Cloaked in their tar cloths, upnosed to the night:
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
Lamplight all drearily, blinking and blearily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court peril that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded those eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said ‘Nevermore will they come! Evermore
Are they now lost to us!’ Oh, it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways--
Bear them through safely--in brief time or long.
Yet--voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint, in the night-time, when life-beats are low,
Other and graver things.... Hold we to braver things--
Wait we--in trust--what Time’s fullness shall show.
_Thomas Hardy._
DOBSON
XCIX
BALLAD OF THE ARMADA
King Philip had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And scatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us--
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus--
For where are the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!--
But where are the galleons of Spain?
ENVOY
Gloriana!--the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us, ...
And where are the galleons of Spain?
_Austin Dobson._
C
RANK AND FILE
O undistinguished Dead!
Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep
Shows to the stars, for you I mourn--I weep,
O undistinguished Dead!
None knows your name.
Blackened and blurred in the wild battle’s brunt,
Hotly you fell ... with all your wounds in front:--
This is your fame!
_Austin Dobson._
BRIDGES
CI
THE FAIR BRASS
An effigy of brass
Trodden by careless feet
Of worshippers that pass,
Beautiful and complete,
Lieth in the sombre aisle
Of this old church unwreckt,
And still from modern style
Shielded by kind neglect.
It shows a warrior arm’d:
Across his iron breast
His hands by death are charmed
To leave his sword at rest,
Wherewith he led his men
O’ersea, and smote to hell
The astonisht Saracen,
Nor doubted he did well.
Would we could teach our sons
His trust in face of doom,
Or give our bravest ones
A comparable tomb:
Such as to look on shrives
The heart of half its care;
So in each line survives
The spirit that made it fair,
So fair the characters,
With which the dusty scroll,
That tells his title, stirs
A requiem for his soul.
Yet dearer far to me,
And brave as he are they,
Who fight by land and sea
For England at this day;
Whose vile memorials,
In mournful marbles gilt,
Deface the beauteous walls
By growing glory built.
Heirs of our antique shrines,
Sires of our future fame,
Whose starry honour shines
In many a noble name
Across the deathful days,
Link’d in the brotherhood
That loves our country’s praise,
And lives for heavenly good.
_Robert Bridges._
SKRINE
CII
THE GENTLE
We come from tower and grange,
Where the grey woodlands range,
Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease;
From Erin’s rain-wet rocks,
Or where the ocean-shocks
Thunder between the glimmering Hebrides;
And many-spired cities grave,
With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave.
Taught in proud England’s school,
Her honour’s knightly rule,
To do and dare and bear and not to lie,
With priest’s or scholar’s lore
Or statesman’s subtle store
Of garnered wisdom, proved in councils high,
We serve her bidding here, or far
Shepherd the imperial flock under an alien star.
Leechcraft of heaven or earth
We bear to scanted hearth
And lightless doorway and dim beds of pain:
With master-craft we steer
Dusk labour’s march, and cheer
His blind innumerable-handed train;
Or in the cannon-shaken air
Frankly the gentle die that simple men may dare.
The Asian moonbeams fall
O’er our boys’ graves, and all
The o’er-watching hills are names of their young glory:
Sleep the blithe swordsman hands
Beside red Ethiop sands,
Or drear uprise of wintry promontory:
The headstone of a hero slain
Charms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her reign.
O for the blood that fell
So gladly given and well,
O for all spirits that lived for England’s honour,
Ere folly ruin or fear
Her whom these held so dear,
Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her,
Rise, brothers of her knightly roll,
Close fast our order’s ranks and guard great England whole!
_John Huntley Skrine._
CIII
THE MOTHER AND THE SONS
Sons in my gates of the West,
Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine,
And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line,
And wide as the air are the meadows of kine,
What cheer from my gates of the West?
‘Peace in thy gates of the West,
England our mother, and rest,
In our sounding channels and headlands frore
The hot Norse blood of the northern hoar
Is lord of the wave as the lords of yore,
Guarding thy gates of the West.
But thou, O mother, be strong
In thy seas for a girdle of towers,
Holding thine own from wrong,
Thine own that is ours.
Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,
Till the brood of the lion upgrown
In a day not long,
Shall war for our England’s own,
For the pride of the ocean throne,
Be strong, O mother, be strong!’
Sons in my gates of the morn,
That steward the measureless harvest gold
And temples and towers of the Orient old
From the seas of the palm to Himálya cold,
What cheer in my gates of the morn?
‘Fair as our India’s morn
Thy peace, as a sunrise, is born.
Where thy banner is broad in the Orient light
There is law from the seas to Himálya’s height,
For the banner of might is the banner of right.
Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.’
From the Isles of the South what word?
True South! long ago, when I called not, it came,
And ‘England’s are ours’ ran the war-word aflame,
‘And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have shame!’
From my sons of the South what word?
‘Mother, what need of a word
For the love that outspake with the sword?
In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers,
When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours,
They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’
We bring thee a deed for a word.
But thou, O mother, be strong,
In thy seas for a girdle of towers,
Holding thine own from wrong,
Thine own that is ours.
Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,
Till the brood of the lion upgrown
In a day not long,
Shall war for our England’s own,
For the pride of the ocean throne,
Be strong, O mother, be strong!’
_John Huntley Skrine._
HENLEY
CIV
ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you’ve done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
‘Take us and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!’
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England--
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There’s the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown, England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
_William Ernest Henley._
MACKAY
CV
A SONG OF THE SEA
Free as the wind that leaps from out the North,
When storms are hurrying forth,
Up-springs the voice of England, trumpet-clear,
Which all the world shall hear,
As one may hear God’s thunder over-head,--
A voice that echoes through the sunset red,
And through the fiery portals of the morn
Where, day by day, the golden hours are born,--
A voice to urge the strengthening of the bands
That bind our Empire Lands
With such a love as none shall put to scorn!
They little know our England who deny
The claim we have, from zone to furthest zone,
To belt the beauteous earth,
And treat the clamorous ocean as our own
In all the measuring of its monstrous girth.
The tempest calls to us, and we reply;
And not, as cowards do, in under-tone!
The sun that sets for others sets no more
On Britain’s world-wide shore
Which all the tides of all the seas have known.
We have no lust of strife:
We seek no vile dissension for base ends;
Freedom and fame and England are old friends.
Yet, if our foes desire it, let them come,
Whate’er their numbers be!
They know the road to England, mile by mile,
And they shall learn, full soon, that strength nor guile
Will much avail them in an English sea;
We will not hurl them backward to the waves,--
We’ll give them graves!
’Tis much to be so honoured in the main,
And feel no further stain
Than one’s own blood outpoured in lieu of wine.
’Tis much to die in England, and for this
To win the sabre-kiss
Of some true man who deems his cause divine,
And loves his country well.
A foe may calmly dwell
In our sweet soil with daisies for his quilt,--
Their snows to hide his guilt,
And earth’s good warmth about him where he lies
Beyond the burden of all battle-cries,
And made half-English by his resting-place:--
God give him grace!
We love the sea,--the loud, the leaping sea,--
The rush and roar of waters--the thick foam,--
The sea-bird’s sudden cry,--
The gale that bends the lithe and towering masts
Of good ships bounding home,
That spread to the great sky
Exultant flags unmatched in their degree!
And ’tis a joy that lasts,
A joy that thrills the Briton to the soul
Who knows the nearest goal
To all he asks of fortune and of fame,
From dusk to dawn and dawn to sunset-flame.
He knows that he is free,
With all the freedom of the waves and winds
That have the storm in fee.
And this our glory still:--to bear the palm
In all true enterprise,
And everywhere, in tempest and in calm,
To front the future with unfearing eyes,
And sway the seas where our advancement lies,
With Freedom’s flag uplifted, and unfurled;
And this our rallying-cry, whate’er befall,
Goodwill to men, and peace throughout the world,
But England,--England,--England over all!
_Eric Mackay._
SHARP
CVI
THE BALLAD OF THE RAM
Who ’as ’eard the Ram a-callin’ on the green fields o’ the sea,
Let ’em wander east or west an’ mighty fast:
For it’s bad to ’ear the Ram when he’s up an’ runnin’ free
With the angry bit o’ ribbon at the mast.
It’s rush an’ surge an’ dash when the Ram is on the leap,
But smash an’ crash for them as stops the way:
The biggest ship goes down right there that ain’t got sense to keep
The shore-walk o’ the werry nearest bay.
For Frenchy ships, an’ German too, an’ Russian, you may bet,
It’s safer for to land an’ ’ome by tram,
Than out to come an’ gallivant an’ risk the kind o’ wet
That follers runnin’ counter to a Ram.
For when the _Terror_ lifts ’is ’ead an’ goes for wot is near,
I’m sorry for them ships wot sails so free:
It’s best to up an’ elsewhere, an’ be werry far from ’ere,
When Rams ’ave took to bleatin’ on the sea!
_William Sharp._
RODD
CVII
SPRING THOUGHTS
My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away,
It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May.
Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside
Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride;
Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note
Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat.
O England, island England, if it has been my lot
To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not,
I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows,
The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose,
The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled,
The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world:
I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured trees,
The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas.
The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes,
The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide comes.
Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed,
The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste,
Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be
Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea!
And keep for those who leave thee and find no better place,
The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother face!
_Sir Rennell Rodd._
WATSON
CVIII
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES
She stands, a thousand wintered tree,
By countless morns impearled;
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea,
Her branches sweep the world;
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed,
Clothe the remotest strand
With forests from her scatterings made,
New nations fostered in her shade,
And linking land with land.
O ye by wandering tempest sown
’Neath every alien star,
Forget not whence the breath was blown
That wafted you afar!
For ye are still her ancient seed
On younger soil let fall--
Children of Britain’s island-breed,
To whom the Mother in her need
Perchance may one day call.
_William Watson._
DOYLE
CIX
THE SONG OF THE BOW
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bow-men love;
And so we will sing
Of the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.
What of the shaft?
The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we’ll drink all together
To the grey goose-feather
And the land where the grey goose flew.
What of the mark?
Ah, seek it not in England,
A bold mark, our old mark,
Is waiting over-sea.
When the strings harp in chorus,
And the lion flag is o’er us,
It is there that our mark will be.
What of the men?
The men were bred in England;
The bow-men--the yeomen,
The lads of dale and fell.
Here’s to you--and to you!
To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell!
_Arthur Conan Doyle._
CX
A BALLAD OF THE RANKS
Who carries the gun?
A lad from over the Tweed.
Then let him go, for well we know
He comes of a soldier breed.
So drink together to rock and heather,
Out where the red deer run,
And stand aside for Scotland’s pride--
The man who carries the gun!
_For the Colonel rides before,
The Major’s on the flank,
The Captains and the Adjutant
Are in the foremost rank.
But when it’s ‘Action front!’
And there’s fighting to be done,
Come one, come all, you stand or fall
By the man who carries the gun._
Who carries the gun?
A lad from a Yorkshire dale.
Then let him go, for well we know
The heart that never will fail.
Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,
And here’s to her soldier son!
For the hard-bit North has sent him forth--
The lad who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from a Midland shire.
Then let him go, for well we know
He comes of an English sire.
Here’s a glass to a Midland lass
And each can choose the one,
But East and West we claim the best
For the man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from the hills of Wales.
Then let him go, for well we know
That Taffy is hard as nails.
There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,
And of w’s more than one,
With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men
And it’s they who carry the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from the windy West.
Then let him go, for well we know
That he is one of the best.
There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,
And Devon yields to none.
Or you may get in Somerset
Your lad to carry the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from London town.
Then let him go, for well we know
The stuff that never backs down.
He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,
For he is the fog-smoke’s sun,
And his heart is light, and his pluck is right--
The man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?
A lad from the Emerald Isle.
Then let him go, for well we know
We’ve tried him many a while.
We’ve tried him East, we’ve tried him West,
We’ve tried him sea and land,
But the man to beat old Erin’s best
Has never yet been planned.
Who carries the gun?
It’s you, and you, and you;
So let us go, and we won’t say no
If they give us a job to do.
Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,
Comrades every one;
So one last cup, and drink it up
To the man who carries the gun?
_For the Colonel rides before,
The Major’s on the flank,
The Captains and the Adjutant
Are in the foremost rank.
And when it’s ‘Action front!’
And there’s fighting to be done,
Come one, come all, you stand or fall
By the man who carries the gun._
_Arthur Conan Doyle._
PAIN
CXI
OUR DEAD
Sye, do yer ’ear thet bugle callin’
Sutthink stringe through the city’s din?
Do yer shut yer eyes when the evenin’ ’s fallin’,
An’ see quite plain wheer they’re fallin’ in?
An’ theer ain’t no sarnd as they falls in,
An’ they mawch quick step with a silent tread
Through all ar ’earts, through all ar ’earts,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead.
A woman’s son, and a woman’s lover--
Yer’d think as nobody ’eld ’im dear,
As ’e stands, a clear mawk, art o’ cover,
An’ leads the rush when the end is near;
One more ridge and the end is near,
One more step an’ the bullet’s sped.
My God, but they’re well-officered,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead!
Never they’ll ’ear the crard a-cheerin’,
These ’ull never come beck agine;
Theer welkim ’ome is beyond our ’earin’,
But theer nimes is writ, an’ theer nimes remine,
An’ deep an’ lawstin’ theer nimes remine
Writ in theer blood for theer country shed;
An’ they stan’s up strite an’ they knows no shime,
The Comp’ny of ar Dead.
_Barry Pain._
NEWBOLT
CXII
ADMIRALS ALL
A SONG OF SEA KINGS
Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,
Here’s to the bold and free!
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
Hail to the Kings of the sea!
Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!
_Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!_
Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay
With the galleons fair in sight;
Howard at last must give him his way,
And the word was passed to fight.
Never was schoolboy gayer than he,
Since holidays first began:
He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea,
And under the guns he ran.
Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared,
Their cities he put to the sack;
He singed His Catholic Majesty’s beard,
And harried his ships to wrack.
He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls
When the great Armada came;
But he said, ‘They must wait their turn, good souls,’
And he stooped and finished the game.
Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold,
Duncan he had but two;
But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled,
And his colours aloft he flew.
‘I’ve taken the depth to a fathom,’ he cried,
‘And I’ll sink with a right good will:
For I know when we’re all of us under the tide
My flag will be fluttering still.’
Splinters were flying above, below,
When Nelson sailed the Sound:
‘Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,’
Said he, ‘for a thousand pound!’
The Admiral’s signal bade him fly,
But he wickedly wagged his head:
He clapped the glass to his sightless eye,
And ‘I’m damned if I see it!’ he said.
Admirals all, they said their say
(The echoes are ringing still).
Admirals all, they went their way
To the haven under the hill.
But they left us a kingdom none can take--
The realm of the circling sea--
To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake,
And the Rodneys yet to be.
_Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!_
_Henry Newbolt._
CXIII
DRAKE’S DRUM
Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe,
An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’,
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an’ rüled 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 powder’s runnin’ low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,
An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.’
Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?),
Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,
An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’,
They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago!
_Henry Newbolt._
CXIV
A TOAST
Drake’s luck to all that sail with Drake
For promised lands of gold!
Brave lads, whatever storms may break,
We’ve weathered worse of old!
To-night the loving-cup we’ll drain,
To-morrow for the Spanish Main!
_Henry Newbolt._
KIPLING
CXV
THE FLAG OF ENGLAND
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro--
And what should they know of England who only England know?--
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the
English Flag.
Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt?
An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?
We may not speak of England? her Flag’s to sell or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!
The North Wind blew:--‘From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;
I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,
And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.
I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,
Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came;
I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,
And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the
spirit passed.
The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,
The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare,
Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’
The South Wind sighed:--‘From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en
Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed
breakers croon
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy locked lagoon.
Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze--
Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.
I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp
on the Horn;
I have chased it North, to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn;
I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;
I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.
My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare,
Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’
The East Wind roared:--‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,
And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon
I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!