 | English Roses |  |
UP WITH THE BAYONET.
Up with the bayonet, down with the pen!
Bullets are flying,
Heroes are dying;
War is the school for the making of men.
Who will be master?
Doom and disaster
Fashion the spirit, victorious then.
Bullets are flying,
Heroes are dying;
War is the school for the making of men.
Who will be master?
Doom and disaster
Fashion the spirit, victorious then.
Stiffen the line with a backbone of steel,
Bind in one tether
Grimly together
Purpose and powder, till enemies reel.
Comrades keep falling
Round us, and calling
Loud for revenge and our conquering heel.
Bind in one tether
Grimly together
Purpose and powder, till enemies reel.
Comrades keep falling
Round us, and calling
Loud for revenge and our conquering heel.
Down with the tape-measure, up with the sword!
England is striving,
Red with the riving
Blades all unsheathed in the name of the Lord.
Wounds of our brothers,
Weeping from mothers
Widowed unite in an adamant cord.
England is striving,
140
Blades all unsheathed in the name of the Lord.
Wounds of our brothers,
Weeping from mothers
Widowed unite in an adamant cord.
Who thinks of turning his back against odds
Cruel and crushing,
Here in the rushing
Rage of the battle and cause that is God's?
We are His pointed
Spears and anointed
Tools, and His judgement's imperial rods?
Cruel and crushing,
Here in the rushing
Rage of the battle and cause that is God's?
We are His pointed
Spears and anointed
Tools, and His judgement's imperial rods?
Up with the rifle, and down with the spade!
Digging is over,
Fields like the clover
Blossom in blood and a funeral shade.
Life waxes cheaper
Now, and the reaper
Comes with the sickle—the harvest is made.
Digging is over,
Fields like the clover
Blossom in blood and a funeral shade.
Life waxes cheaper
Now, and the reaper
Comes with the sickle—the harvest is made.
Honour compels us, and glory is dear
Bringing us laurels
Bright, out of quarrels
Fought for the Right without resting or fear.
Ours is a station
Strong like the nation
Nerved as one man, when the triumph is near.
Bringing us laurels
Bright, out of quarrels
Fought for the Right without resting or fear.
Ours is a station
Strong like the nation
Nerved as one man, when the triumph is near.
Down with the goosequill, and up with the game
Gallant and bitter
Sport, and yet fitter
Food for a people whose hearts are in flame!
Give us the slaughter
Flowing like water,
But not a cowardly quiet and shame.
Gallant and bitter
Sport, and yet fitter
Food for a people whose hearts are in flame!
Give us the slaughter
Flowing like water,
But not a cowardly quiet and shame.
| English Roses | |