Part 9
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!
The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.
Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake-- Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.
The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!’
The West Wind called:--‘In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, And I loose my neck from their service and whelm them all in my wrath.
I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll: For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.
But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.
The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’
_Rudyard Kipling._
CXVI
RECESSIONAL
God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
_Rudyard Kipling._
WATT
CXVII
THE GREY MOTHER
Lo, how they come to me, Long through the night I call them, Ah, how they turn to me!
East and South my children scatter, North and West the world they wander,
Yet they come back to me, Come with their brave hearts beating, Longing to die for me,
Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, Throned amid the northern waters,
Where they have died for me, Died with their songs around me, Girding my shores for me.
Narrow was my dwelling for them, Homes they builded o’er the ocean,
Yet they leave all for me, Hearing their Mother calling, Bringing their lives for me.
Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, Out from under stars I know not,
Come they to fight for me, Sons of the sons I nurtured, God keep them safe for me!
Long ago their fathers saved me, Died for me among the heather,
Now they come back to me, Come, in their children’s children ... Brave of the brave for me.
In the wilds and waves they slumber, Deep they slumber in the deserts,
Rise they from graves for me, Graves where they lay forgotten, Shades of the brave for me.