Part 3
Let rogues and cheats prognosticate Concerning kings’ or kingdoms’ fate, I think myself to be as wise As he that gazeth on the skies, Whose sight goes beyond The depth of a pond Or rivers in the greatest rain; For I can tell All will be well, When the King enjoys his own again!
Though for a time we see Whitehall With cobwebs hanging on the wall, Instead of gold and silver brave, Which formerly ’twas wont to have, With rich perfume In every room, Delightful to that princely train,-- Yet the old again shall be When the happy time you see That the King enjoys his own again.
Full forty years this royal crown Hath been his father’s and his own; And is there any one but he That in the same should sharer be? For who better may The sceptre sway Than he that hath such right to reign? Then let’s hope for a peace, For the wars will not cease Till the King enjoys his own again.
_Martin Parker._
ANONYMOUS
XVI
HERE’S A HEALTH
Here’s a health unto His Majesty, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ Confusion to his enemies, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ And he that will not drink his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_
_Anonymous._
DRYDEN
XVII
A SONG OF KING ARTHUR
Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum.
Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again: The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.
The fainting Saxons quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound: They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly; Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.
Now the victory’s won, To the plunder we run: We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish’d invaders.
_John Dryden._
XVIII
LONDON IN 1666
Methinks already from this chymic flame I see a city of more precious mould, Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, With silver paved, and all divine with gold.
Already, labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renewed her charter’s date Which Heaven will to the death of time allow.
More great than human now and more august, New deified she from her fires does rise: Her widening streets on new foundations trust, And, opening, into larger parts she flies.
Before, she like some shepherdess did show Who sate to bathe her by a river’s side, Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now like a maiden queen she will behold From her high turrets hourly suitors come; The East with incense and the West with gold Will stand like suppliants to receive her dome.
The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train, And often wind, as of his mistress proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again.
The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier Rhine The glory of their towns no more shall boast, The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost.
The venturous merchant, who designed more far, And touches on our hospitable shore, Charmed with the splendour of this northern star Shall here unlade him and depart no more.
Our powerful navy shall no longer meet The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The beauty of this town without a fleet From all the world shall vindicate her trade.
And while this famed emporium we prepare, The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those who now disdain our trade to share Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquered half the war, And the less dangerous part is left behind; Our trouble now is but to make them dare And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, And now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more! A constant trade-wind will securely blow And gently lay us on the spicy shore.
_John Dryden._
THOMSON
XIX
RULE BRITANNIA
When Britain first at Heaven’s command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sang the strain: _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves_.
The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free-- The dread and envy of them all!
Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the last blast which tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!
The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown’d, And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!_
_James Thomson._
DYER
XX
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN
Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace, To faction an end, to wealth increase! Come, let’s drink it while we have breath, For there’s no drinking after death;-- And he that will this health deny, _Down among the dead men-- Down among the dead men-- Down, down, down, down, Down among the dead men let him lie!_
_John Dyer._
ANONYMOUS
XXI
GOD SAVE THE KING
God save our lord, the King, Long live our noble King,-- God save the King! Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us,-- God save the King!
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!
_Anonymous._
GARRICK
XXII
HEARTS OF OAK
Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year, To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.
We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.
Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, Her standard be justice, her watchword ‘Be free’; Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.
_David Garrick._
COLLINS
XXIII
THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE
How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there.
_William Collins._
COWPER
XXIV
BOADICEA
When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country’s gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief:
‘Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, ’Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.
‘Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt.
‘Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-- Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
‘Other Romans shall arise Heedless of a soldier’s name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
‘Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.
‘Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.’
Such the bard’s prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She with all a monarch’s pride Felt them in her bosom glow, Rushed to battle, fought, and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe:
‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you!’
_William Cowper._
XXV
THE _ROYAL GEORGE_
Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the _Royal George_ With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England’s thunder, And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o’er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.
_William Cowper._
DIBDIN
XXVI
TOM BOWLING
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful below he did his duty, And now he’s gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many’s the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life’s crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom’s life has doffed, For though his body’s under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.
_Charles Dibdin._
XXVII
THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR
Jack dances and sings, and is always content, In his vows to his lass he’ll ne’er fail her; His anchor’s a-trip when his money’s all spent-- And this is the life of a sailor.
Alert in his duty, he readily flies Where winds the tir’d vessel are flinging; Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss’d to the skies, Still Jack is found working and singing.
‘Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave, He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her; Yet he’ll sigh from his soul o’er that enemy’s grave: So noble’s the mind of a sailor.
Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the bombs, Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle; The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and the battle.
In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, As Fortune comes, smiling he’ll hail her; Resign’d still, and manly, since what must be must, And this is the mind of a sailor.
Though careless and headlong, if danger should press, And rank’d ’mongst the free list of rovers, Yet he’ll melt into tears at a tale of distress, And prove the most constant of lovers.
To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, He’s gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave, And this is a true English sailor.
_Charles Dibdin._
XXVIII
TOM TOUGH
My name, d’ye see, ’s Tom Tough, I’ve seed a little sarvice, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I’ve sailed with valiant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jarvis, And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’ Yet more shall ye be knowing,-- I was coxon to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog,-- So we’ve that and our prog, We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing ‘Yo heave ho!’
When from my love to part I first weigh’d anchor, And she was sniv’ling seed on the beach below, I’d like to cotch’d my eyes sniv’ling too, d’ye see, to thank her, But I brought my sorrows up with a ‘Yo heave ho!’ For sailors, though they have their jokes, And love and feel like other folks, Their duty to neglect must not come for to go; So I seized the capstern bar, Like a true honest tar, And, in spite of tears and sighs, sang out ‘Yo heave ho!’
But the worst on’t was that time when the little ones were sickly, And if they’d live or die the doctor did not know; The word was gov’d to weigh so sudden and so quickly, I thought my heart would break as I sung ‘Yo heave ho!’ For Poll’s so like her mother, And as for Jack, her brother, The boy, when he grows up will nobly fight the foe; But in Providence I trust, For you see what must be must, So my sighs I gave the winds and sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’
And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, For I’ve only lost an eye, and got a timber toe; But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission, Nor again the anchor weigh with ‘Yo heave ho!’ So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,-- For my boy shall well revenge my wrongs, And my girl shall breed young sailors, nobly for to face the foe;-- Then to Country and King, Fate no danger can bring, While the tars of Old England sing out ‘Yo heave ho!’
_Charles Dibdin._
ANONYMOUS
XXIX
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, But of all the world’s great heroes, there’s none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!
Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies’ ears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry, ‘Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! ‘Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!’ Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
_Anonymous._
ANONYMOUS
XXX
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME
I’m lonesome since I cross’d the hill, And o’er the moor and valley; Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, Since parting with my Sally. I seek no more the fine or gay, For each does but remind me How swift the hours did pass away, With the girl I’ve left behind me.
Oh, ne’er shall I forget the night, The stars were bright above me, And gently lent their silv’ry light When first she vowed to love me. But now I’m bound to Brighton camp, Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl I’ve left behind me.
My mind her form shall still retain, In sleeping, or in waking, Until I see my love again, For whom my heart is breaking. If ever I return that way, And she should not decline me, I evermore will live and stay With the girl I’ve left behind me.
_Anonymous._
HOARE
XXXI
THE _ARETHUSA_
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold, Huzza for the _Arethusa_! She is a frigate tight and brave, As ever stemmed the dashing wave; Her men are staunch To their fav’rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire On board of the _Arethusa_.
’Twas with the spring fleet she went out The English Channel to cruise about, When four French sail, in show so stout Bore down on the _Arethusa_. The famed _Belle Poule_ straight ahead did lie, The _Arethusa_ seemed to fly, Not a sheet, or a tack, Or a brace, did she slack; Though the Frenchmen laughed and thought it stuff, But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, On board of the _Arethusa_.
On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the _Arethusa_. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, ‘Ho!’ The Frenchman then cried out ‘Hallo!’ ‘Bear down, d’ye see, To our admiral’s lee!’ ‘No, no,’ says the Frenchman, ‘that can’t be!’ ‘Then I must lug you along with me,’ Says the saucy _Arethusa_.
The fight was off the Frenchman’s land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand Of the gallant _Arethusa_. And now we’ve driven the foe ashore Never to fight with the Britons more, Let each fill his glass To his fav’rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the _Arethusa_.
_Prince Hoare._
BLAKE
XXXII
JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND
England, awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, And close her from thy ancient walls?
Thy hills and valleys felt her feet Gently upon their bosoms move: Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways; Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult; and London’s towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England’s green and pleasant bowers.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountain green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green and pleasant land.
_William Blake._
WORDSWORTH
XXXIII
ON LANDING IN ENGLAND
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;-- All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My Country! and ’tis joy enough and pride For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear Companion at my side.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXIV
DESTINY
It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood!’ Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever--In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXV
THE MOTHERLAND
When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men: And I, by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
_William Wordsworth._
XXXVI
TO THE MEN OF KENT
(_October, 1803_)
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, Ye children of a soil that doth advance Her haughty bow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent! They from their fields can see the countenance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; Confirmed the charters that were yours before;-- No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; We all are with you now from shore to shore;-- Ye men of Kent, ’tis victory or death!
_William Wordsworth._
XXXVII
THE HAPPY WARRIOR