 | Petition to the Deil |  |
55
THE HARVEST BELLS.
Shincliffe, Durham.
September 7, 1915.
Sweet Sabbath bells of England,
That o'er the harvest chime,
Ye bring to mind the memories
Of many an autumn time.
Amid the rush of hustling years,
Now silently up-furl'd,
Ye brought the harmonies of heaven
To hush a jarring world.
That o'er the harvest chime,
Ye bring to mind the memories
Of many an autumn time.
Amid the rush of hustling years,
Now silently up-furl'd,
Ye brought the harmonies of heaven
To hush a jarring world.
No bells to-day in Belgium
Salute a peaceful morn;
No bells in Poland bless the land
Or consecrate the corn.
But rampant War usurps the fields
And desolates the plain;
The villages are burning,
The villagers are slain!
Salute a peaceful morn;
No bells in Poland bless the land
Or consecrate the corn.
But rampant War usurps the fields
And desolates the plain;
The villages are burning,
The villagers are slain!
56
Thank God, we have a Navy
That keeps our island clear
Of German greed and Prussian pride,
That find no portion here!
And though the hands of age and youth
Are weak, and want of skill,
Our crops are duly garner'd,
Our bells are sounding still.
That keeps our island clear
Of German greed and Prussian pride,
That find no portion here!
And though the hands of age and youth
Are weak, and want of skill,
Our crops are duly garner'd,
Our bells are sounding still.
Sweet, peaceful bells of England,
That in a world of crime
Announce the Sabbath of the year
At this unhallow'd time;
I hear your voice predictive yet
Of universal peace,
When swords shall change to reaping-hooks,
And wars for ever cease.
That in a world of crime
Announce the Sabbath of the year
At this unhallow'd time;
I hear your voice predictive yet
Of universal peace,
When swords shall change to reaping-hooks,
And wars for ever cease.
When red Oppression in the sun
His arm no longer rears,
We yet shall share, with victory won,
A length of happy years.
Till then, afar in fields of war
Our harvesters must roam;
But we will ring our harvest bells
To bid them welcome home.
His arm no longer rears,
We yet shall share, with victory won,
A length of happy years.
Till then, afar in fields of war
Our harvesters must roam;
But we will ring our harvest bells
To bid them welcome home.
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