by the Erie Percy. 

God save our king, and bless this land 
With plenty, joy, and peace ; 

And grant henceforth, that foul debate 
'Twixt noblemen may cease ! 



AIR stood the wind for Fiance, 
When we our sails advance, 

Nor now to prove our chance, 
Long'-r 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 
Marcheth towards Agincourt 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way. 
Where the French general lay. 

With all his power. 

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

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

Their fall portending. 



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

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

By fame been raisfed. 

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

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor 1 will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain ; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell. 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell, 

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

Lopped the French lilies. 

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



Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there ; 
O Lord, how hot they were 
On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 

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

Stuck 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 broad sword 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. 

Gloucester, 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 famous 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 Wiiloughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 
Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which fame did not delay 

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

Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Drayton. 



V^OU brave heroic minds, 
^ Worthy your country's name, 
That honour still pursue ; 
Go and subdue. 
Whilst loitering hinds 
Lurk here at home with shame. 

Britons, you stay too long ; 

Quickly aboard bestow you, 
And with a merry gale 
Swell your stretch'd sail, 

With vows as strong 

As the winds that blow you. 

Your course securely steer. 
West and by south forth keep ; 

Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals, 

When Eolus scowls, 
You need not fear ; 
So absolute the deep. 



And cheerfully at sea 
Success you still entice 

To get the pearl and gold, 

And ours to hold 
Earth's only Paradise. 

Where nature hath in store 
Fowl, venison, and fish. 

And the fruitful'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 give, 
No other cares attend 
But them to defend 

From winter's rage. 

That long there doth not live. 

When as the luscious smell 

Of that delicious land, 

Above the seas that flows. 
The clear wind throws 

Your hearts to swell 

Approaching the dear strand; 



In kenning of the shore 
(Thanks to God first given) 

O 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 
LTnder 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 Hakluyt, 

Whose reading shall inflame 

Men to seek fame. 
And much commend 
To after-times thy wit. 

Michael Drayton. 



T^HE fifteenth day of July, 
^ With glistering spear and shield, 
A famous fight in Flanders 

Was foug'iten in the field : 
The most courageous officers 

Were English captains three, 
But the bravest man in battle 

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 

LTpon the bloody shore, 

" Stand to it, noble pikemen, 

And look you round about ; 
And shoot you right, you bowmen, 

And we will keep them out : 
You musket and cailiver men 

Do you prove true to me, 
I'll be the foremost man in fight," 

Says brave Lord Willoughby. 



And then the bloody enemy 

They fiercely did assail : 
And fought it out most furiously, 

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. 

For no better they could 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 turning toward the Spaniard, 

Five thousand more they slew. 

The sharp steel-pointed arrows, 

And bullets thick did fly, 
Then did our valiant soldiers 

Charge on most furiously : 



Which made the Spaniards waver, 
They thought it best to flee, 

They feared the stout behaviour 
Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

Then quoth the Spanish General, 

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

If that we longer stay : 
For yonder comes Lord Willoughby, 

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

For all the devils in hell." 

And when the fearful enemy 

Was quickly put to flight. 
Our men pursued courageously. 

To rout their 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 told unto our gracious Queen, 

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 maimfcd, 

And wounded in the fray, 
The Queen allowed a pension 

Of eighteen pence a day : 
Beside, all costs and charges 

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

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

Then courage, noble Englishmen, 

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

We will not be afraid 
To fight the foreign enemies, 

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

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 




nPHE King sits in Dunfermline toun, 
*■ Drinking the blude-red wine : 
" O whaur will 1 get a skeely skipper 
To sail this ship o' mine ? " 

Up and spak an eldern knight, 
Sat at the King's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That sails upon the sea.'- 

The King has written a braid letter 
And sealed it wi' his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
Was walking on the sand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 
To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The King's daughter o' Noroway, 
'Tis thou maun bring her hame ? " 

The first line that Sir Patrick read, 
A loud lauch lauched he : 
The next line that Sir Patrick read. 
The tear blinded his ee. 



" O wha is this has done this deed, 
And tauld the King o' me ; 
To send us out this time o' the year 
To sail upon the sea ? 

" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 
Our ship maun sail the faem ; 
The King's daughter o' Noroway, 
'Tis we maun bring her hame. 

" Male haste, male haste my mirry men all, 
Our guid ship sails the morn," 
" O say na sae, my master dear, 
For I fear a deadly storm. 

" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon 
Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And I fear, I fear, my dear master. 
That we shall come to harm ! " 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap. 
It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves cam owre the broken ship 
Till a' her sides were torn. 

O our Scots nobles were right laith 
To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; 
But lang ere a' the play was played 
They wat their hats aboon. 



O lang, lang may the ladies sit 
Wi' their fans intill their hand, 
Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the land. 

O lang, lang may the ladies stand 
Wi' their gold kaims in their hair. 
Waiting for their ain dear lords, 
For they'll see them nae mair. 

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, 
It's fifty fathoms deep. 
And there sleeps guid Sir Patrick Spens, 
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 




^ \NCE 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 sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. 

Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 




That those whom you called fathers did beget you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

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

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 

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

For there is none of you so mean and base 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes, 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot : 

Follow your spirit ; and upon this charge 

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

Wtlliam Shakespeare. 




' I 'HIS royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, 
■'■ This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, denii-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 England, 
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings. 
Feared 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. 




THIS England ne -er did, nor never shall, 
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror. 
But when it first did help to wound itself. 
Now these her princes are come home again, 
Come the three corners of the world in arms, 
And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue, 
If England to itself do rest but true. 

William Shakespeare. 



VVTAKE, friend, from forth thy lethargy : the drum 
" Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids come 
All that dare rouse, or are not loth to quit 
Their vicious ease and be o'erwhclmed with it. 
It is a call to keep the spirits alive 
That gasp for action, and would yet revive 
Man's buried honour, in his sleepy life, 
Quickening dead nature to her noblest strife , , . . 

Go, quit them all, and take along with thee 
Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be 
That thine be just and honest, that thy deeds 
Not wound thy conscience when thy body bleeds ; 
That thou dost all things more for truth than glory, 
And never but for doing wrong be sorry ; 
That by commanding first thyself thou mak'st 
Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st ; 

That fortune never make thee to complain, 
But what she gives thou dare give her again ; 
That whatsover face thy fate puts on 
Thou shrink nor start not, but be always one ; 



That thou think nothing great but what is good, 
And from that thought strive to be understood. 
So, 'Hve or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame 
Still precious with the odour of thy name ; 
And last, blaspheme not ; we did never hear 
Man thought the valianter 'cause he durst swear. 
These take, and now go to seek thy peace in war 
Who falls for love of God shall rise a star. 

Ben "Jonson. 



A RM, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in ; 
^ *■ Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. 
Behold from yonder hill the foe appears ; 
Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields and spears ! 
Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring ; 
O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring ! 
The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums ! 

Dub, dub ! 
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes : 
See how the arrows fly 
That darken all the sky ! 
Hark how the trumpets sound ! 

Hark how the hills rebound 

Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara ! 

Hark how the horses charge ! in, boys ! boys in ! 
The battle totters ; now the wounds begin : 

O how they cry ! 

O how they die ! 
Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder ! 
See how he breaks the ranks asunder ! 



They fly ! they fly ! Eumenes has the chase, 
And brave Polybius makes good his place : 

To the plains, to the woods. 

To the rocks, to the floods, 
They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow ! 
Hark how the soldiers hollow ! 

Hey, hey ! 

Brave Diodes is dead. 

And all his soldiers fled ; 

The battle's won and lost, 

That rriany a life hath cost. 

'John Fletcher. 




/^ HOW comely it is, and how reviving 
^-^ To the spirits of just men long oppressed, 

When God into the hands of their deliverer 

Puts invincible might 

To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, 

The brute and boisterous force of violent men, 

Hardy and industrious to support 

Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue 

The righteous and all such as honour truth ! 

He all their ammunition 

And feats of war defeats. 

With plain heroic magnitude of mind 

And celestial vigour armed ; 

Their armouries and magazines contemns, 

Renders them useless, while 

With winged expedition 

Swift as the lightening glance he executes 

His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, 

Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. 

Joh?i Milton. 



TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 
That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field. 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore : 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much 

Loved I not Honour more. 

Richard Lovelace. 


'"PHE 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 corslet of the hall. 

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

But through adventurous war 

Urg^d 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 enclose 

Is more than to oppose. 



TluMi burning tluougli tin- air In- \v«-nt 
Ami palaccH ami tt-mpUs iciU ; 
Aiul Cirsai's lu-atl at last 
Did lliroiij'.h l>is laurels blast. 

"l'i:i luatliH'ss to resist or blaim- 
'I'lie lace of angry Heaven's llanie ; 
;'\ii(l if wi' would speak true, 
Much to tlu' Mian is ilue, 

Who, from bis private gardens, where 
1 K- livid reserveil and austeic 
( As if his higliest plot 
To plant the berganiot). 

Could by industrious valour eliuib 
'1\) ruin the great work ol 'I'inie, 

;\nd east the Kingdoms old 

Into another niouhl ; 

Though Justice aj>,ainst I'^ate complain, 
And pleail the ancient rights in vain — 
I'ut those ilo hoKl or l)reak 
As men ate stroni\ or weak — ■ 

Nature, that hateth empliness, 

Allows ot pencil at ion less, 

And ti\eretbre must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What iield ol all the civil war 
Where his were not the dee])est scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art ; 



Wlicrc, twininc inthtU: fcurn wiili lioj ■, 
He wov<- ;i iici o( iiiicli ;i hc()\)c 

'rii.'il C.'li.trlcM liiiiificK iiiij'jii, cli.iMc 
I <) (.'aii'iliKxjk'ii ii.'inow (;;i(ic ; 

'ril.ll lliciKi llic R(,y;il :i(|(j| |)()||ic 
'I'lic li;ijpi( ■;( .idolil mi'ilit adoin ; 
Wliil<- kjiiikI I lie ainicd baiidii 
Did clap tlicir liloody liaridii. 

1 l<- iiolliiiiji coiimioii did oi iiicaii 
l')j(jii llial iiiciiiorablc iicciic, 

IJut willi liiii kcfiici eye 

'I'lic axc'ii cdj'c did iiy ; 

Nor C.'ilIM tin- )'/)dii, willi wtly.ii ii))ilc, 
Vo viiidicaH- liiii li(l|)|(-i:i lijdit ; 
lUil Ixiw'd liifi coiiiily licad 
l)()Wii, an ii|)oii a lied. 

'I'liiii wail that, iiicriioraldf lioiii' 
Wliicli fiiiii a;i«mfd llic forced \«>wri ; 

y><> wlicii llicy did d(;;ij'ii 

Tin- ('apilol'ii (iiiil line, 

A lilccdiiij. Iicad, wlicrc tlicy l)cj»un, 
l)id IVijdil, tlic arcliitcctd to niti ; 

And ycf in that the Slate 

I'"t)ref(aw iln ha])j»y fate ' 

/Viid now the liiiih are anjiaiiied 
lo licc theiii-civc'i ill oiii- year laiiic(] : 
So much one man can do 
'J'hal d(JC!i hoth act and know. 

U 2 



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 stiffer with command, 
But still in the Republic's hand — 

How fit he is to sway 

That can so well obey ! 

He to the Commons' feet presents 
A Kingdom for his first year's rents, 
And, what he may, forbears 
His fame, to make it theirs : 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
To lay them at the Public's skirt. 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky. 

She, having killed, no more doth search 
But on the next green bough to perch ; 
Where, when he first does lure. 
The falconer has her sure. 

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

As Cssar 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. 



ATTEND you, and give car 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! " 

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 the men cry, " To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel!" 

The Captain, famous Nethcrway 

(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," quotli they, 

" That England fought with Spain : 
O would the Spaniard wc 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 they 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, 
** Brave hearts, be valiant still ! 

Fight on, fight on in the defence 
Of our Angel Gabriel! " 

We gave them such a broadside, 

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

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

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

By the Angel Gabriel!" 

So desperately they boarded us 

For all our valiant shot, 
Three score of their best fighting men 

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

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

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

With that their three ' 'j-s 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 nours this fight continued : 

So many men lay dead, 
With Spanish bkjod 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 Cales, 

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

With our Angel Gabriel. 

We had within our English ship 

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

Will soon be well again. 
At Bristol we were landed, 

And let us praise God still, 
That this hath blest our lusty hearts 

And our Angel Gabriel. 




/''^ OD save our gracious 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. 

O 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 ! 

Henry Carey. 



VVTHEN Britain fust, at Heaven's command, 

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

And guardian angels sung this strain : 

" Rule, Britannia ! Britannia rule the waves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves." 

The nations not so blest as thee 

Must in their turns to tyrants fall, 
Whilst thou shah flourish great and free 

The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shah thou rise. 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 

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

And work their woe and thy renown. 



To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
AH 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 crowned 
And manly hearts to guard the fair. 

" Rule, Britannia ! Britannia rule the waves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves." 

James Thomson, 



TT OW sleep the brave who sink to rest 
■*■ ■■■ By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed 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 awhile repair 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there ! 

IVi/liarn Collins. 



ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still— 
My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
Where English minds and manners may be found, 
Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime 
Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed 
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, 
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
To shake thy senate and from heights sublime 
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : 
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 
As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
Thy follies, too ; and with a just disdain 
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
How, in the name of soldiership and sense, 
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth 
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er 
With odours, and as profligate as sweet ; 



Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, 

And love when they should fight ; when such as these 

Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 

Of her magnificent and awful cause ? 

Time was when it was praise and boast enough 

In every~clime, and travel where we might, 

That we were born her children. Praise enough 

To fill the ambition of a private man, 

That Chatham's language was his mother tongue 

And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 

Williatn Cowper. 



COME, all ye jolly sailors bold, 
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 
While English glory I unfold, 

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

Her men are staunch 

To their fav'rito 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 Heet she went out 
The English Channel to cruise about, 
When four French sail, in show so stout. 

Bore down on the Arethusa. 
The famed Bclk 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. 



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 cries 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 Britons more. 

Let each fill his glass 

To his fav'rite lass : 
A health to our captain and officers true. 
And all that belong to the jovial crew 

On board of the Arethusa. 

Prhice Hoare. 



PREPARE, prepare the Iron helm of war, 
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb ; 
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, 
And casts them out upon the darkened earth ! 
Prepare, prepare ! 

Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand ! Prepare 
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth ! 
Prepare your arms for a glorious victory ! 
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God ! 

Prepare, prepare ! 

Whose fatal scroll is that ? Methinks 'tis mine ! 
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue ? 
Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause, 
And rise, with ghosts over the well-fought field. 
Prepare, prepare ! 

The arrows of Almighty God are drawn ! 
Angels of Death stand in the low'ring heavens ! 
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light, 
And walk together on the clouds of heaven ! 
Prepare, prepare ! 



Soldiers, prepare ! Our cause is Heaven's cause ; 
Soldiers, prepare ! Be worthy of our cause. 
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky : 
Prepare, O troops that are to fall to-day ! 
Prepare, prepare ! 

Alfred shall smile, and make his heart rejoice ; 
The Norman William and the learned Clerk, 
And Lion-Heart, and black-browed Edward with 
His loyal Queen, shall rise and welcome us ! 
Prepare, prepare ! 

Willia??i Blake. 



SCOTS, wha hae \vi' 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 lower. 
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 ! 

Wha for Scotland's King and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man 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. 


C~^\ SCOTIA ! my dear, rfiy native soil ! 

^^ For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 

Robert Burns. 




T T ir, 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 (low'd, "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. 



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, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
Who, doomed to go in company with pain, 
And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives ; 
By objects which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
Is placable — because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
As tempted more ; more able to endure, 



As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill. 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He labours good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

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 ; 

W^ho comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall. 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all ; 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind. 

Is happy as a lover ; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 

And through the heat of conflict keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed. 

Come when it will, is equal to the need : 



He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a soul whose master bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes 

Sweet images ! which, whereso'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 ; 

Where neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast. 

Looks forward, persevering to the last 

From well to better, daily self-surpast ; 

Who, whether praise of him must walk, the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must fall to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead, unprofitable name, 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, when 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. 




VVTHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed 

^^ Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
When men change s "ords 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 uniilial fears I am ashamed. 
But 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, 



XJ E, who in concert with 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 foiled — 
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 fulfil ; 
Firm as a rock in stationary fight ; 
In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
Fierce as a flood-gate bursting at midnight 
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. 



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 ; 
For 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. 



C OUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife 
'^ To all the sensual world proclaim, 
One crowded hour of glorious life, 
Is worth an age without a name. 


Sir Walter Scott. 



piBROCH of Donuil Dhu, 
*■ Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away. 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
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 tlock 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. 

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 ! 
Pilbroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 

S/r Walter Scott. 



A /[ EN of England ! who inherit 

^^^ Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 

Men whose und'-generate spirit 

Has been proved on field and flood ! 

By the foes ye've fought, uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds ye'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, 
Sioney's matchless shade Is yours, — 

Martyrs in heroic story 

Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crowned and mitred tyranny : 

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

Thomas Campbell. 



/^F Nelson and the North 

^-^ Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle herce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

Li a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path. 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath. 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 



" Hearts of" oak ! " our captains cried, when each gun 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 feeble 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 shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then 

As he hailed them o'er the wave, 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save ; 

So peace instead of death let us bring : 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews at England's feet. 

And make submission meet 

To our King." . . . 

Now joy. Old England, raise 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze. 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

Fa 83 


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. 


A Naval Ode 

VE 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 Ions, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 
As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



DAY, like our souls, is iiercely dark ; 
What then ? 'Tis day ! 
We sleep no more ; the cock crows — hark ! 

To arms ! away ! 
They come ! they come ! the knell is rung 

Of us or them ; 
Wideno'er their march the pomp is flung 

Of gold and gem. 
What collar'd hound of lawless sway, 

To famine dear — 
What pension'd slave of Attihi, 

Leads in the rear ? 
In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, 

Lisults the land ; 
Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause arc ours. 

And God's right hand ! 
Madmen ! they trample into snakes 

The wormy clod ! 
Like fire, beneath their feet awakes 

The sword of God ! 
Behind, before, above, below, 

They rouse the brave ; 
Where'er they go, they make a foe, 

Or find a grave. 

Ebenezer Elliott, 





'T'HLlRE 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 that spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconlined ; 
No 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 car ; 
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 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — ' The foe ! They 
they come ! ' 



And wild and high the ' Cameron's 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 graiis 
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 ! 

George Gordo?!, Lord Byron. 




"NTOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, ' 

^^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lanthorn dimly burning. 

N) useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet or 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 that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That 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. 



' I 'HE captain stood on the caironade : " First lieutenant," 
-■■ says he, 

" Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me ; 
I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons — because I'm bred to 

the sea ; 
That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we, 
And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as Fve been to 

I've fought 'gainst every odds — but I've gained the 
victory ! 

" That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she, 

'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture zoe \ 

I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys : so each man to his 

If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son. 
For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to 

I've fought 'gainst every odds — and I've gained the 
victory ! " 



We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had 

enough ; 
" I little thought," said he, " that your men were of such 

stuff" ; 
Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made 

to he ; 
" I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish 

to be. 
And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to 

I've fought 'gainst every odds— and I've gained the 

victory ! " 

Our captain sent for all of us : '* My merry men," said he, 
*' I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful 

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his 

If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged 

each mother's son. 
For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at 

I'll fight 'gainst every odds — and I'll gain the victory!" 

Frederick Miirryat. 




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

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

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 Plymouth 

Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet beyond Aurigny's 

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 Phit^, till the noon, had held her close in 

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 




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. 
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 Caesar's eagle 

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay. 
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters 

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 EJDEM, the banner of our pride. 

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy 

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 




From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford 

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; 
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame 

High on St, Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on Beachy 

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 
And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of 

Right 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 that streak of blood- 
red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence 

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 : 

G 97 


And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying 

And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each 

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

As fast from every village round the horse came spurring 

in : 
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike 

errand went. 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of 

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 

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of 

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely 

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest ot 

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately 

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 

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of 







GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 
A merry heart and true ; 
King James's men shall understand 
What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when ? 

And shall Trelawny die ? 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 

Out spake their captain brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
"If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

We'll set Trelawny free ! 

" We'll cross the Tamar, land to land. 

The Severn is no stay, 
With ' one and all,' and hand in hand, 

And who shall bid us nay ? 


"And when we come to London Wall, 

A pleasant eight to view, 
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all, 

Here's men as good as you ! 

<' Trelawny he's in keep and hold, ' 

Trelawny he may di( : 
But here's twenty thous nd Cornish bold, 

Will know the reasoi why ! " 

Robert Stephen Hawker. 




PIPES of the misty moorlands, 
Voice of the glens and hills ; 
The droning of the torrents, 

The treble of the rills ! 
Not the braes of broom and heather, 
Nor the mountains dark with rain, 
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower. 
Have heard your sweetest strain ! 

Dear to the Lowland reaper, 

And plaided mountaineer, — 
To the cottage and the castle 

The Scottish pipes are dear ; — 
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch 

O'er mountain, loch, and glade ; 
But the sweetest of all music 

The pipes at Lucknow played. 

Day by day the Indian tiger 

Louder yelled, and nearer crept ; 

Round and round the jungle-serpent 
Near and nearer circles swept. 



" Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, — 
Pray to-day ! " the soldier said ; 

" To-morrow, death 's between us 

And the wrong and shame we dread." 

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, 

Till their hope became despair ; 
And the sobs of low bewailing 

Filled the pauses of their prayer- 
Then up spake a Scottish maiden. 

With her ear unto the ground : 
" Dinna ye hear it ? — dinna ye hear it ? 

The pipes o' Havelock sound ! " 

Hushed the wounded man his groaning ; 

Hushed the wife her little ones ; 
Alone they heard the drum-roll 

And the roar of Sepoy guns. 
But to sounds of home and childhood 

The Highland ear was true ; — 
As her mother's cradle-crooning 

The mountain pipes she knew. 

Like the march of soundless music 

Through the vision of the seer, 
More of feeling than of hearing. 

Of the heart than of the ear. 
She knew the droning pibroch. 

She knew the Campbell's call : 
" Hark ! hear ye no' MacGregor's, 

The grandest o' them all ! " 


Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless. 

And they caught the sound at last ; 
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee 

Rose and fell the piper's blast ! 
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving 

Mingled woman's voice and man's ; 
" God be praised ! — the march of Havelock ' 

The piping of the clans ! " 

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance. 

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, 
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call. 

Stinging all the air to life. 
But when the far-off dust-cloud 

To plaided legions grew. 
Full tenderly and blithesomely 

The pipes of rescue blew ! 

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, 

Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine. 
Breathed the air to Britons dearest, 

The air of Auld Lang Syne. 
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums 

Rose that sweet and homelike strain ; 
And the tartan clove the turban, 

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. 

Dear to the corn-land reaper 

And plaided mountaineer, — 
To the cottage and the castle 

The piper's song is dear. 



Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch 

O'er mountain, glen, and glade ; 
But the sweetest of all music 

The Pipes at Lucknow played ! 

/. G. Whittier. 




TJALF a league, half a league, 
■*■ ■*• Haifa league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said ; 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs 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 
Volleyed and thundered ; 

1 06 


Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

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

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through 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 wondered. 
Honour the charge they made ! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred^ Lord Tennyson, 



T OVE thou thy land with love far-brought 
■^ From out the storied Past, and used 

Within the Present, but transfused 
Thro' future time by power of thought ; 

True love turned round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 



Watch what main-currents draw the years ; 
Cut prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise ; 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, binds- 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm. 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies. 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 


A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 


If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt. 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away— 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 

As we bear blossom of the dead ; 

Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 


Writ ten in 1852. 

DURY the great Duke 

*^ With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 


Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 


Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow ; 

The last great Englishman is low. 




Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 

Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he greet 

With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 

O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 

Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute. 

Whole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the yuru of amplest influence. 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 

Our greatest yet with least pretence. 

Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time. 

Rich in saving common-sense. 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self sacrifice is o'er. 

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 


All is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 



Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 

When he with those deep voices wrought. 

Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name, 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name. 

To such a name for ages long, 

To such a name, 



Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 


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 the world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 

O give him welcome, this is he. 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 

And worthy to be laid by thee ; 

For this is England's greatest son. 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an EngHsh gun ; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day. 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labour'd rampart-lines. 

Where he greatly stood at bay, 



Whence he issued forth aneW) 
And 3ver greater and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamour of men. 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; 

A day of onsets of despair ! 

Dash'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there, 

What long-endearing hearts could do 

In that world earthquake, Waterloo ! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 



Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, 

Eternal honour to his name. 


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



And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumour How 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 


Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars. 



And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Him who cares not to be great, 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story. 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He that walks it, only thirsting 

For the right, and learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes. 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, which outredden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

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. 

Such was he : his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure : 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory : 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

And when the long-illumined cities flame. 


Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honour, honour, honour to him, 
Eternal honour to his name. 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that we shall not see : 
Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung : 
O peace, it is a day of pain 
For one, upon whose heart and hand and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere ; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories ail too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting towards eternity. 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 


For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will ; 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 

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. 

Alfred., Lord Tennyson. 


"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, 
Aland 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. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



AS long as we remain, we must speak free, 
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us break, 
No little German state are we, 

But the one voice in Europe : we must speak. 
That if to-night our greatness were struck dead. 
There might be left some record of the things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 

Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roH'd 

On her and us and ours forever more. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom from our prime. 
At last to dodge and palter with a public crime ? 

Alfred^ Lord Temi'^son. 



THIRST drink a health, this solemn night, ,' 

■■■ A health 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 moulder'd branch away. 

Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of freedom drink, my friends, 
And the great name of England round and round. 

A health to Europe's honest men ! 
Heaven guard them from their tyrants' jails ! 
From wrong'd Poerio's noisome den. 
From iron'd limbs and tortured nails ! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings. 
The Russian whips and Austrian rods — 
We, likewise, have our evil things ; 
Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. 

Yet hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To Europe's better health we drink, my friends. 
And the great name of England round and round. 



What health to France, if France be she, 
Whom martial prowess only charms ? 
Yet tell her — Better to be free 
Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 
But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets ? 
You fools, you'll want them all again. 

Yet hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, 
And the great name of England round and round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 
We drink to thee across the flood, 
We know thee most, we love thee best. 
For art thou not of British blood ? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown. 
Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone. 
But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 

Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our great kinsmen of the West, my friends, 
And the great name of England round and round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons. 
When war against our freedom springs ! 
O speak to Euiope thro' your guns ! 
They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with those 
That wish to keep their people fools ; 



Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 
She comprehends the race she rules. 

Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, 
And the great cause of freedom round and round. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



An Appeal 

I ISTEN, young heroes ! your country is calling ! 

*^ Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true ! 
Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, 
Fill up the ranks that have opened for you ! 

You whom the fathers made free and defended, 
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame ! 
You whose fair heritage spotless descended, 
Leave not your children a birthright of shame ! 

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping ! 
Wait not till Honour lies wrapped in his pall ! 
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping, — 
" Off for the wars ! " is enough for them all ! 

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered. 
Furrowed and ridged by the battlefield's plough. 
Comes the loud summons ; too long you have slumbered, 
Hear the last Angel-trump, — Never or Now ! 

Oliver We fide I I Holmes. 



pLEVEN men of England 

'^ A breastwork charged in vain ; 

Eleven men of England 

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. 
Slain ; but of foes that guarded 
Their rock-built fortress well. 
Some twenty had been mastered, 
When the last soldier fell. 

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way 

Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, 
Then flashed at once, on each tierce clan, dismay. 

Lord of their wild Truckee. 
These missed the glen to which their steps were bent 

Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, 
And, in that glorious error, calmly went 

To death without a word. 

The robber-chief mused deeply 

Above those daring dead ; 
" Bring here," at length he shouted, 

" Bring quick, the battle thread — 
Let Eblis blast for ever 

Their souls, if Allah will : 
But we must keep unbroken 

The old rules of the Hill. 



" Before the Ghiznee tiger 

Leapt forth to burn and slay ; 
Before the holy Prophet 

Taught our grim tribes to pray ; 
Before Secunder's lances 

Pierced through each Indian glen ; 
The mountain laws of honour 

Were framed for fearless men. 

" Still, when a chief dies bravely, 

We bind with green one wrist — 
Green for the brave, for heroes 

ONE crimson thread we twist. 
Say ye, O gallant hillmen, 

For these, whose life has fled. 
Which is the fitting colour. 

The green one or the red ? " 

" Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear 
Their green reward," each noble savage said ; 

" To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear. 
Who dares deny the red ? " 

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, 
Fresh from the heart their haughty verdict came ; 

Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height 
Rolled back its loud acclaim. 

Once more the chief gazed keenly 

Down on those daring dead ; 
From his good sword their heart's blood 

Crept to that crimson thread. 



Once more he cried, " The judgment, 
Good friends, is wise and true, 

But though the red be given. 
Have we not more to do I 

" These were not stirred by anger. 

Nor yet by lust made bold ; 
Renown they thought above them, 

Nor did they look for gold. 
To them their leader's signal 

Was as the voice of God : 
Unmoved and uncomplaining. 

The path it showed they trod. 

*' As, without sound or strugale, 

The stars unhurrying march, 
Where Allah's finger guides them. 

Through yonder purple arch. 
These men, sublimely silent, 

Without a quickened breath, 
Went in the strength of duty 

Straight to their goal of death. 

" If I were now to ask you 

To name our bravest man. 
Ye all at once would answer, 

They called him Mehrab Khan. 
He sleeps among his fathers, 

Dear to our native land. 
With the bright mark he bled for 

Firm round his faithful hand. 



" The songs they sing of Rustum 

Fill all the past with light ; 
If truth be in their music, 

He was a noble knight. 
But were those heroes living 

And strong for battle still, 
Would Mehrab Khan or Rustum 

Have climbed, like these, the hill ? " 

And they replied, " Though Mehrab Khan was brave, 
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run ; 

Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, 
Which these had never done." 

" Enough 1 " he shouted fiercely ; 

" Doomed though they be to hell. 
Bind fast the crimson trophy 

Round BOTH wrists— bind it well. 
Who knows but that great Allah 

May grudge such matchless men. 
With none so decked in heaven. 

To the fiends' flaming den ? " 

Then all those gallant robbers 

Shouted a stern *' Amen ! " 
They raised the slaughtered sergeant. 

They raised his mangled ten. 
And when we found their bodies 

Left bleaching in the wind, 
Around BOTH wrists in glory 

That crimson thread was twined. 



The Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, 
Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed, 

He bade its memory live for evermore, 
That those who run may read. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyk, 




\TOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West 
■'■ ^ died away ; 

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay ; 
Bluish 'mid the burnirtg water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; 
In the dimmest North- East distance dawned Gibraltar grand 

and grey ; 
" Here and here did England help me : how can I help 

England ? " — say, 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn *o God to praise and 

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

Robert Browning. 



T T was upon an April morn, 
-*■ While yet the frost lay hoar, 
We heard Lord James's bugle-horn 
Sound by the rocky shore. 

Then down we went, a hundred knights, 

All in our dark array, 
And flung our armour in the ships 

That rode within the bay. 

We spoke not as the shore grew less, 

But gazed in silence back, 
Where the long billows swept away 

The foam behind our track. 

And aye the purple hues decay'd 

Upon the fading hill. 
And but one heart in all that ship 

Was tranquil, cold, and still. 

The good Lord Douglas walk'd the deck, 

And oh, his brow was wan ! 
Unlike the flush it used to wear 

When in the battle van. — 



" Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight, 

Sir Simon of the Lee ; 
There is a freit lies near my soul 

I fain would tell to thee. 

" Thou know'st the words King Robert spoke 

Upon his dying day, 
How he bade me take his noble heart 

And carry it far away ; 

" And lay it in the holy soil 

Where once the Saviour trod. 
Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, 

Nor strike one blow for God. 

" Last night as in my bed I lay, 

I dream'd a dreary dream : — 
Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand 

In the moonlight's quivering beam. 

" His robe was of the azure dye, 

Snow-white his scatter'd hairs, 
And even such a cross he bore 

As good Saint Andrew bears. 

" * Why go you forth. Lord James,' he said, 

' With spear and belted brand ? 
Why do you take its dearest pledge 

From this our Scottish land ? 

" ' The sultry breeze of Galilee 
Creeps through its groves of palm. 

The olives on the Holy Mount 
Stand glittering in the calm. 



" ' But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart 

Shall rest by God's decree, 
Till the great angel calls the dead 

To rise from earth and sea ! 

" ' Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede ! 

That heart shall pass once more 
In fiery fight against the foe, 

As it was wont of yore. 

" ' And it shall pass beneath the Cross, 
And save King Robert's vow, 

But other hands shall bear it back. 
Not, James of Douglas, thou ! ' 

" Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray. 

Sir Simon of the Lee — 
For truer friend had never man 

Than thou hast been to me — 

" If ne'er upon the Holy Land 

'Tis mine in life to tread, 
Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth 

The relics of her dead." 

The tear was in Sir Simon's eye 
As he wrung the warrior's hand — 

" Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
I'll hold by thy command. 

" But if in battle front. Lord James, 

'T is ours once more to ride. 
No force of man, nor craft of fiend. 

Shall cleave me from thy side ! " 



And aye we sail'd, and aye we sail'd 

Across the weary sea, 
Until one morn the coast of Spain 

Rose grimly on our lee. 

And as we rounded to the port, 

Beneath the watch-tower's wall, 
We heard the clash of the atabals, 

And the trumpet's wavering call. 

" Why sounds yon Eastern music here 

So wantonly and long, 
And whose the crowd of armfcd men 

That round yon standard throng ? " 

" The Moors have come from Africa 

To spoil and waste and slay, 
And King Alonzo of Castile 

Must fight with them to-day." 

"Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, 

" Shall never be said of me, 
That I and mine have turn'd aside, 

From the Cross in jeopardie! 

" Have down, have down, my merry men all — 

Have down unto the plain ; 
We'll let the Scottish lion loose 

Within the fields of Spain ! " 

" Now welcome to me, noble lord. 

Thou and thy stalwart power ; 
Dear is the sight of a Christian knight 

Who comes in such an hour ! 



" Is it for bond or faith yc come, 

Or yet for golden fee ? 
Or bring ye France's lilies here, 

Or the flower of Burgundie ? " 

" God greet thee well, thou valiant King, 

Thee and thy belted peers — 
Sir James of Douglas am I called, 

And these are Scottish spears. 

" We do not fight for bond or plight. 

Nor yet for golden fee ; 
But for the sake of our blessed Lord, 

Who died upon the tree. 

" We bring our great King Robert's heart 

Across the weltering wave. 
To lay it in the holy soil 

Hard by the Saviour's grave. 

" True pilgrims we, by land or sea. 

Where danger bars the way ; 
And therefore are we here, Lord King, 

To ride with thee this day ! " 

The King has bent his stately head, 
And the tears were in his eyne — 

" God's blessing on thee, noble knight. 
For this brave thought of thine ! 

" I know thy name full well. Lord James, 

And honour'd may I be, 
That those who fought beside the Bruce 

Should fight this day for me ! 



" Take thou the leading of the van, 

And charge the Moors amain ; 
There is not such a lance as thine 

In all the host of Spain ! " 

The Douglas turned towards us then, 

O but his glance was high ! — 
" There is not one of all my men 

But is as bold as I. 

" There is not one of all my knights 

But bears as true a spear — 
Then onwards ! Scottish gentlemen. 

And think — King Robert's here ! " 

The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew. 

The arrows flashed like flame. 
As spur in side, and spear in rest. 

Against the foe we came. 

And many a bearded Saracen 

Went down, both horse and man ; 

For through their ranks we rode like corn, 
So furiously we ran ! 

But in behind our path they closed, 

Though fain to let us through. 
For they were forty thousand men. 

And we were wondrous few. 

We might not see a lance's length, 

So dense was their array, 
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade 

Still held them hard at bay. 



" Make in ! make in ! " Lord Douglaa cried, 

'* Make in, my brethren dear ! 
Sir William of Saint Clair is down ; 

We may not leave him here ! " 

But thicker, thicker, grew the swarm, 

And sharper shot the rain, 
And the horses reared amid the press. 

But they would not charge again. 

" Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James, 
" Thou kind and true St. Clair ! 

An' if I may not bring thee off, 
I'll die beside thee there ! " 

Then in his stirrups up he stood, 

So lionlike and bold. 
And held the precious heart aloft 

All in its case of gold. 

He flung it from him, far ahead, 

And never spake he more, 
But — " Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart, 

As thou wert wont of yore ! 

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, 

And heavier still the stour. 
Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, 

And swept away the Moor. 

" Now praised be God, the day is won ! 

They fly o'er flood and fell — 
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard. 

Good Knight that fought so well ? " 



" Oh, ride ye on, Lord King ! " he said, 

" And leave the dead to me, 
For I must keep the dreariest watch 

That ever I shall dree ! 

« There lies, beside his master's heart, 

The Douglas, stark and grim ; 
And woe is me I should be here, 

Not side by side with him ! 

« The world grows cold, my arm is old. 

And thin my lyart hair. 
And all that I loved best on earth 

Is stretch'd before me there. 

" O Bothwell banks ! that bloom so bright, 

Beneath the sun of May, 
The heaviest cloud that ever blew 

Is bound for you this day. 

" And, Scotland, thou may'st veil thy head 

In sorrow and in pain ; 
The sorest stroke upon thy brow 

Hath fallen this day in Spain ! 

" We'll bear them back unto our ship. 

We'll bear them o'er the sea. 
And lay them in the hallowed earth, 

Within our own countrie. 

"And be thou strong of heart. Lord King, 

For this I tell thee sure, 
The sod that drank the Douglas' blood 

Shall never bear the Moor ! " 



The King he lighted from his horse, 

He flung his brand away, 
And took the Douglas by the hand. 

So stately as he lay. 

" God give thee rest, thou valiant soul, 

That fought so well for Spain ; 
I'd rather half my land were gone, 

So thou wert here again ! " 

We bore the good Lord James away, 

And the priceless heart he bore, 
And heavily we steer'd our ship 

Towards the Scottish shore. 

No welcome greeted our return, 

Nor clang of martial tread. 
But all were dumb and hushed as death 

Before the mighty dead. 

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, 

The heart in fair Melrose ; 
And woeful men were we that day — 

God grant their souls repose ! 

JV. E. Aytoiin. 



'■"PIS the streamer of England ; it floats o'er the brave ; 

-*■ 'Tis the fairest unfurled o'er the land or the wave ; 
But, though brightest in story and matchless in fight, 
'Tis the herald of Mercy as well as of Might. 
In the cause of the wronged may it ever be first — 
When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst : 
Be "Justice " the war-shout, and dastard is he 
Who would scruple to die 'neath the Flag of the Free ! 

It may trail o'er the halyards — a bullet-torn rag, 

Or flutter in shreds from the battlement-crag ; 

Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may, 

Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away. 

What matter ! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high. 

Or the soldier's red sash from the spearhead should fly : 

Though it were but a ribbon, the foeman should see 

The proud signal, and own it — the Flag of the Free. 

Have we ever looked out from a far foreign shore 
To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore, 
And watched every speck that arose on the foam, 
In hope of glad tidings from country and home ? 
Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last. 
And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast ? 
Then, then have our hearts learned how precious can be 
The fair streamer of England — the Flag of the Free. 

Eliza Cook. 


OEAT! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 

^-^ Through the windows — through doors — burst like a 

ruthless force, 
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation. 
Into the school where the scholar is studying ; 
Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness now must he 

have with his bride. 
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or 

gathering his grain, 
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums — so shrill you 

bugles blow. 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels in the 

streets ; 
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses ? no 

sleepers must sleep in those beds, 
No bargainers' bargain by day — no brokers or speculators — 

would they continue ? 
Would the talkers be talking ? would the singer attempt to 

sing ? 
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before 

the judge ? 
Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums — you bugles, wilder 


K 145 


Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 
Make no parley — stop for no expostulation, 
Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer, 
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man. 
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's en- 
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie 

awaiting the hearses. 
So strong you thump you terrible drums — so loud you 
bugles blow. 

Walt Whitman. 




C AY not the struggle nought availeth, / 

^ The labour and the wounds are vain, t/ 

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 concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breakmg, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent, Hooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light. 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
Bnt westward, look, the land is bright. 

Jff/}ur Hugh Cloiigh. 



A MID 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 : England, 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 or din to stir their blood. 
But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat 
Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood. 
Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. 
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. 



"D ISE ! for the day is passing, 
■"•^ And you lie dreaming on ; 
The others have buckled their armour 

And forth to the fight are gone : 
A place in the ranks awaits you, 

Each man has some part to play ; 
The Past and the Future are nothing 

In the face of the stern To-Day. 

Rise from your dreams of the Future — 

Of gaining some hard-fought field : 
Of storming some airy fortress, 

Or bidding some giant yield ; 
Your future has deeds of glory. 

Of honour (God grant it may !) 
But your arm will never be stronger, 

Or the need so great as To-Day. 

Rise ! if the Past detains you, 

Her sunshine and storms forget ; 
No chains so unworthy to hold you 

As those of a vain regret : 
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever, 

Cast her phantom arms away. 
Nor look back, save^^to learn the lesson 

Of a nobler strife To-Day. 



Rise ! for the day is passing : 

The sound that you scarcely hear 
Is the enemy marching to battle — 

Arise ! for the foe is here ! 
Stay not to sharpen your weapons, 

Or the hour will strike at last, 
When, from dreams of a coming battle, 

You may wake to find it past ! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



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. 

Oh you who toil and suffer, 

You gladly heard the call ; 
But those you sometimes envy 

Have they not given their all ? 
Oh 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 



YYTE who have seen how proudly she prepares 

^^ For sacrifice, how radiantly her face 
Flasht when the Bugle blew its bloody sounds, 
And bloodier weather fluttered the old Flag ; 
We who have seen her with the red heaps round ! 
We who have known the mightiest powers dasht back 
Broken from her impregnable sea-walls ; 
We who have learned how in the darkest hour 
The greatest light breaks out, and in the time 
Of trial she reveals her noblest strength ; 
We cannot fear for England ; cannot fear, 
We who have felt her big heart beat in ours. 

There's sap in the old Oak ! She lives to sow 
The future forests with her acorns still. 
Hail to thee. Mother of Nations ! mighty yet 
To strive, and suffer, and give overthrow ! 
For all the powers of nature fight for thee. 
Spirits that sleep in glory shall awake. 
Come down and drive thy car of victory 
Over thine enemies' necks. 

Gei'ald Massey. 



ENGLAND, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate 
girdle enrings thee round, 
Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy 

foemen found ? 
Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken, 

acclaims thee crowned. 
Time 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 by eyeless foes : 
Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but 

as madness grows : 



Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, 

beholds and glows. 
Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the 

face of truth : 
Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from 

thy deathless youth : 
Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey 

of the serpent's tooth. 

Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee 

at heel in vain ; 
Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur 

and plead and plain : 
Thou art thou : and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted 

the strength of Spain. 

Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of 

thee England's place : 
Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so 

clothed with grace : 
Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or 

as fair of face. 
How shalt 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. 

Algernoti Charles Swinburne. 



TT ARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands 
•*• ■■• And of armed men the hum ; 
Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum, — 
Saying, " Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum. 

" Let me of my heart take counsel : 

War is not of Life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come ? " 
But the drum 
Echoed, " Come ! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- 
sounding drum. 

" What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder, 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
When my brothers fall around me. 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
Better there in death united than in life a recreant, — come ! " 


Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some. 
Till a trumpet-voice, proclaiming. 
Said, " My chosen people, come ! " 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb. 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 
" Lord, we come ! " 

Bret Harte. 



VVTHAT of the fiiith and fire within us 
'" Men who march away 

Ere the barn-cocks say 

Night is growing gray, 
To hazards whence no tears can win us ; 
What of the faith and fire within us 

Men who march away ? 

Is it a purblind prank, O think you. 
Friend with the musing eye 
Who watch us stepping by, 
With doubt and dolorous sigh ? 

Can much pondering so hoodwink you ! 

Is it a purblind prank, O think you, 
Friend with the musing eye ? 

Nay. We see well what we are doing. 

Though some may not see — 

Dalliers as they be ! — 

England's need are we ; 
Her distress would set us rueing : 
Nay. We see well what we are doing, 

Though some may not see ! 




In our heart of hearts beheving 

Victory crowns the just, 

And that braggarts must 

Surely bite the dust, 
March we to the field ungrieving, 
In our heart of hearts believing 

Victory crowns the just. 

Hence the faith and fire within us 

Men who march away 

Ere the barn-cocks say 

Night is growing gray, 
To hazards whence no tears can win us ; 
Hence the faith and fire within us 

Men who march away. 

Thomas Hardy. 




"TPHOU careless, awake ! 

Thou peacemaker, fight ! 
Stand, England, for honour. 
And God guard the Right I 

Thy mirth lay aside, 

Thy cavil and play : 
The foe is upon thee, 

And grave is the day. 

The monarch Ambition 

Hath harnessed his slaves ; 

But the folk of the Ocean 
Are free as the waves. 

For Peace thou art armed 

Thy Freedom to hold : 
Thy Courage as iron. 

Thy Good-faith as gold. 

Through Fire, Air, and Water 

Thy trial must be : 
But they that love life best 

Die gladly for thee. 



The Love of their mothers 

Is strong to command ; 
The fame of their fathers 

Is might to their hand. 

Much suffering shall cleanse thee ; 

But thou through the tlood 
Shalt win to Salvation, 

To Beauty through blood. 

L^p, careless, awake ! 

Ye peacemakers, fight ! 
England Stands for Honour 

God Defend the Right ! 

Robert B ridge Sy 
Poet Laureate. 



CONS of Shannon, Tamar, Trent, 
^ Men of the Lothians, men of Kent, 
Essex, Wessex, shore and shire. 
Mates of the net, the mine, the fire, 
Lads of desk and wheel and loom. 
Noble and trader, squire and groom. 
Come where the bugles of England play. 
Over the hills aiid far away ! 

Southern Cross and Polar Star — 
Here are the Britons bred afar ; 
Serry, O serry them, fierce and keen, 
Under the flag of the Empress-Queen ; 
Shoulder to shoulder, down the track, 
Where, to the unretreating Jack, 
The victor bugles of England play 
Over the hills a7id far azvay ! 

What if the best of our wages be 
An empty sleeve, a stifF-set knee, 
A crutch for the rest of life — who cares, 
So long as the One Flag floats and dares ? 
So long as the One Race dares and grows ? 
Death — what is death but God's own rose ? 
Let but the bugles of England play 
Over the hills and far away ! 

IV. E. Henley. 




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 ! 

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 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, 

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 ! 

/F. E. Henley. 



'~r'HE harvest is housed on the ■ Downs, from Brighton to 

Beachy Head ; 
The Southdown flocks are gathering gray round each dim farm- 
stead ; 
The sheen of a long-tvaned moon entrances a silken night. 
Soothing the sulky zvavelets that fall and flash in its light. 
The flocks of the Downs are triple : the first to their folding 

Where the slope meets the shingle, the second — the white-fleecea 

wave-wethers play ; 
The third, from the moonlit meadows of heaven — unshepherded 

Of wool-capt clouds — cast shadows of mystery over the rocks ; 
j4 thwart the low moon hurrying on by the tranquil coasts. 
Mingling with gray sea-mists they move — an army of ghosts. 
From the feet of the white chalk cliffs no sounds of the 

wavelets come ; 
The folds of the gracious downland slopes are in slumber dumb ; 
But the night has many V^oices for those that have ears to 

hear — 
Ghost-voices now, but they rang round the world for tnany a 


1 66 


Prima Vox : Cceur de Lion 

They called me the Lion-hearted, and unto my kin I cry : 
Ye have heard what I did in my day when the Saracen's 

menace was nigh ; 
Ye have heard how I vowed a vow by the golden cross of 

my sword, 
To rescue the Holy Tomb from the clutch of the unclean 

horde ; 
Ye have heard how I kept my vow by our blessed Redeemer's 

With the cross of my sword in my grip through the days of 

that long crusade : 
Children of England, I hail ye ; the Lion-heart still beats, 
Mightily as of old in the thousands that throng your streets ; 
The Lion-heart calls to lion-hearts — calls to his kin to-night — 
Come forth, come forth ; for the holy cause that I smote 

for, smite ! 
Smite for the ruin of those that, speaking the Sacred Name, 
Stood by with a laugh while the holy places arose in flame ! 
Smite like men or be crushed by Tyranny's iron heel ! 
Smite as I smote till the tyrannous horse and his rider reel ! 
Avenge ye the sacred ruins where satyrs in helmets roam — 
The Holy of Holies laid waste, avenge ye the burning 

Home ! 



Secunda Vox : Sir Richard Grenville 

Out of unsounded depths of green sea that was my grave, 
My voice has arisen to mix with the clash and clang of the 

wave ; 
And I know that when ever the sound of waves is in 

English ears, 
The guns of my gallant Revenge shall roar through the 

spacious years ; 
I know that though sands have buried the skeleton ribs of 

her wreck, 
They have not buried the story of how I died on her deck. 
Not for the glory of battle, but only for England's sake, 
I am speaking the self-same words that ever in lite I spake. 
For England's sake forget not through battle's stress and 

That, fighting for England's sake, ye are lighting for 

Freedom's lite ! 

Tertia Vox : Drake 

If my voice were the voice that I heard when rounding the 

Southern Horn — 
The war cry that rose from two oceans by hurricanes 

broken and torn — 
If my voice were the voice that I heard when the hundreds 

of brazen lips 
Of the guns of the mighty Armada spake thunderous words 

to our ships— 
I would send it forth with a message all England's manhood 

should claim — 
A fire-ship message to set all hearts that it touched aflame. 



Ye will come when I call, ye sons of the men that were 

called not in vain, 
In the days when our England humbled the tyrant of 

splendid Spain, 
Ye will come to humble the tyrant — play manfully England's 

In the fight he forced when his blow he aimed at our 

England's heart ! 
Enough ; we wasted not words in the days of Raleigh and 

Drake ; 
We shut with a snap our teeth and then our cutlasses spake. 
I found not wisdom in words, they go not far to persuade : 
Look to your priming, my men, and trust to a good steel 

blade I 

QuARTA Vox : Marlborough 

Ramillies, Gudenarde, Blenheim, these were the names that 

Proof of a compact made and redeemed by a nation's blood. 
When England's honour demanded, as now her honour 

That the sword which was kept long sheathed should be 

drawn by English hands. 
I have trodden each foot of the ground that now your 

battalions tread ; 
I have seen the green of those meadows beyond the dykes 

grow red ; 
And doubt not, ye who are marching with resolute feet 

That whithsoever ye go I shall not be far away. 



Ramillies, Oudenarde, Blenheim, name them and ye shall 

When the bugle sounds for the charge, I shall not be far 

Who dares to say that the work of Marlborough faltered 

The vault was closed on the coffin of Marlborough, leader 

of men ? 
Ramillies, Oudenarde, Blenheim ; they sound like the swing 

of a sword ; 
Charge with those names in your heart when the captain 

giveth the word ! 

QuiNTA Vox : Clive 

Were 1 buried a thousand fathoms down in the darkest 

wave — 
Were half of the great Himalayas heaped over me in my 

I would rise from the thrall of such prison in joy of hearing 

the tread 
Of the turbaned hosts of Ind against England's foemen led. 
These were my gift to England, and England my gift to 

these : 
One Empire of many peoples that laugh at the sund'ring 

of seas : 
This was my gift of Empire, to join the East to the West — 
Comrades in arms, one purpose beating in every breast — 
I send ye a word of greeting : the day that I hoped for 

is now, 
The banyan of many branches is twined with the green oak 

bough ! 



Sexta Vox : Nelson 

What word can I send to the iron men ot the iron fleet ? 
What signal bid them to hoist when the enemy's ships they 

meet ? 
Who will better the bunting that spake from the admiral's 

When the morn of Trafalgar declared that our vigil of 

months was past ? 
Our England expects to-day what our England expected 

then ; 
Oak walls, or iron, what matters, so long as behind them 

are men ? 
If your hearts are the hearts of men, then nothing can 

matter much ; 
Put men' s hearts into your work, that's the true Nelson 

touch ! 

Ultima Vox : Wellington 

I that freed Europe once from the blood-stained despot's 

thrall — 
I was not one to doubt ye would answer your country's 

When he who had cherished the hope ot war alone for 

war's sake — 
Who had worshipped the sword as his God, his arrogant 

word outspake. 
The Teuton Nebuchadnezzar had sent forth his decree ; 
At the sound of the Teuton music all Europe should bend 

the knee ; 



But he who had dreamed of battles though never a battle 

had known — 
Who had measured England's honour by the rule he applied 

to his own — 
When his fist he shook in the face of the world that he 

thought to win, 
Forgot that his Mailed Fist was the hand of a manikin ! 
Down with the puny Napoleon ! Down with his merciless 

horde ! 
No chance in the future to play with that perilous toy, the 

sword ! 
That is the message of one who for years made battle to 

cease — 
For Wellington, master of war, was Wellington, maker of 

peace ! 

Day breaks over the Dozv?!s,from Brighton to Beachy Head ; 
The sea is no longer silent ; smoke rises from each homestead; 
The shadowy mists that hovered over the moonlit coasts, 
Waving inanimate hands, steal off' like wandering ghosts — 
Like guardian ghosts of a Nation that turns to the past an ear-. 
And, listefiing, learns to look to the future without a fear. 

F. Frankfort Moore. 

September i6tli, 1914. 



"V'OURS, not for self, to wield the sword — 
■*• Yours, not for self, to speak the word 
Duty, — which leads, perchance, to death. 
Ay, self-less death, your mortal breath 
Is doubly glorified, thereby ; 
'Tis ever thus that heroes die. 

Awakened from inglorious ease, 
Your call has come at length 
Floats now your flag in every breeze. 
Put on, put on, your strength ! 

Remember, English lads, Louvain ; 
Dream, stalwart Scotsmen, once again 
Of old oppression ; ye from Wales 
Think how a little State prevails 
When just. Let sons of Ireland feel 
For Belgium 'neath the foeman's heel. 

Let each, awakening from his ease, 
Hear his " clear call " at length, 

Behold his flag in every breeze 
And so put forth his strength. 



What ! though amid the noontide glare, 
What ! though amid the balm)'^ air 
Of August nights your comrades died 
Retreating. Let it be your pride 
Aye to outshine them, till at last 
War's lurid storm-clouds all are past. 

Awakened from inglorious ease 
Here sounds your call at length ! 

There ! floats your flag o'er lands and seas ! 
Be glad ! put forth your strength ! 

Mackenzie Bell. 
September I2th, 19 14 



LJAD I the fabled herb 

''■ -*• That brought to life the dead, 

Whom would I dare disturb 

In his eternal bed ? 
Great Grenville would I wake, 
And with glad tidings make 
The soul of mighty Drake 

Heave up a glorying head. 

As rose the misty sun. 

Our men the North Sea scanned, 
And each rejoicing gun 

Welcomed a Foe at hand. 
And thundering its delight, 
Opened its mouth outright, 
And bit them in the Bight, 

The Bight of Heligoland. 

With Captains who could each 
Do aught but yield or flee ; 

With guns that spake the speech 
Shall keep this Kingdom free ; 



We hammered to their doom 
Four Giants mid the gloom, 
And one to a fiercer tomb 
Sent blazing down the sea. 

Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well, 

In days not wholly dire ! 
Grenville, whom nought could quell, 

Unquenched is still thy fire. 
And thou that hadst no peer, 
^ Nelson ! thou need'st not fear : 

Thy sons and heirs are here, 
i Nor shall they shame their sire. 

William Watson. 

The Times, Aug. 31 si, 1914- 



1VA ELINITE, lyddite, darkened heaven, 

-*-"-*■ But straight at the guns the Lancers rode 

By the light of the rage that within them glowed — 

Straight at the guns, the deadly Eleven 

That had raked and shelled them seven times seven. 

With never a halt or a needless word — 

With never a screen from the shattering breath 

Of a myriad iron throats of death — 

At the cannon in ambush our horsemen spurred, 

Knights of liberty, Glory's sons, 

And slew the gunners beside their guns, 

And captured the cannon, the roaring Eleven, 

That deafened the earth and darkened the heaven. 

Then their dauntless remnant came 

Out of the hurricane, out of the flame. 

Covered with smoke and dust and fame. 

Shout, you shires, with a chorus sent 
Ringing from Caithness right to Kent, 
From far Northumberland down past Devon 
Shout for your heroes, Britain's sons, 
Who quenched in silence the thundering guns 
That darkened like doom the golden heaven. 
The courage that lifted their hearts shall leaven 



All who in England's name go forth, 
From east and west, from south and north, 
As our fathers did, full seven times seven ; 
All who go forth in England's name. 
Born to o'ercome as our sires o'ercame. 
All who go forth to the field of fame. 
Under the great God-speed of Heaven. 

William Wat son. 
The Times, Sept. 5, 1914. 



C ONS of her who keeps her fiiith unbroken, 
^ Her who gave you might of limb and nerve, 
Her whose service — be it devoutly spoken — 
Perfect freedom is, for all who serve : 

Her who gave you dower of iron sinew. 

Her who made you strong and swift and brave — 

Give her all the manhood that is in you : 
'Tis the royal gift her own hands gave. 

England's safety — England's dearer honour — 
Both forbid that you should halt and wait 

Till the Enemy be indeed upon her, 

He who vaunts and flaunts him at her gate. 

Heed not overmuch when she is slandered ; 

Yours to guard her from a Bully's blow ; 
Yours to arm, and rally to her standard ; 

Yours to rise, and face the brutal foe. 



Men of England — men of loyal Ireland — 
Men of faithful Scotland, faithful Wales — 

Forth and fight, for motherland and sire-land, 
Fight for Right, that in the end prevails ! 

Then, though yonder battlefields be gory, 
You shall make them great and splendid too, 

And with laurel of eternal glory 

She we love shall crown your deeds and you. 

William Watson. 



VVTHO carries the gun ? 

'^ A lad from over the Tweed. 
Then let him go, for well we know 

He comes of a soldier breed. 
So drink together to rock and h:'ather, 

Out where the red deer run, 
And stand aside for Scotland's pride — 
The man that 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 ! " 

And fighting's to be done. 
Come one, come all, you stand or fall 

By the man who holds the gun. 

Who carries the gun I 

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 that 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 that 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 H'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. 
Then let him go, for well wc 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 son, 
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 Hank, 
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 holds the gun. 

A, Cona7i Doyle. 



"The Old and Bold." 

VVyHEN England sets her banner forth 

' ' And bids her armour shine, 
She'll not forget the famous North, 

The lads of moor and Tyne ; 
And when the loving-cup's in hand, 

And Honour leads the cry, 
They know not old Northumberland 

Who'll pass her memory by. 

When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar 

With all his country's best. 
He held them dear as brothers are, 

But one beyond the rest. 
For when the fleet with heroes manned 

To clear the decks began. 
The boast of old Northumberland 

He sent to lead the van. 

Himself by Victory s bulwarks stood 

And cheered to see the sight ; 
" That noble fellow Collingwood, 

How bold he goes to fight ! " 
Love, that the league of Ocean spanned, 

Heard him as face to face ; 
" What would he give, Northumberland, 

To share our pride of place I " 



The flag that goes the world around 

And flaps on every breeze 
Has never gladdened fairer ground 

Or kinder hearts than these. 
So when the loving-cup's in hand 

And Honour leads the cry, 
They know not old Northumberland 

Who'll pass her memory by. 

Henry "Newbolt. 



(October, 1899) 

' I 'HEY saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways 

■*■ cleared, 
They heard the women weeping, they heard the men that 

cheered ; 
Far off, far off, the tumult faded and died away, 
And all alone the sea-wind came singing up the Bay. 

" I came by Cape St. Vincent, I came by Trafalgar, 
I swept from Torres Vedras to golden Vigo Bar, 
I saw the beacons blazing that fired the world with light 
When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to 

" O race of tireless fighters, flushed with a youth renewed. 
Right well the wars of Freedom befit the Sea-kings' brood ; 
Yet as ye go forget not the fame of yonder shore. 
The fame ye owe your fathers and the old time before. 

" Long-suffering were the Scu-kings, they were not swift to 

Rut when the sands had fallen they waited no man's will ; 
Though all the world forbade them, they counted not nor 

They weighed not help or hindrance, they did the thing they 


1 86 


" The Sea-kings loved not boasting, they cursed not him 

that cursed, 
They honoured all men duly, and him that faced them, first ; 
They strove and knew not hatred, they smote and toiled to 

They tended whom they vanquished, they praised the fallen 


" Their fame's on Torres Vedras, their fame's on Vigo Bar, 
Far-flashed to Cape St. Vincent it burns from Trafalgar ; 
Mark as ye go the beacons that woke the world with light 
When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to 

Henry Newbolt. 




T^RAKE 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 gees ct arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. 

Drake he was a Devon man, an' rliled 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. 
" Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, 

Strike et when your ])0wder'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 

Drake he's in his hanmiock 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 Netvbolt. 


CFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, 
'-^ Here's to the bold and free ! 
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, 

Hail to the Kings of the Sea ! 
Admirals all, for England's sake. 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Admirals all, for England's sake. 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson^ s peerless name ! 

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay 

With the galleons fair in sight ; 
Howard at last must give him his way. 

And the word was passed to fight. 
Never was schoolboy gayer than he. 

Since holidays first began : 
He tossed hfs 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 Texcl 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 ! " 
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 fatrie ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break. 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Henry New holt. 



D LOW, bugles, blow, soft and sweet and low, 

"^ing a good-night song for them who bravely faced 
the foe ; 
Sing a song of truce to pain, 
Where they sleep nor wake again, 
'Neath the sunshine or the rain — 
Blow, bugles, blow. 

Fall, blossoms, fall, over one and all. 

They who heard their country's cry and answered to the 
call ; 

'Mid the shock of shot and shell, 

Where they bled and where they fell, 

They who fought so long and well — 
Fall, blossoms, fall. 

Sigh, breezes, sigh, so gently wandering by. 
Bend above them tenderly, blue of summer sky ; 

All their weary marches done. 

All their battles fought and won. 

Friend and lover, sire and son — 
Sigh, breezes, sigh. 

J. S. McGroarty. 



LJATS off! 

^ Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 

A flash of colour beneath the sky : 

Hats off! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Blue and crimson and white it shines, 

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 

Hats off ! 

The colours before us fly ; 

But more than the flag is passing by: 

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State : 
Weary marches and sinking ship:; ; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips ; 

Days of plenty and years of peace ; 
March of a strong land's swift increase ; 
Equal justice, right and law. 
Stately honour and reverend awe ; 



Sign of a nation, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong : 
Pride and glory and honour, — all 
Live in the colours to stand or fall. 

Hats off! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums ; 

And loyal hearts are beating high : 

Hats off! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Hetiry HoIcojhI Be?inett, 



POR all we have and are, 

For all our children's fate, 

Stand up and meet the war. 

The Hun is at the gate ! 

Our world has passed away 

In wantonness o'erthrown. 

There is nothing left to-day 

But steel and fire and stone ! 

Though all we knew depart, 
The old commandments stand : 
" In courage keep your heart, 
In strength lift up your hand." 

Once more we hear the word 
That sickened earth of old : 
" No law except the Sword 
Unsheathed and uncontrolled." 
Once more it knits mankind, 
Once more the nations go 
To meet and break and bind 
A crazed and driven foe. 
Comfort, content, delight. 
The ages' slow-bought gain. 
They shrivelled in a night, 
Only ourselves remain 



To face the naked days 
In silent fortitude, 
Through perils and dismays 
Renewed and re-renewed. 

Though all we made depart, 
The old commandments stand : 
" In patience keep your heart. 
In strength lift up your hand." 

No easy hopes or lies 
Shall bring us to our goal. 
But iron sacrifice 
Of body, will, and soul. 
There is but one task for all — 
For each one life to give. 
Who stands if freedom fall ? 
Who dies if England live ? 

RuJyard Kiplvig. 



/^ OD 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 ! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 

In recking 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. 


Song. By the author of "Tommy Atkins." 

" \/ OUR King and Country need you ! " 

The trumpet-note rings clear : 
Ye have a man to lead you, 

Be ye the men to hear. 
All warning hath been sterile, 

Now wake to War's alarms ! 
When Freedom's hour of peril 

Is Britain's call " To Arms ! " 

Who speaks to-day of " classes " ? 

When England hails with i)ride 
Her " classes " and her " masses " 

One Manhood side by side ; 
One battle-front far flinging 

Of fleet and man and gun : 
To " We're at War ! " comes winging 

The echo " We're at one ! " 

By Him in Whom our trust is, 
And Who shall make award, 

For truth it is and justice 

That England draws the sword, 



Which like her faith is flawless, 

And like her courage keen ; 
And of ambitions lawless 

Her good right hand is clean. 

Our fathers that begot us 

That won to Freedom's goal, 
Their deeds, this day, allot us ; 

They bid the freeman's soul 
Which we from them inherit 

To move us now as then, 
To mould us on their merit. 

To quit ourselves like men. 

Up with the Flag of England 
And nail it to the mast ! 
That, friend and foe, the world may know 
We — and our word — stand fast. 
That Wrong may triumph never, 
Nor Freedom fear attack, 
T'o guard the Right and front the fight 
Up with the Union Jack ! 

Henry Hamilton. 


Political morality diBers from individual morality, because there 
is no power above the State. — General von Bernliardi. 

CHADOW by shadow, stripped for fight, 
^ The lean black cruisers search the sea. 
Night-long their level shafts of light 

Revolve and find no enemy. 
Only they know each leaping wave 
May hide the lightning and their grave : 

And, in the land they guard so well, 

Is there no silent watch to keep ? 
An age is dying ; and the bell 

Rings midnight on a vaster deep ; 
But over all its waves once more 
The search-lights move from shore to shore : 

And captains that we thought were dead. 
And dreamers that we thought were dumb, 

And voices that we thought were fled 
Arise and call us, and we come : 

And " Search in thine own soul," they cry, 

" For there, too, lurks thine enemy." 


Search for the foe in thine own soul, 

The sloth, the intellectual pride. 
The trivial jest that veils the goal 

For which our fathers lived and died ; 
The lawless dreams, the cynic art, 
That rend thy nobler self apart. 

Not far, not far into the night 

These level swords of light can pierce ; 

Yet for her faith does England fight, 
Her faith in this our universe. 

Believing Truth and Justice draw 

From founts of everlasting law : 

The law that guides the stars, her stay. 

Her compass through the world's wide sea ; 

The one sure Light, the one sure Way ; 
The one firm base of Liberty ; 

The one firm road that men have trod 

Through chaos to the Throne of God. 

Therefore a Power above the State, 

The unconquerable Power, returns. 
The fire, the fire that made her great. 

Once more upon her altar burns. 
Once more, redeemed and healed and whole. 
She moves to the Eternal Goal. 

Alfred Noyes. 



An English Adaptation 

"VT'E sons of freedom, wake to glory ! 
-*■ Hark ! hark ! what myriads bid you rise ! 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, 
Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding. 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
Affright and desolate the land. 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding ? 

To arms ! to arms, ye brave ! 

The avenging sword unsheath ; 
March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 

On victory or death. 

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling. 
Which treacherous kings, confederate, raise ; 
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 
And lo ! our fields and cities blaze ; 
And shall we basely view the ruin, 

While lawless force, with guilty stride, 

Spreads desolation far and wide, 
With crimes and blood his hands imbruing ? 



With luxury and pride surrounded, 
The vile, insatiate despots dare. 
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded, 
To meet and vend the light and air ; 
Like beasts of burden would they load us, 
Like gods would bid their slaves adore : 
But man is man, and who is more ? 
Then, shall they longer lash and goad us ? 

O Liberty ! can man resign thee, 
Once having felt thy generous flame ? 
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee ? 
Or whips thy noble spirit tame ? 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield, 
But freedom is our sword and shield, 
And all their arts are unavailing. 

To arms ! to arms, ye brave ! 

The Avenging sword unsheathe ; 
March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 

On victory or death. 

(F) R. W. Longfellozo. 




A LLONS, enfants de la Patrie, 
•^*- Le jour de gloire est arrive ; 
Contra nous de la tyrannic 
L'^tendard sanglant est leve, 
Entendez-v^ous dans ces campagnes 
Mugir ces feroces soldats ? 
lis viennent jusque dans vos bras 
Egorger nos fils, nos campagnes ! . . . 
Aux armes, citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 

Marchons, marchons ! 
Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons I 
Aux armes . . . 

Que veut cette horde d'esclaves, 
De traftres, de rois conjures? 
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves, 
Ces fers des longtemps prepares ? 
Fran^ais, pour nous, ah ! quel outrage I 
Quels transports 11 doit exciter ! 
C'est nous qu'on ose mediter 
De rendre a I'antique esclavage I 
Aux armes . . . 



Quoi ! ces cohortes ^trang&res 
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers ? 
Quoi ! ces phalanges mercenaires 
Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers?^ 
Grand Dieu ! par des mains enchatnees 
Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient ! 
De vils despotes deviendraient 
Les maitres de nos destinees. 
Aux amies . . . 

Tremblez, tyrans, et vous perfides, 
L'opprobre de tous les partis, 
Tremblez ! vos projets parricides 
Vont enfin recevoir leur prix ! 
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre. 
S'ils tombent, nos jeunes h^ros, 
La terre en produit de nouveaux 
Centre vous tout prets h se battre ! 
Aux armes . . . 

Franqais, en guerriers magnanimes, 
Portez ou retenez vos coups ; 
Epargnez ces tristes victimes 
A regret s'armant contre nous. 
Mais ces despotes sanguinaires, 
Mais les complices de Bouill^, 
Tous ces tigres qui sans pitie 
D^chirent le sein de leurs m^res ! . . . 
Aux armes . . . 

Nous entrerons dans la carri^re 
Ouand nos ainifs n'y seront plus ; 
Nous y trouverons leur poussi^re 
Et la trace de leurs vertus ! 



Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre 
Que de partager leur cercueil, 
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil 
De les venger ou de les suivre ! . . . 
Aux armes . . . 

Amour sacr6 de la Patrie, 

Conduis, soutiens nos braves vengeurs : 

Liberie, Liberte cherie, 

Combats avec tes defenseurs ! 

Sous nos drapeaux que la Victoire 

Accoure k tes males accents ; 

Que tes ennemis expirants 

Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire ! . . . 

Aux armes, citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 

Marchons, marchons ! 
Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons ! 

Claude Joseph Ron get de Lisle. 




13 Freedom —These lines are from Barbour's heroic poem " The 

Bruce" completed in 1376. 

14 Chevy-Chace — " I never heard the old song of Percy and 

Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with 

a trumpet.' — SiR Philip Sidney. 
24 The Ballad of Agincourt— First published in " Poems 

Lyric and Pastoral " (1606). 
29 To the Virginian Voyage — Published in " Poems" (1619). 

32 Brave Lord Willoughby— " The subject of this ballad (which 
is reprinted from an old black-letter copy, with some con- 
jectural emendations) may possibly receive illustration from 
what Chapman saj-s in the dedication to his version of 
Homer's " Frogs and Mice," concerning the brave and 
memorable retreat of Sir John Norris. with only one 
thousand men, through the whole Spanish army, under 
the Duke of Parma, for three miles togetlier. 

" Peregrine Bertie Lord Willoughby of Eresby had, in (he 
year 15S6, distinguished himself at the siege of Zutphen, 
in the Low Countries. He was the year after made 
general of the English forces in the United Provinces, in 
room of the Earl of Leicester, who was recalled. This 
gave him an opportunity of signalising his courage and 
military skill in several actions against the Spaniards. One 
of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably 
the subject of this old ballad. Lord Willoughby died in 
1601." — Thomas Percy. 

36 Sir Patrick Spens — " In what age the hero of this ballad 
lived or when this fatal expedition happened that proved so 

o 209 



destructive to the Scots nobles, I have not been able to 
discover ; yet am of opinion that their catastrophe is not 
without foundation in history, though it has escaped my 
own researches." — Thomas Percy. 

"Of the 'history' of the ballad the less said the 
better . . . There are those who hold that it is the work 
of Lady Wardlaw, which to others, myself among them, is 
a thing preposterous and distraught." — W. E. Henley. 

Mr. T. F. Henderson, in his Scottish Vernacular 
Literature, tells us that in the winter of 1589 James VI. of 
Scotland sent a certain Sir Patrick Vans (there is no record 
of the name of Sir Patrick Spens) to fetch his bride Anne 
of Denmark, who had been driven by a storm on to the 
coast of Norway. No disaster occurred, but there were 
rumours, at the time, that Sir Patrick Vans had been lost 
at sea. 

39 King Henry V. before Harfleur — Henry V.'s Rally, from 
King Henry V., act iii, scene i. 

41 Set in the Silver Sea — From John of Gaunt's solilnquy in 

King Richard H., act ii, scene I. 

42 Naught Shall Make Us Rue -The Words of Philip the 

Bastard, and the last lines of King John. 

43 Lines to a Friend Urging Him to go to the Wars — From 

An Epistle to a Fncnd {JMaster Colby) to persuade him to 
the Wars. 

48 Going to the Wars — Originally published in Lucasta (1649). 

54 The Honour of Bristol — The full title of this spirited song is 
The Honour of Bristol : Shewing how the Angel Gabriel 
of Bristol foitght with three ships, who boarded as many 
times, wherein we cleared our decks and killed five hundred 
of their men, and wottnded many more, and made them 
fly into Cales [Cadiz), when we lost three men, to the 
Ilononr of the Angel Gabriel of Bristol. The verses are 
said to have been written aljout 1630. 

59 Rule, Britannia — Written for The Masque of Alfred, a play by 
Thomson and IMallct. The piece was produced in 1740. 

61 How Sleep the Brave ! — An ode written in 1746. 

62 England With All Thy Faults— From The Task, Book ii, 

line 206. 



64 The Arethusa — The poem does not give quite an accurate 
account of what happened. As a matter of fact the 
A7-ethusa appears to have had the worst of the fight, and 
the Be/Ie Potile was only driven ashore after some other 
English shijis, belonging to Admiral Augustus Keppel's 
fleet in the Channel, came to her assistance. 

68 Robert Bruce's March to Bannockburn— The Scottish 
national song appears to have been posted by Burns on 
September ist, 1793, to George Thomson, the editor of 
Scottish Songs arrani^ed with accompmiimciits by prominent 
musicians oj the period. Burns wrote: "lam delighted 
with many little melodies which the learned musician de- 
spises as silly and insipid. I do not know wliether the old 
air, Hey tittti taiti, may rank among the number ; but well I 
know that it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a 
tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, 
that it was Robert tJruce's March at the battle of Bannock- 
burn. This thought in my yesterday's evening walk, warmed 
me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and 
Independence which 1 threw into a kind ot Scots ode, 
fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant 
royal Scot's address to his heroic fuUowers on that eventful 
morning. ' 

70 British Freedom —This sonnet was written in 1802. 

71 The Happy Warrior — Lines from 7'he Prelude Book, xi. 

74 My Country — One of five sonnets written in 1802. 

75 Britain, Firm as a Rock — From Ode : The Morning of the 

Day Appointed for a General 'J hanksgiving. /amiary 
\%ih, 1S16. 

76 Breathes There the Man— From Lay of the Last Minstrel^ 

Canto vi, Stanza 1. 

77 One Crowded Hour — These lines appear at the beginning 

of Chapter XXXIV of Old Mortality. 

78 Pibroch — First published in Campliell's Albyn^s Anthology 


82 The Battle of the Baltic — Finished in 1805, and first pub- 
lished with Certrmlc of IVyo/nifig (iHog). 

85 Ye Mariners of England — Originally printed iu the 
Morning Chronicle February 5th. iSoi. 


?>7 Battle Song— First published in Corn Law Rhymes (1833). 

88 The Night Before the Battle of Waterloo— Lines from 
Childe Haroltts Pilgrimage, Canto iii, Stanza 21. 

91 The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna— Originally 
appeared in an Irish Newspaper {The Newry Telegraph) 
on April 19th, 1817. 

93 The Old Navy— This "jovial, shiver-my-timbers" ballad is 
from Marryat's novel The Dog Fiend, published in 1837. 

95 The Armada — Originally appeared in Friendship's Offering 
for 1833. 

100 The Song of the Western Men — " Willi the exception of 

the choral lines : — 

And shall Trelawny die ? 
There's twenty thousand Cornishmen 
Will know the reason why — 

and which have been, ever since the imprisonment by 
James IL of the Seven Bishops^one of them Sir James 
Trelawny — a popular proverb throughout Cornwall, the 
whole of this song was composed by me in 1825."— 
An fhor's Note. 

125 Hands All Round — Printed from the version, signed Merlin, 
which appeared in the Examiner of February 7th, 1852. 

128 Never or Now — Written in 1862. 

129 The Red Thread of Honour — An incident of the conquest 

of Sindh by Sir Charles Napier (1782-1853). Napier told 
the story to Sir Francis Doyle. 
135 The Heart of Bruce— By his will King Robert the Bruce 
(1 274- 1 329) desired that his heart should be buried in 
Jerusalem, and it was entrusted to his companion in arms, 
the "Good" Sir James, Lord of Douglas. Tytler, the 
historian, recounts the leading events of the expedition as 
follows: "As soon as the season of the year permitted, 
Douglas, having the heart of his beloved master in his 
charge, set sail from Scotland accompanied by a splendid 
retinue, and anchored off Sluys in Flanders, at this time 
the great seaport of the Netherlands. His object was to 
find out companions with whom he might travel to 
Jerusalem ; V)ut he declined landing, and for twelve days 
received all visitors on board his ship with a state almost 

" At Sluys he heard that Alonzo, the King of Leon and 



Castile, was carrying on war with the Moorish governor of 
Grenada. The religious mission which he had embraced, 
and the vows he had taken before leaving Scotland, induced 
Douglas to consider Alonzo's cause as a holy warfare ; and, 
before proceeding to Jerusalem, he first determined to 
visit Spain, and to signalise his prowess against the 
Saracens. But his first field against the infidels proved 
fatal to him who, in the long English war, had seen 
seventy battles. The circumstances of his death were 
striking and characteristic. In an action near Theba, on 
the borders of Andalusia, the Moorish cavalry were 
defeated ; and, after their camp had been taken, Douglas, 
with his companions, engaged too eagerly in the pursuit, 
and, being separated from the main body of the Spanish 
army, a strong division of the Moors rallied and surrounded 
them. The Scottish knight endeavoured to cut his way 
through the infidels, and in all probability would have 
succeeded, had he mt tried to rescue Sir William St. 
Clair of Roslin, whom he saw in jeopardy. In attempting 
to do so he was inextricably involved with the enemy. 
Taking from his neck the casket which contained the 
heart of Bruce, he cast it before him, and exclaimed with 
a loud voice, ' Pass on, brave heart, as thou wert wont. 
Douglas will follow thee or die ! ' The action and the 
sentiment were heroic, and they were the last words and 
deed of a heroic life, for Douglas fell, overpowered by his 
enemies ; and three of his knights, and many of his 
companions, were slain along with their master. On the 
succeeding day the body and the casket were both found 
on the field, and by his surviving friends conveyed to 
Scotland. The heart of Bruce was deposited at Melrose, 
and the body of the ' Good Sir James '—the name by 
which he is affectionately remembered by his countrymen — 
was consigned to the cemetery of his fathers in the parish 
church of Douglas." 

14S The Birkenhead — First published in the Edinburgh Courant 
of April 30th, 1852. The Birkenhead, a British steam 
troopship, sailed from Queenstown on January 7th, 1852, 
and was wrecked off Simon's Bay, South Africa, on 
February 26th, 1852. She had nearly seven hundred souls 
on board — most of them soldiers — and, after all the women 
and children had been saved, four hundred and fifty of the 
men were formed on deck by their officers, and went down 




with the ship. See Addison's The Story of the Birkenhead 
150 Now, and Lines from " The Lesson of the War "—From 

152 Legends and Lyrics (1S58). The best edition of Miss 

Procter's works is published by G. Bell & Sons. 

154 England, Queen of the Waves — Lines from The Arviada in 
Poems and Ballads (third series) by permission of Mr. 
Swinburne's executors and Messrs. Chatto & Windus. 

166 The Voices^Publishcd for the first time in this volume. 

177 The Charge of the 9th Lancers— Originally appeared in 
the Times of September 5th, 1914. The version included 
in this volume contains six new lines. 

181 A Ballad of the Ranks — From Songs of Action (Smith, 
Elder & Co.). 

184 Northumberland — From "Poems New and Old" (John 
Murray) by permission of Mr. Newbolt, who has also 
allowed me to include The Sailing of the Long-Ships, 
Drake's Drum, and Admirals All. 

188 Drake's Drum— A State drum, painted with the arms of Sir 
P'rancis Drake, is preserved among other relics at Buck- 
land Abbey, the seat of the Drake family in Devon. — 
Henry Neivbolt. 

197 Recessional (by permission of Messrs. Methuen & Co.) — 
The verses were written after the Diamond Jubilee of 
Queen Victoria, and appeared in the Times of July 17th, 

199 The Call to Arms — Published for the first time in this 

205 La Marseillaise — The French national hymn, written in 1792 
by Rouget de Lisle, was first sung by the volunteers of 
Marseilles when they entered Paris, and later at the storm- 
ing of the Tuileries. 



A ! Fredome is a noble thing 

A good sword and a trusty hand .... 

Aliens, enfants de la Patrie 

Amid the loud ebriety of war 

Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in 

As long as we remain, we must speak free 

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

Attend you, and give ear awhile .... 

Beat ! beat ! drums !— blow ! bugles ! blow 
Blow, bugles, blow, soft and sweet and low 
Breathes there the man with soul so dead 
Bury the great Duke 

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold 

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark .... 
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away 

Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake 

Eleven men of England ..... 

England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate girdle 

enrings thee round 















England, with all thy faults, I love thee still 

Fair stood the w ind for France . 
First drink a health, this solemn night 
For all we have and are 

God of our fathers, known of old 
God prosper long our noble king 
God save our gracious king . 

Had I the fabled herb .... 

Half a league, half a league 

Hark I I hear the tramp of thousands 

Hats off 

He, who in concert with an earthly string 
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
Hushed is all party clamour 

It is not to be thought of that the flood 
It was upon an April morn . 

Listen, young heroes ! your country is calling 
Love thou thy land with love far-brought 

IM^linile, lyddite, darkened heaven 
Men of England ! who inherit . 

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the north-west died 
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 

O how comely it is, and how reviving 
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil 

Of Nelson and the North 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more 
One crowded hour of glorious life 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 





Pipes of the misty moorlands 
Prepare, prepare the iron hehn of war 

1 02 


Rise ! for the day is passing 150 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace Ijled . 
Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight 
Sons of her who keeps her faith unbroken 
Sons of Shannon, Tamar, Trent . 
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife 


Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 48 

The captain stood on the carronade : "First Lieutenant," 

says he . . 93 

The fifteenth day of July 32 

The forward youth that would appear 49 

The harvest is housed on the Downs 166 

The King sits in Dunfermline toun 36 

There was a sound of revelry by night 88 

They saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways cleared 186 

This England never did, nor never shall 42 

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle . . •" 4l 

Thou careless, awake 161 

'Tis the streamer of England ; it floats o'er the lirave . . 144 

Wake, friend, from Forth thy lethargy : the drum 

We who have seen how proudly she prepares 

What have I done for you .... 

What of the faith and fire within us . 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command 

When England sets her banner forth . 

When I have borne in memory wliat has tamed 







Who carries the gun ? . 
Who is the Happy Warrior ? 

Who is he 

Ye Mariners of England 

Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease 

You brave heroic minds 

Your king and country need you 

Yours, not for self, to wield the sword 









Richard Clay and Sons, I.imiteh, 

prvinswick street, stamford street. s.e. 

and bungay, suffolk. 







Q09 906