Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky,
And herald forth to Wimbledon
Our warrior-guests from Belgium-land:
From Belgium land they come, they come
To share with us in Britons’ land
The banquet-board and social home.
Right welcome shall those warriors be
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land,
For they have come across the sea
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky:
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon.
’Tis there our laurels now are won—
Where bloom the gorse’s golden flower,
And where the butterfly, anon,
Doth sport amid the bramble bower;
And where the heather dights the plain,
Where Nature, in its forest trim,
Delights the eye, perfumes the main:
Where every daisy is a gem;
Where soars the cuckoo’s glad ding-dong,
And the sweet blackbird’s merry air;
Aye! where the skylark’s matin song
Is, is of all the sweetest pray’r.
Hoist, Britons, host the banner high! etc.
’Tis there th’ elect of Englishmen,
And Scotland’s fairest sons of might,
Bemake the upland grove and glen,
The pinnacle of fame and fight:
’Tis there Hibernia’s children hie,
Join’d by the men of ancient Wales.
For Honor’s prize each country vie;
Ho! ho! ye plains, ye hills, ye vales;
Ho! ho! my kinsmen, ho! and hail
Our brother Belgians from afar,
Who now (responsive) westward sail,
To join in modern modes of war.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
To join in modern modes of war
They came, our brother Belgians come,
But not for conquest, nor the star
Which desolates the peasant’s home;
For honor, wisdom, love, and truth,—
These are the prizes—these their aim:
Behold those patriots, age and youth,
All marksmen for their country’s fame.
Then welcome them to Wimbledon,
Ye Britons bold and bolder still;
For there the laurels shall be won
By those of most abundant skill.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
’Tis there our countrymen advance
On the high road to royal regard,
For there shall Edward nobly glance
On Britain’s patriotic guard.
Then on! ye willing warriors, on!
Unfurl the standard, lift it high,
And let it wave o’er Wimbledon,—
A beacon to the Belgian eye.
Up with your tents, encamp ye round
“The flaming flag of liberty;”
Send the swift ball forth to the mound;
’Tis won!—whose is the victory? * * *
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
Let Record mark this year of grace,
When forth the Belgian from the east,
With glowing heart and beaming face,
Came o’er to share the British feast:
When Britain, lit with loyalty,
Drew forth its chamois as of yore,
And deck’d with right baronialty
The banquet-board with choicest store:
Whereat the best skill’d war-men came,
From highlands, lowlands, vales, and plains;
And where the foremost heard his name
Proclaim’d in proud triumphant strains.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Proclaim aloud the victory!—
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon!
[79] Return visit of the Belgian Volunteers (to England), July, 1867.
A Song: “Willy” and Anne.
“Will you write to me, love, when away,—
When poor ‘Willy’’s gone over the lake![80]—
If you will, I will promise to pay
Thee for all the sweet labour you take?”
“Yes!”—she said, with a faint yet sweet voice—
“But be sure you fail not, in your turn,
To write back to the maid of your choice,—
If ’tis me then she’ll long your return.”
Singing on—said he “Oh! I’ll not fail,
If the heavens are kind to the ship,—
Safely wafting her on with the gale,—
And we reach the French port of Dieppe.”
“Ah then!—when you are there,” said sweet Anne,
“Will you send by the first coming post?”—
(With the same, a small pearl over-ran)—
And she sigh’d—“else I’ll think you are lost!”
Singing on—said he, “Can you forget
Our last ramble beneath the bright moon,
When your ‘Willy,’ and you, loving sat
On the gate-stile, and watch’d it go down?”
“Never! never!” she said, “for e’en now
Thy dear arms I feel round me entwin’d,
With thy lips on my unveilèd brow,
Whilst the zephyrs were wafting behind.”
[80] Signifying the sea.
[Illustration]
A Song: The Lost Merchantman.
Dire is the night!—fleet lightnings flash
Across the sombre main;
The thunders roll; the surges lash;
Terrific is the rain:
The quiv’ring ship looks straight a-head,—
She strives to face the storm,—
When lo—the mainmast’s struck, and fled!—
Now her dismantled form
Reels piteously upon the wave,—
She mourns her broken beam;
And the poor seaman sees his grave
Within the turb’lent cream.
Unhappy ship!—unhappy ship!—
Ah! but an hour before
Light as a fairy didst thou skip;
And merrily on you bore
Your burden o’er the field of blue—
Trimm’d like a lovely girl—
Until the ghastly tempest grew,
And all hands ’gan to furl
Thy sails, to shun the dread “white squall,”—
That most unwelcome guest,—
The most portentous foe of all
Upon the ocean’s breast.
The minute-gun booms, but in vain;
Her ropes shriek in the gale;
Alas! her “midship”’s rent in twain:
The Captain, he looks pale,
And—faltering—sighs, and drops a tear,
But brave unto the last:
Now, conscious that his end is near,
(The ship was sinking fast)
Appeals for all to Him on high!
His orisons have flown;—
“Farewell,” he said to one “hard by,”
Then with the ship went down!!!
London, October 2nd, 1865.