Songs for Sailors :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here, around us, forms of glory
Living, from the past, arise;
See, our mightiest deeds of story
Act them here before our eyes;
As these old sea-kings are gazing
On us from these pictured walls,
Each some ghost of fame is raising
Each some day renowned recalls.
And we're yearning to feel greatly,
Here the fancy should not fall
Lower than their lives who stately
Breathe their greatness through this Hall.

Should not living song give voices
To their lives and deeds sublime,
Song immortal, that rejoices
To make greatness one with time?
They, our English ocean-story,
Tore from Death; our fame it wrongs
If their deeds, that are our glory,
Live not in our nation's songs.
I would fill all souls with wonder
Of the deeds I here recall,
Of those days of fame that thunder
Through our memories in this Hall.

O my fathers, let your spirits
Me, with olden strength, inspire!
Strong should he be who inherits
From your blood your ancient fire;
Could your mighty past be giving
To my words your greatness, then
You should, in the souls, be living
In the acts of present men.
Then mine were not aimless singing,
Then my songs' heroic call,
You, into our times, re-bringing,
Should add heroes to this Hall.

Victory on to victory ever
Hands the torch of glory down;
So our past renown should fever
Us with thirst of fresh renown;
So, if blessèd Peace departing
Leave us fronting War's dread woes,
Into life, you heroes starting,
In our crews, shall crush our foes.
Not a deck but should be ringing
With the days I here recall;
Glory still new glory bringing
With fresh fames to fill this Hall.

SONGS for SAILORS

TO SEA!

Through our veins the Norse blood courses;
No! not for the land are we;
The spirit of our fathers forces
Their sons still to roam the sea.
For the salts of the ocean surges
Through our billowy pulses flow;
We must drive where the tempest urges
The sons of the sea to go
Wherever the wild winds blow.

Our land's but a rock of ocean,
Its storm's in our island breath;
In our lives is its restless motion;
We must out, though to wreck or death.
To our ears come the tempest's voices;
Our spirits those sea-tongues know;
Shore or wave? with the gale our choice is
From the land's dull life to go
Wherever the wild winds blow.

THE NILE.

August 1st, 1798.

Now all you jolly sailors, you who love to wear the blue,
Come listen to the glorious tale to-day I'll tell to you.
'Tis of the greatest sailor that ever sailed the sea,
'Tis of our Nelson and the Nile that now my song shall be.
What Admiral ever stepped a deck like him of whom I sing?
What deeds, than his, a prouder flush to English cheeks should bring?
And of all the hundred fights he fought, the foremost on the file,
Save only famed Trafalgar's day, is this one of the Nile;
When we forget its glory, shall England cease to be
The foremost land in story and the ruler of the sea;
But as that you know can never be, 'twill be, my lads, some while
Before that we forget to tell of Nelson and the Nile.

We heard they'd sailed from Toulon—sailed bearing towards the East,
But which way they had gone, to us what mattered that the least?
So long as they were out of port, for what else did we care?
So long as at them we could get, they might go any-where.

Ten sail had joined us just in time, and a right good sort they sent;
We numbered thirteen seventy-fours, and after them we went
With every stitch of canvas set, due East for Egypt bound,
For well we guessed the Frenchmen there full surely would be found.
And there we should have found them, but we passed them on the way,
And blank we looked when not a mast showed in Aboukir's bay;
We'd beat them just by three days and they were safe awhile,
As North again in search of them, we bore up from the Nile.

That was the first of August when next we reached that shore,
For there it flew, on mast and fort, the flaunting tricolor,
And—a sight that did our eyes good—there anchored round the bay,
And ours at last, just thirteen sail, all safe the Frenchmen lay.
From east to west, right in to shore, their line of battle ran,
And shoal and fort they thought made safe the head ships of their van;
But of shoal and fort we never thought, for in our Admiral's look
We plainly saw, if they were safe, his meaning we mistook.
For days—till they were his at last—till now there lay their line,
He had not slept or eat: ‘Now, men,’ he laughing said, ‘I'll dine.’
It might have been his wedding-day, so happy was his smile,
He knew that many a year would tell of Nelson and the Nile.

‘Where they can swing, there we can swim; both sides their line,’ he said,
‘We'll have at them;’ and so, at six, inside brave Foley led.
Inside led the Goliath, by four more followed fast,
And, leading five outside their line, into their fire we passed;
On, grim and silent as the grave, through shot and shell we went,
With many a splintering hole below—above, full many a rent.
On went we, furling sails above—below, hushed round each gun;
While, as we near and nearer drew, fast down went many a one.
We had some thoughts, I tell you; those minutes were like years
Until we shaved their Spartiate—then you might hear our cheers.
Then they who looked on Nelson's face, they saw the conquering smile
That told what music were to him our broadsides at the Nile.

'Twas six when we began the game, at seven went down the sun;
The sudden night showed but the light flashed fast from every gun;
But, friend from foe, we still could know, if we were at a loss,
By our four lights at each mizen-peak and St. George's blood-red cross.
Two thousand guns were roaring death, but who their roaring feared,
Though three times, from dead and wounded, our foremost guns we cleared;
We knew that we were winning; we knew he could but win,
And hours went by like minutes as we hurled our broadsides in.

By nine three riddled Mounseers had sickened of the game,
By ten their Admiral's L'Orient was burning bright aflame;
And well our conquering hero, though wounded sore, might smile
As he learned how flag on flag was struck that midnight at the Nile.

At last their huge four-decker was hurled up with a roar
That struck the fight to silence for minutes ten and more;
At twelve the battle slackened, and when upsprung the day,
Not a Frenchman's flag was flying but on two that stood away.
Of thirteen sail, the Guillaume Tell and Généreux 'scaped alone;
The fire had two; the other nine were, safe and sure, our own.
'Twas ‘a conquest, not a victory’ our glorious Nelson said;
As there he, blinded, lay below, with the wounded and the dead;
As the hush of victory told him, as ceased the latest gun,
Not the tomb in the old Abbey, but the Peerage, he had won.
Then he said, ‘Let God be thanked, men!’ and who but thanked God while
We thought that He had spared to us our Nelson of the Nile?

THE DUTCHMAN'S BROOM.

There's a day in our ocean-story
That in mind should be always kept:
When Van Tromp through our seas, in glory,
With the broom at his mast-head, swept.
Unready, the Dutch had caught us;
Blake had fought; his cannon might boom;
But Mynheer, he for two months taught us
To make way for the Dutchman's broom.

Not long was that besom flaunted,
For 'twas England's grand old day,
When Cromwell did more than he vaunted,
And Blake swept all foes away;
'Twas not weakness or sloth that forced us
To Van Tromp two months, to give room;
'Twas rashness the Channel lost us
When 'twas swept by the Dutchman's broom.

Rare wisdom that old December
Taught to us, beyond all price;
That wisdom shall we remember,
Or dare to be taught it twice?
Our fleets must our seas be keeping
Too well for foes to presume
To think of our Channel sweeping,
As 'twas swept by the Dutchman's broom.

Then a word to the men who rule us:
For cash we may something care,
But never a foe shall fool us,
Whatever our wealth must spare.
Let who will for our fancy blame us,
We'll have fleets that shall leave no room
For a foe for an hour to shame us
With the sweep of the Dutchman's broom.

OAK AND IRON.

A SONG FOR OUR IRONSIDES.

Yes, the days of our wooden walls are ended,
And the days of our iron ones begun;
But who cares by what our land's defended,
While the hearts that fought and fight are one?
'Twas not the oak that fought each battle,
'Twas not the wood that victory won;
'Twas the hands that made our broadsides rattle,
'Twas the hearts of oak that served each gun.
Then be ours iron ships or oaken,
So long as Britons serve each gun,
The spell of glory lives unbroken;
Our foes shall strike to us or run.

They may change the stuff in which we're floating,
But what matters that to old Dame Fame?
She'll ship with English tars, unnoting
The change, while we are still the same;
So long as English blood is sailing
The ships in which with us she swims,
She sticks to us with pride unfailing,
And Victory with her shares her whims.
In oak or iron who will doubt us?
As long as Britons serve each gun,
There's the knack of drubbing foes about us,
Of making foes to strike or run.

Then don't let any friends mistake us;
We are as our fathers chose to be,
We are what those fathers chose to make us:
The roamers and rulers of the sea.

Their sons, if we should have to prove us,
Our ships of iron well we know
Will bear undimm'd their flag above us,
And our kinship with our sires will show.
Would any hear Trafalgar's thunder,
Or know how Camperdown was won?
Whether iron decks or oak are under
Our feet, our foes shall strike or run.

Once, Ironsides in English story
Knew how to win and wear renown;
Through Cromwell's fiercest fields of glory
They charged, and all their foes went down.
Now, Ironsides—if England need 'em—
In us our fathers' hearts endure,
The hearts that won of old our freedom,
On Naseby's field and Marston Moor.
We've Blakes to-day, we know, to lead us,
If war's red triumphs must be won;
We've English hearts, if foes should need us,
To teach them now to strike or run.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL,

VICE-ADMIRAL LORD COLLINGWOOD.

Now of what shall my song, boys, be?
Of a hero as brave and good
As ever trod deck at sea,
Or straight through a foe's line stood,
Of a great heart whose simple pride
Was to harbour but noble thought,
Not a meanness who had to hide,
One who lived as well as he fought,
Of Collingwood. Can my song
Find a statelier theme for my rhyme
Than this fine old English Admiral
Of our grand old fighting time?

A sailor—whether he served
Or commanded, he was the same;
From a duty he never swerved
For ease, or for pelf, or fame;
Under others, more than his share
Of service he sought to get through;
A Captain—his crews took care,
For his smile, to be matched by few.
He hated to frown and to flog;
He was loved, he of whom I rhyme,
This fine old English Admiral
Of Nelson's old fighting time.

No envy made mean his heart;
He and Nelson, from first to last,
Each gladdened to know the part
Each played, as to fame they passed;
Both gloried the deeds to name
That by both were so grandly done;
Dear to both was the mighty fame
That both in those grand days won.
Let the heroes live on in song,
Of the great hearts I love to rhyme,
Of these fine old English Admirals
Of our famous old fighting time.

What heroes upon us crowd
From St. Vincent's and Nelson's days?
But of whom is renown more loud
Than of him whom we love to praise?
Than of him who, a mile ahead,
Pressed into Trafalgar's roar,
And, ere joined by a ship he led,
Fought twenty minutes and more.
Alone 'mongst the Frenchmen, song
Loves to show him of whom I rhyme,
This bravest old English Admiral
Of our famous old fighting time.

'Twas nearly a score of years
He weather'd through gale and strife,
Cut off from all that endears
A home—from children and wife.
But his land of his life had need,
Though for comfort and love he yearned,
To that longing he gave no heed
Till dying, to home he turned.
Let the glory live on in song,
Of the life, in its deeds sublime,
Of this fine old English Admiral
Of our grand old fighting time.

HAWKE IN QUIBERON BAY.

November 20th, 1759.

Of a hero, lads, you'd have me talk;
Well, then your fancy I'll not balk,
And my tale shall be of Admiral Hawke,
And the day he gave to story.
For while we've sailors such as he,
We never, my lads, need fearful be
That we shall no longer rule the sea,
And boast our ocean glory.

In November seventeen fifty-nine,
Then Monsieur Conflans thought it fine
To slip out of Brest and cut a shine,
The English Channel sailing.
When dauntless Hawke he heard of this,
He was not one such a chance to miss,
For he knew to make the French fleet his,
We couldn't, lads, be failing.

So out from Torbay we stood, to beat
Monsieur; for if we could but meet
His line, we guessed that he and his fleet
To Spithead we'd quick be towing.

And, bearing north between Belleisle
And the mainland, it was no long while
Till we saw them scudding along in style,
For a hurricane it was blowing.

But what cared Hawke great guns it blew;
He meant real work, so his signal flew
To his seven van ships to bring them to
Till we could overhaul them.
The others, as we drove down the storm,
In chase, had their fighting line to form
And, as each came up, to make it warm
To all, and enough to maul them.

'Twas risky work, my lads, you'll own,
Through breakers and rocks and shoals unknown,
On a raging sea by a tempest blown,
With sails all set, to be flying.
His shoals and rocks, the French fox thought,
Would save his brush; but Monsieur we taught,
Through all he could be tracked and caught
By hearts all fear defying.

At half-past two the game began;
Monsieur Du Verger felt our van,
Ship after ship, as by each ran,
A broadside into him pouring.
But Hawke to talk was in no haste,
Till Conflans' self his pills could taste,
On no one else a shot he'd waste
As he swept through their broadsides' roaring,

‘To their Admiral lay me gun to gun,’
Said Hawke; said the Master, ‘It can't be done;
Would you have me on the shoals to run,
Our ports to the Soleil's laying?’
‘You're right,’ said Hawke, ‘the risk to show,
But now but mind my orders; so
To his muzzles the Royal George must go;
Lay me there, not a word more saying.’

Down on her we drove through foam and blast,
And close to her side we swept at last,
But in between us the Thésée past,
By Jove, but she made a blunder!
She took the dose for her Admiral meant,
With that she surely was too content;
A roar—a lurch—and down she went
With a shriek as she went under.

Then to Conflans we spoke as we swept along,
And Monsieur he took it hot and strong;
Though well he fought, not to do him wrong,
Till at last he preferred to sheer off.
Their bold Vice-Admiral took his turn;
His lesson we taught him soon to learn,
Then a third and a fourth that would glory earn,
Both crippled, were glad to clear off.

The Superbe, the fifth, had'nt quite their luck;
She ranged along our fire with pluck;
Two broadsides' iron that seventy struck,
And she took too hard to drinking.
With a sough we saw her disappear,
And we cheered, but something faint was our cheer,
For we knew eight hundred souls, or near,
With her to their deaths were sinking.

Two we'd taken and two we'd sunk,
The rest were staggering, as if drunk,
Crippled and crushed and in such a funk,
Guns and all things else went over.
So lightened and gunless, in wild flight,
Some made the Villaine and down came night;
In a risky riding we anchored; quite
That wasn't sleeping in clover.

Did our Admiral sleep? Through storm and gloom,
Gun on gun we heard of danger boom;
While none could save them from their doom,
With the storm on a lee shore blowing.

Signals for help flashed fast their flame,
But whether from friends or foes they came,
Heard or unheard, 'twas but the same,
Till daylight their plight was showing.

When dawn came darkly, upon the shore
Lay the Soleil Royal, to sail no more;
All the rest were nowhere; so off we wore,
With our prizes, wounds, and glory.
And now, when of Nelson and such they talk,
If you have the wish, your whim don't balk,
But up and tell them of glorious Hawke,
And sing, as I've sung, his story.

OUTWARD BOUND.

Yo, heave ho!
Round the capstan go!
Round men with a will,
Tramp and tramp it still!
The anchor must be heaved. Yo ho!

Yo, heave ho!
That's the way to go;
There they stand in tears,
Watching us, the dears,
But we must off to sea. Yo ho!

Yo, heave ho!
Take it kindly so!
When the voyage is done,
Then will come our fun
With the girls and wives from whom we go.

Yo, heave ho!
Cash must come, and so
Work men with a will,
Your pockets well to fill
For those for whom to sea we go.

Yo, heave ho!
A wave to shore, and so,
Now the anchor's weighed,
Put all sail on the jade,
And hurrah! off for good we go.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

In many a port we've made,
For our owners, no end of trade.
Breeze blow strong!
Put her along!
Our anchor for home is weighed.

We've sailed the world around,
But now that we're homeward bound,
Breeze blow strong!
Put her along!
Let us soon feel English ground!

'Tis years since we shipped from home,
With the winds the world to roam;
Breeze blow strong!
Put her along!
Let us see St. Pauls's dome!

Come, old girl, show us some life!
Cut the waves just like a knife!
Breeze blow strong!
Put us along!
To sweetheart, and child, and wife

All, we know, will be of good cheer
When the chink of our cash they hear.
Breeze blow strong!
Put us along
To all that we hold so dear.

It's on London stones I'd stand,
With some one's hand in my hand;
Breeze blow strong!
Put her along!
For it's O but I'd leap to land!

DUNCAN AT CAMPERDOWN.

October 11th, 1797.

Come, sing of a name that is dear to renown;
Come, sing of our Duncan who won Camperdown;
You may talk of your Frenchmen, your Spaniards, and such,
But, for good honest fighting, now give me the Dutch.
If the roar of real broadsides you're longing to hear,
You've only to lay you alongside Mynheer;
That we've precious well known without any mistake,
Since Van Tromp and De Ruyter fought days through with Blake;
Your Mounseers and Dons fire above, not below;
They'd cripple your yards that away they may go;
But your Dutchman he fairly gets gun up to gun,
And batters your hull till he's lost or he's won;
And that's why with Nelson's we match the renown
Duncan won from De Winter at famed Camperdown.

From June to October we'd boxed it about
Off the Texel; but no, still they wouldn't come out
For gales none the tighter, for stores at a loss,
To Yarmouth we couldn't help running across;
There, while in the Roads we were victualling fast,
De Winter took courage and slipped out at last;
When, over the sands, the Black Joke signalled this,
It was all helter skelter the Dutch not to miss.
By noon we were out, with each stitch of sail spread,
Bowling onward due east with a sharp look ahead.

We'd been mutineering, but all that was done;
We'd got all we asked, and were sharp set for fun.
We'd sixteen good liners to win us renown,
And we sailed under Duncan who won Camperdown.

The eleventh at seven, at last all was right;
Trollope signalled ‘To leeward, the Dutch are in sight.’
Then we pulled us together and just before nine,
There they showed, on the starboard tack, all close in line.
Twenty-one ships and four brigs were there sure enough,
And we knew we'd to deal with the right fighting stuff;
We knew there'd be sport before Dutchmen would strike,
We'd the day all before us, and work that we like;
We were all in a crowd, but 'twas pleasant to know
We couldn't go wrong if we went at the foe.
Up ran Duncan's signal: ‘Close action,’ it flew,
And we cheered, for what that meant we very well knew;
We knew we went in to win fame and renown
For England and Duncan at famed Camperdown.

'Twas something the roar of their broadsides to hear
As we and our van ships closed up with their rear;
Through their line drove the Monarch, five minutes ahead,
The starboard ships leading, the larboard we led.
For De Winter we made, but before that we got
At him, their States-General would have it hot.
With what we gave to her she soon was content;
She sheered off and then at the Vryheid we went;
Then we found what they were as we fought gun to gun,
Little thought had our Dutchmen to strike or to run.
When their Mars and their Brutus and Leyden pressed round,
Quite enough to amuse us, I swear, men, we found.
It cost us, boys, something to win us renown
And a Peerage for Duncan at famed Camperdown.

Of the fun we were something beginning to tire
When the Ardent and Triumph took off half their fire;
And we didn't object when the Powerful came,
Greedy, with us, to take a full share of the game;
Mauled and bloody from fight in the midst of their four,
Hauling off, on the starboard tack, round then we wore;
But a broadside to give them we still could afford,
And down came their Admiral's masts by the board.
Riddled through and with all her three masts shot away,
With her starboard guns fouled, all disabled she lay;
With no bark or bite left her, the Vryheid might sulk;
What more could she do—a mere log of a hulk?
She was ours and she struck, but she shared our renown,
For she fought as we fought when we won Camperdown.

When De Winter gave in, they threw up the game quite;
When his colours came down, they had done with the fight;
We'd fought through thick weather, but, now we had won,
It cleared, just to let us see what we had done.
Now the drizzle was gone, we could count up our luck;
For nine of their line and two frigates had struck;
Their van ships, right in with the land, were in view;
But, in nine fathom water, what more could we do?
'Twas well to make sure of the prizes we'd got;
For they and we too had our full share of shot.
Before nightfall 'twas best to be well off the shore,
So we towed off our Dutchmen, full sail, for the Nore;
And you'll say 'twas a day that might well give renown
To us and to Duncan who won Camperdown.

AFTER CAMPERDOWN.

THE FOUNDERING OF THE DELFT.

[_]

See Lieutenant Charles Bullen's Report in James's Naval History.

God bless him! he could face his God, unfearing, when he died;
A hero's heart had he who sank his wounded men to save;
We English won, but those we beat may match us with the pride
They well may feel in his brave fate who found an ocean grave.

'Twas after Camperdown. The Delft, the Veteran had in tow;
Riddled the Dutchman was. We knew that if the gale should last,
She'd not see Yarmouth Roads; so, when great guns it came to blow,
We chalked a board and showed it. ‘The ship is sinking fast.’

The prize crew I commanded; at the pumps we'd had stiff work,
When we gave her up as hopeless, and Heilberg and his Dutch
To fight the gaining leak with us their labour didn't shirk;
But all we did, at last, we found it wouldn't matter much.

Ten feet of water in her hold, her doom no one could doubt;
'Twas a guess, we knew, of minutes how long the Delft would float;
'Twas risky work, so to his Dutch and Heilberg I sung out,
‘When I signal, look alive all! then in with you to the boat!’

Then, his brave face set and white, how I see it turned to me!
The wounded Dutchmen from below we'd brought up on the deck;
‘I leave these, my poor fellows? no—I stay with them,’ said he;
Then I said, ‘God bless you! I'm with you. We'll have them from the wreck.’

We stayed, and twice the Russell's boats, deep loaded, left our side;
How he worked to crowd them off! how that sinking deck he trod
As if 'twere solid land! I swear a noble hero died,
When I was dragged from out the swirl and he went down to God.

SATURDAY NIGHT AT SEA.

Now 'tis Saturday night
And all is taut and tight
And the work of the week's well done;
Before a pleasant breeze
We're slipping through the seas,
So now's the time for song and fun.
Then put away the prog
And push about the grog,
And jolly let us all, boys, be,
And drink to this my toast,
Here's ‘All we love the most
This Saturday night at sea.’

When from Bess I had to part,
She was down of course in heart,
So I said, ‘Girl, cheer up; be true;
And at sea and spree in port,
At work and rest and sport,
Your Jack will be true to you.

And when the week is done,
And we have a spell of fun
In the forecastle, sure, Bess, be,
The girl I love the most,
You'll always be my toast
Each Saturday night at sea.

Now you that have good wives
To be comforts to your lives,
And little ones at home, so dear;
Not one shall be forgot,
Not the baby in the cot,
‘Wives and children,’ we drink all here.
They're thinking, lads, of us,
To-night, and what a fuss
What a kissing and laughing there'll be,
When safe and snug ashore,
We tell the dears once more
How we drank to them to-night at sea.

RODNEY AND DE GRASSE,

April 10th, 1782.

Oh, there never yet was one
That for England fired a gun
That was braver than the hero to whom I give this song.
'Tis of Rodney, lads, I'll sing,
For I hold it not the thing
That sailors, with neglect, his glorious fame should wrong.

'Twas in seventeen eighty-two
That our Admiral staunch and true,
With thirty-six good liners, lay in Gros Islet Bay;
When Byron's streamers flew
‘De Grasse's fleet's in view’
And Sir George threw out the signal for all at once to weigh.

For Jamaica, he had found
The French with troops were bound,
So with all our canvas spread, we gave the Mounseers chase.
We saw their lights that night,
And at dawn it seemed all right;
We were close upon their convoy, and gaining in the race.

Then our van with gallant Hood
Straight for their centre stood,
While, by Domenica's heights becalmed, we'd not yet caught the breeze;
And De Grasse no longer ran,
For he thought, our dauntless van,
Before we could come up, he should make them strike with ease.

A Briton every inch,
Sir Samuel didn't flinch;
For an hour and more, his squadron, it fought them one to three;
Then the wind at last we caught,
And with all sails set and taut,
We cracked along, for sharp set for the gallant game were we.

But, for us, they wouldn't stay;
The Frenchman stretched away
Till, near hull down to windward, his thirty-three had got;
When just then, by good luck
Two with their topmasts struck,
Brought him up to save the pair that were crippled by our shot.

To help them he stood fast,
So we weathered them at last;
The choice was in our hands to let him fight or run,
And our Admiral with delight
Flew the signal for close fight,
And by half-past seven the whole of us were at them, gun to gun.

Then standing through their roar,
We cut their line and wore;
Three ships beyond their Admiral, we doubled down their rear.
Hurrah! the work was done,
We had them one by one;
And as flag on flag struck to us, we gave them cheer on cheer.

The Glorient was tough,
And the Cæsar stout enough,
As her white flag fluttered down, her mast went by her side;
But double all in size,
And in worth, was one grand prize—
De Grasse's Ville de Paris, the Frenchmen's boast and pride.

Proud might brave Rodney look,
One we sunk and seven we took;
Well, when the news reached home, might bonfires light the night;
Well might they pay and thank
With pension, praise, and rank,
Our Admiral of Admirals who fought and won that fight.

So men your memories jog,
When round go song and grog,
And while your Nelson, Duncan, and Collingwood you name,
Now don't forget the praise,
Of this hero of old days,
A match for all the bravest that have won us rule and fame.

WE ROAM AND RULE THE SEA.

The surge's salt is in our veins,
The sea-breeze in our breath,
Our love to ride the waves remains
Through all—come life, come death.
Even as our fathers were are we,
Norse are we now as when
They, ocean-roamers, rode the sea,
The kings of waves and men.
Our wealth may rise, our luxury grow,
Whatever we may be,
We live the Norseman's life to know
We roam and rule the sea.

Preach to us rest, and praise the land,
Our feet must tread the deck;
Who fear our fleets will sail unmanned
For battle, storm, or wreck?
We can but circle round the earth,
Wherever ship can sail,
The ocean's stormy roar our mirth,
Our joy the blustering gale.
Though richer, softer yet we grow,
Whatever we may be,
We live the Norseman's life to know
We roam and rule the sea.

OLD BENBOW.

August 24th, 1702.

Boys, I'll give you a song about one that's gone long,
One that all true good salts should know;
For no braver a one ever stood to a gun
Than my hero, old bold Benbow.
Though many a name has a better-known fame,
I think 'tis a shame 'tis so;
So fill the can, men, and I'll sing to you then
The deeds of old bold Benbow.

A clipper was Drake and a devil was Blake,
Stout Duncan, Mynheer knew well;
Of Rodney and Hawke your Frenchmen don't talk,
And of Howe's deeds we're proud to tell.
Of Cochrane the bold you've often been told,
Of Jervis's pluck all know;
But Nelson himself should be laid on the shelf
As soon as old bold Benbow.

He couldn't boast birth, but you'll see he was worth
A score of the dons who could,
Fine fair-weather men, they were nowhere when Ben
Alone through the Frenchmen stood.
They may make a fine fuss of their high blood to us,
But we know that it's often so,
That our boldest have passed from before the mast
To glory like old Benbow.

He was left in the lurch; he was out in search
Of Du Casse, whom he long had sought;
Through the West Indy Isles he had chased them for miles,
And the skulkers at last he'd caught.
His turn—it was come; they were big ones some,
Ten sail, and says he, ‘We'll show
Mounseer the way to Spithead to-day;
Won't we, lads?’ says old bold Benbow.

So he flung out the sign to bear down on their line,
But we'd only six sail, d'you see;
And our captains were nobs, and hot work such fine snobs
Thought with them wouldn't quite agree;
They funked; when they found he'd fight, they wore round;
How he swore when he saw them go!
‘But we don't go, my men, though we're but one to ten;
No, we'll fight them!’ said bold Benbow.

So he left all behind, and before the wind
Right into the ten he went;
Then one Captain took shame, and after him came;
Real work, lads, the old dog meant.
At their Admiral's side hard to board he tried;
At a first-rate he then let go,
And no more heard that day of her; 'twas his way;
So he served them, did old Benbow.

The work was too warm to last long; one arm
Was gone; a shot tore his head;
A cannon-ball then took his right leg, ‘My men,
Bring a cradle on deck,’ he said.
While life was in him, and his ship would but swim,
He scorned, lads, to go below;
‘If I die, boys,’ says he, ‘never mind, d'you see;
Fight it out!’ says our bold Benbow.

To his four ships in sight he still signalled on ‘fight,’
But they weren't of the fighting stuff;
So they left Ben alone to swear and to groan,
Till Mounseer found they'd had enough.
And so struck was he with old Ben, d'you see,
That a letter he sent; 'twas so:
‘Had your Captains but fought as the cursed cowards ought,
You'd have took me, Mounseer Benbow.

‘You'll hang them, I hope; they deserve well the rope,’
And Du Casse's hint wasn't forgot;
He thought 'twas but right, so in all the fleet's sight,
On his deck they were tried and shot.
‘I've but one leg; by heaven, but,’ says he, ‘I'd have given
That to save us this shame, I know;’
Oh he'd all Nelson's pluck, though he hadn't his luck,
So here's glory to old Benbow.

Well, old walls of oak have become just a joke,
And in tea-kettles we're to fight;
It seems a queer dream, all this iron and steam,
But I daresay, my lads, it's right.

But whether we float in ship or in boat
In iron or oak, we know,
For old England's right we've hearts that will fight
As of old did the brave Benbow.

[O holy Peace, thrice-blessing]

O holy Peace, thrice-blessing
The lands in which you dwell,
Let us, your gifts possessing,
Still love your presence well!
Enough our island story
Has gathered of renown
In many a day of glory
That struck our foemen down.
O Reason, all wrongs righting,
Make war from earth to cease!
Still, earth with bliss delighting,
Dwell with us, holy Peace!

Yet war too shall be holy
If we must show our might,
If we its might use solely
For freedom and the right;
No fear of war shall fright us
To crouch, or pale, or sue;
We are, if arms must right us,
To all our greatness true.
Our grand old island story
In grandeur must increase;
If it be shame or glory?
Our choice shall not be peace.

No, no; we will not dwindle,
Old deeds our souls shall stir,
Old fames our hearts shall kindle
To be the men we were.

Our land each century gathers
New harvests of renown;
These to our sons their fathers
Shall hand unlessened down;
No coward fears are sighing
That war's dread days may cease;
If safety we are buying
With shame, farewell to Peace.

Peace dwells not with the weakly;
With those she lives not long
Who bear injustice meekly,
And swordless front the strong.
With heroes is she dwelling,
She but consorts with such
Of whom renown is telling,
Whom War dares not to touch.
Their fame, their homes defending,
They know from war release;
With them, in bliss unending,
Dwells ever holy Peace.

TRAFALGAR.

October 21st, 1805.

[_]

Tune—‘The Bay of Biscay.’

North-west the wind was blowing,
Our good ships running free;
Seven leagues lay Cape Trafalgar
Away upon our lee.
'Twas then, as broke the morning,
The Frenchmen we descried;
East away, there they lay,
That day that Nelson died.

That was a sight to see, boys,
On which that morning shone!
We counted three-and-thirty,
Mounseer and stately Don;
And plain their great three-deckers
Amongst them we descried—
‘Safe,’ we said, ‘for Spithead,’
That day that Nelson died.

Then Nelson spoke to Hardy,
Upon his face the smile,
The very look he wore when
We beat them at the Nile!
‘We must have twenty, Hardy,’
'Twas thus the hero cried;
And we had twenty, lad,
That day that Nelson died.

Up went his latest signal;
Ay, well, my boys, he knew,
That not a man among us
But would his duty do!
And as the signal flew, boys,
With shouts each crew replied;
How we cheered as we neared
The foe, when Nelson died!

We led the weather column,
But Collingwood, ahead,
A mile from all, the lee line
Right through the Frenchmen led;
‘And what would Nelson give to
Be here with us!’ he cried,
As he bore through their roar
That day that Nelson died.

Well, on the Victory stood, boys,
With every sail full spread;
And as we neared them slowly,
There was but little said.

There were thoughts of home amongst us,
And as their line we eyed,
Here and there perhaps a prayer,
That day that Nelson died.

A gun—the Bucentaure first
Began with us the game;
Another—then their broadsides
From all sides through us came.
With men fast falling round us,
While not a gun replied,
With sails rent, on we went,
That day that Nelson died.

‘Steer for their admiral's flag, boys!’
But where it flew none knew;
‘Then make for that four-decker,’
Said Nelson, ‘men, she'll do!’
So at their Trinidada
To get we straightway tried,
As we broke through their smoke,
That day that Nelson died.

'Twas where they clustered thickest
That through their line we broke,
And to their Bucentaure first
Our thundering broadside spoke.
We shaved her;—as our shot, boys,
Crashed through her shattered side,
She could feel how to heel,
That day that Nelson died.

Into the Dons' four-decker
Our larboard broadsides pour,
Though all we well could spare her
Went to the Bucentaure.
Locked to another Frenchman,
Our starboard fire we plied,
Gun to gun till we won,
That day that Nelson died.

Redoubtable they called her—
A curse upon her name!
'Twas from her tops the bullet
That killed our hero came,
As from the deck, with Hardy,
The bloody fight he eyed,
And could hear cheer on cheer,
As they struck, that day he died.

‘They've done for me at last, friend!’
'Twas thus they heard him say,
‘But I die as I would die, boys,
Upon this glorious day;
I've done my duty, Hardy,’
He cried, and still he cried—
As below, sad and slow,
We bore him as he died.

On wounded and on dying
The cockpit's lamp shone dim;
But many a groan we heard, lads,
Less for themselves than him:
And many a one among them,
Had given, and scarcely sighed,
A limb to save him
Who there in glory died.

As slowly life ebbed from him,
His thoughts were still the same;
‘How many have we now, boys?’
Still faint and fainter came.
As ship on ship struck to us,
His glazing eyes with pride,
As it seemed, flashed and gleamed,
As he knew he conquering died

We beat them—how, you know, boys,
Yet many an eye was dim;
And when we talked of triumph,
We only thought of him.

And still, though fifty years, boys,
Have gone, who, without pride,
Names his name—tells his fame—
Who at Trafalgar died?

SIDNEY AND NELSON.

Of all English deeds that I love to recall,
There are two that in nobleness rank above all;
Though, for bold British daring, the actions of Drake
Match with those that ennoble our Benbow and Blake,
Still, of great Bess's great ones, her Sidney's renown,
With the holiest of radiance to us has come down.
Not his valour I boast, though to fame 'tis as dear
As the courage of Norris, the heart of De Vere;
But I think of our Sidney as, sinking to death,
For water he gasps with his fast fainting breath.
The draught's at his lips—oh, how priceless! how sweet!
But that gashed soldier's wild eyes his own chance to meet,
They, with death-thirst, the water he so longs for, lack,
See, the all-precious cup his weak hand's thrusting back.
What a glory of goodness, O Sidney, is thine,
‘Give the water to him, for his need's more than mine.’
Oh, how many glories, held matchless, must yield
To that thus he won, borne from Zutphen's red field;
Match that Christian self-sacrifice, friends, if you can,
That deed that ennobles the nature of man.

Can we gladden our hearts from our fathers' near days
With a deed that may share with that action our praise?
Yes, another I love to hear History repeat,
Another I know that to Mercy's as sweet;
Another that haloes with radiance a name
That to England is glory, to ocean is fame.

Our Nelson's; no thought of his might would I raise,
To waken your wonder and call for your praise.
No, your hearts may be stirred with his war-deeds the while
You see him in French battle-smoke at the Nile;
But not as the victor he shines here to sight,
Blind with wounds, here he bleeds in the cockpit's dim light.
While the L'Orient's fierce flames flare red on the skies,
Here, death-doomed in thought, the great Sea-Captain lies;
The skill of that surgeon, less agonised breath
Will give him to breathe—may yet snatch him from death.
All others forgotten, the doctor bends o'er
The hero—for others, his thoughts are no more;
He but bends o'er the hero, his great heart to learn:
‘Go, with my brave fellows, I take but my turn.’

CHALMERS'S END.

From Lord Collingwood's Letters.

I've written to Lloyd's about Chalmers's end;
A mother he's left, several sisters, and they,
Poor things! while the brave fellow lived, could depend
On all his kind heart could afford from his pay.

He stood close beside me when meeting his death,
A grape-shot I saw cut him nearly in two;
His head on my shoulder he laid; his last breath
Served to tell me no hope was left for him he knew.

I held him till two men could bear him below,
He could say nothing more than to bless me and bleed
Out a sob of a wish he could linger just so
As the newspaper news of the action to read

Then, with scarcely a moan, in the cock-pit he lay
With the wounded and dying on every side,
Till ‘the three-decker's struck!’ he at last heard them say,
Then faintly he joined in their cheering and died.

A MOTHER'S SONG.

Blow, blow, merry wind, go
Where my Edward sails the sea,
And say that at home, far over the foam,
Here's a new little babe with me,
Dear wind,
Here's a new little babe with me.

Go, wind, and my Edward find,
Wherever his good ship be,
And whisper him home, o'er the cold white foam,
A little dear face to see,
Dear wind,
A little dear face with me.

Kind, kind, merry dear wind,
Bring him to hang with me
O'er a cradle blessed with a small hushed rest
And waking blue eyes to see,
Dear wind,
Blue eyes, where his own he'll see.

Crow, crow; wind, it will go;
Wind, it will father see;
Wind, it will sing in his sails and bring
Dear father to you and to me,
Dear babe,
To kiss his new man with me.

A FISHER-WIFE'S SONG.

‘Oh, gull, gull, grey gull of the sea,
Gull skimming landwards, O tell it to me,
Tell me my Philip's brown trawler you see
Riding safe home to her port on her lee,
Beating safe, safely home to Clovelly and me.

‘Oh, gull, gull! Oh, winged but like you,
That I might the foam-thickened storm circle through,
Till his red sail I saw and his dear face I knew,
His hand to his helm and his heart to us true,
Beating safe to Clovelly, and—oh, to us too!’

‘Oh, wife, wife, I've swept the black squall
That's hiding the in-rolling thunder from all,
Before Him who saves, with your little ones, fall;
I've seen the best handler of oar and of trawl,
To Clovelly and you, beating safely through all.’

NELSON'S BRIDGE.

February 14th, 1797.

Of all the bridges ever used, you'll own with one consent,
The noblest was the glorious one our Nelson dared invent;
The bridge he trod to glory, when, on St. Vincent's day,
Together the San Nicolas and the huge San Josef lay.
Alongside the San Nicolas our Nelson trod his deck,
But mastless, and without her wheel, the Captain lay a wreck;

Ringed round by five three-deckers, she had fought through all the fight,
And now, a log upon the waves, she lay, a glorious sight,
All crippled, but still full of fight, for still her broadsides roared,
Still death and wounds, fear and defeat, into the Don she poured;
Yet there she fought, without a sail, without a shroud or rope—
To get at the San Josef, it seemed beyond a hope;
Out then our Admiral spoke, and well his words our blood could stir,
‘In, boarders, to their seventy-four! we'll make a bridge of her.’

Then one fierce cheer that victory meant, across the battle rang;
Into the Spaniards' mizen chains in swarms our boarders sprang;
Through their stern state-room windows, with shout and yell we crashed,
And through their cabin to their deck, with Nelson, on we dashed;
With slash and thrust, all clear right soon from stern to stem we swept;
Then, boys, for their three-decker, and up her sides we leapt;
It seemed, my lads, but minutes, and all was ours aboard,
And Nelson, on her quarter-deck, stood with her Admiral's sword
And, by the light within his eyes, it needed none to tell,
That, to his thinking, as to ours, his bridge had answered well.
Now ours be peace, and never more may such deeds needful be,
But if they're wanted, mind me well, where'er you sail the sea,
If, one to two, you're matched with foes, be sure no chance you lose,
To try again the glorious bridge our Nelson dared to use.

AT CLOVELLY.

‘Fisher, fisher, put back, I say!
There's storm brewing north, man, there away
There'll be wreck and death out at sea to-day;
Why to-day put out?’ I said.
Then straight his hoarse rough voice replied,
‘Out the boat must go, whate'er betide;
Too many at home for us to bide
Ashore while the bairns want bread;
No, no, no, no, my master, no!
To sea my boys and I must go,
Though the squall be black ahead.’

‘Fisher, fisher, put back I say!
See, the moaning billows are white to-day,
And black the squall comes up the bay;
They're mad who put out,’ I said.
But hoarse and harsh his voice replied,
‘Our boat must out, whate'er betide;
Would you have us leave our babes to bide,
And our wives, without their bread?
No, no, no, no, my master, no!
To sea my boys and I must go,
Though there's wreck and death ahead.’

‘Now God, O guard the boat, I pray,
The boat that to seaward bears away;
And God shield those whom that boat to-day
To peril bears out,’ I said;
‘And God the bold hearts guard and guide
Who to-day will out, whate'er betide,
Nor safe ashore will basely bide
While their homes are wanting bread;
And, O wild winds, when fierce you blow,
Spare those who to-day to sea must go
Though the squall be black ahead!’

WOULD YOU BE A SAILOR'S WIFE?

‘Would you be a sailor's wife?
Beware!
Would you share a sailor's life?
Take care!
For, oh! a sailor's life must be
Spent away on the far, far sea,
And little of him his wife may see—
Not she.’
Yet still she cried, ‘Whate'er betide,
A sailor's wife I'll be;
For the winds with health his brown cheeks fill,
And the sea's fresh life is in him still,
Not the land's weak heart: say what you will,
A sailor's wife I'll be.’

‘Would you be a sailor's wife?
Beware!
Would you share a sailor's life?
Take care!
To the savage sea he is wedded groom,
And grief shall your weary life consume,
And widow'd nights and days your doom
Must be!’
Yet still she cried, ‘Whate'er betide,
A sailor's wife I'll be;
If weeping partings we must know,
He'll come again though he must go,
And, oh! to think he'll come back! oh!
A sailor's wife I'll be.’

‘Would you be a sailor's wife?
Beware!
Would you share a sailor's life?
Take care!

O worse than absence, there may be
A grave for him in the far wild sea,
His young babe's face he may never see,
Nor thee!’
Yet still she sigh'd, ‘Whate'er betide,
A sailor's wife I'll be;
For whether the land or deck be trod,
All lie at last beneath wave or sod,
And all are in the hand of God—
A sailor's wife I'll be.’

ROOKE IN THE BAY OF LA HOGUE.

May 23rd, 1693.

Boating's always been in vogue,
With us English since La Hogue;
Where no man-of war can float it,
There, to reach them we can boat it,
That by Nelson well was known.
Cochrane that was often showing;
'Tis our English knack, we own,
Slap, at batteries, to be going;
Cutting out just suits our book;
Firing Frenchmen's been in vogue
Ever since we learned from Rooke
How to warm them at La Hogue.

Four days we had fought and flogged
Tourville, though at times befogged;
Well had noble Russell fought it,
Badly hadthe Mounseers caught it,

Now, as dusked the twenty-second,
May, 'twas, sixteen ninety-three,
Crowding for La Hogue, they reckoned,
There at last secure they'd be.
So outside we lay all night,
Watching Frenchmen was in vogue
With us, and the dawning light
Showed them anchored in La Hogue.

Thirteen liners, there they lay,
Broadside to us, up the bay;
Round the shore their army lying,
Batteries all approach defying;
Risky work we'd have, 'twas clear,
Only boats 'twas plain, could do it;
Under Rooke, who had a fear
But we'd soon and well get through it?
He was not the one to doubt;
Weighing risks was not in vogue
With our Rooke who had the bout
With the French at famed La Hogue.

From our oars the sunshine flashed,
For their broadsides straight we dashed;
In a hail of death we found us,
Shot and shattered boats around us.
On we strain, with not a cheer
Uttered, till their ports we're under;
Then our tongues we let them hear,
Shout and yell that drowned their thunder.
We were at it now all right,
At the work that was in vogue
With the men Rooke led to fight,
Led to conquer at La Hogue.

Up their towering sides we swarmed,
‘Sacré Dieu!’ the Mounseers stormed,
But we safety found in daring;
Up we went, their thousands scaring;

All bewildered, panic-struck,
Soon their backs we saw them turning;
Soon we found we were in luck,
Through that night six sail were burning.
If a bonfire you desire
Such as with us was in vogue,
French two and three-deckers fire
As we fired them at La Hogue.

As day broke we didn't shirk
Quite to polish off our work;
As the six had burnt, the seven,
One by one, flamed up to heaven;
All that day we fought and fired
Ship on ship, not one sail sparing;
Not a transport; grimed and tired,
From the bay, with red flame flaring,
Then we rowed through lighted night;
Making clean work was in vogue
With our Rooke who fought that fight,
Fought and conquered at La Hogue.

[Why do I sing of the glory]

Why do I sing of the glory
Of the bloody triumphs of war,
When I pray through our future story
Its thunders may roar no more?
Alas! still the nations madly
Of conquest and warring think;
That people may waken sadly
That dreaming from arms shall shrink.
Armed watch we must keep unending,
Strong souls until war shall cease;
Old might that, our homes defending
Our strength may secure us peace.

This England of ours securely
Seems walled in by girdling foam,
But our sea-rule must last that surely
We safe keep our island home;
War's glory my heart's abhorring
When won from mere lust of fight;
God curse those who set us warring
For aught save unquestioned right.
But base breath we can't be breathing;
Our power to smite must cease
But when God, the fell sword sheathing,
To Earth gives unending peace.

'Tis therefore, O mighty spirits,
Who dwelt with the surge and blast,
Whose greatness our blood inherits
Your souls in your sons must last;
'Tis therefore our souls must feed them,
To strength on your deeds of fame,
That your like, if our England need them,
May smite from her foes and shame.
Not that we for war may be lusting,
I sing—but that, till war cease,
In such souls we may still be trusting
As won for our fathers peace.

A CHRISTMAS SONG.

Blow, wind, blow,
Sing through yard and shroud;
Pipe it shrilly and loud,
Aloft as well as below;
Sing in my sailor's ear
The song I sing to you,
‘Come home my sailor true,
For Christmas that comes so near.’

Go, wind, go,
Hurry his home-bound sail,
Through gusts that are edged with hail,
Through winter, and sleet, and snow;
Song, in my sailor's ear,
Your shrilling and moans shall be,
For he knows they sing him to me
And Christmas that comes so near.

THE WIFE FOR A BRITISH SAILOR.

Wan and white is the landsman's cheek,
And weak is the landsman's hand;
Of womanish work they plainly speak,
Of the safe smooth life of the land.
So give me the lass that for one will long,
That the rough deck's learned to tread,
Whose hand the haul at the rope's made strong,
And whose cheek the storm's made red;
By the weak white landsman, she who'll pass,
For a seaman's love, I hail her,
The brave, the bold true-hearted lass,
Fit wife for a British sailor.

Tell her she must be no seaman's wife,
That he must be long away,
That lonely will be her hapless life,
And what does the brave heart say?
‘If my sailor lad be from me long,
The far deck doomed to tread,
In the tempest his love but grows more strong,
And his cheeks grow yet more red.’
Sad thoughts—she'll bid all such to pass,
Thinking how, returned, he'll hail her,
His own, his true, his longed-for lass,
Just the wife for a British sailor.

HERRINGS ARE IN THE BAY!

Herrings are in the bay! Herrings are in the bay!
In with the nets, with laugh and shout,
The sea's in a ripple for miles about,
It flashes with silver miles away.
Up with the sail!—pull out, pull out!
Our lasses will scorn, our gude-wives flout
The laggard who long on shore will stay,
When herrings are in the bay.

Herrings are in the bay! Herrings are in the bay!
Well may our lasses look their best,
And hurry us off with jeer and jest;
Our women may well look glad to-day.
Shout it again and make them blest,
The cry that they love of all cries the best;
The cry that wins gold to make them gay,
When herrings are in the bay.

HERE WE SIT BY OUR CHRISTMAS FIRE.

Here we sit by our Christmas fire,
Baby—baby!
And what do we wish till wishes tire,
Baby—baby!
What can your wish and mine, babe, be,
But that father were here with you and me,
Father, so far on the cold dark sea?
Baby—baby?

Oh, that wishing could waft him here,
Baby—baby!
Could bring him to us, so kind and dear,
Baby—baby!
How we would toast him, baby, there,
In the brightest blaze, in the softest chair;
Father but here, and for what should we care,
Baby—baby?

THE ANGLO-AMERICAN BOAT-RACE.

August 29th, 1869.

Come all who speak our English tongue, come here today and see
How Hellas trained her heroes for her greatness yet to be.
Not only in the strifes of thought and speech she trained them on;
From sterner strifes they caught the hearts that won at Marathon;
Where Cronion's rounded summit on Olympia's plain looked down,
There was their school of glory, there they grasped the palm and crown.

Do we scorn the great race, greatest in the world's yet youthful day,
That for the strife with nations trained its mighty thus in play?
Ah, trust me, English-tongued ones, Greece knew her gain in this,
On Alpheus' banks the laurels grew, her wreaths of Salamis.
Blind were the eyes that saw not that the strength to do and die
Was gathered where her racers sped, her chariots thundered by;
There was the arm made strong, and there the eye and nerve grew sure,
There better still her sons grew stern to dare and to endure.
There their blood grew hot for glory and fevered to be great,
Not only for itself but for its race and mother-state;
And there her scattered nations all, all who her tongue could speak,
Laid hate aside in the one thought and pride that they were Greek.

Is that lesson lost upon us, on our swarming nations, say?
Do you feel Greek wisdom foolishness on Thames' green banks to-day?
Is Wellington not in your thought? Do you hold his words untrue,
When they said that Eton's cricket-grounds won for us Waterloo?
In contests such as these, O men, those hearts were trained and tried,
That 'neath the burning Indian sun with Havelock conq'ring died;
From the stern raptures of such strifes are born the coming smiles
That 'neath new Nelsons yet shall win Trafalgars and new Niles.

Stretch to your work, you—our dark blue—your hearts on victory set!
Our shouts shall tell you England's heart throbs to such courage yet.
Pull with a will, you of the pink and white; in you we see
The hearts of Sherman's Southern march, the souls that struck down Lee;
Our love warms to you; strangers? as such we know you not;
Your English blood, your English speech, all else today's forgot.
You're of the earth you tread to-day; from its great fathers sprung,
Free with the freedom Milton thought, and great with Shakspeare's tongue.
What matters though between your homes and ours may roll the sea?
You are of us; you're English still, where'er your dwellings be.
One be our thought to-day; to this let all else now give place,
In brotherhood we meet to prove the manhood of our race.

Stream down from roof and window, flag of a hundred wars!
Thrill to the coming contest with the glorious stripes and stars!
Hark! with the rush of thousands, rail, r ad, and river hum—
To bank and garden, wharf and roof, how London's myriads come!
Along four miles of river to-day a nation ranks;
A people, swarming Thames, to-day is gazing from your banks.
Never since through the sunshine your gleaming waters ran,
Have you, O Thames, run seaward so gazed upon by man;

And up and up the cleared broad stream gazes the mighty crowd,
And now a hush creeps down its lines, its myriads late so loud;
A lull of expectation that watches yet in vain
With a longing that, as minutes pass, grows keen almost to pain.
They're off! Hark! down the swarming banks rolls the long thundering cheer:
Ever it bursts and bursts again, and ever yet more near.
Well may the bridge gleam bright with eyes, from roadway, pier, and chain,
Well, well, from window, roof, and tree, unnumbered eyes may strain;
Watch well that crowded headland, that hides the next long reach!
They come! Hark! in a storm of cheers, its silent hearts find speech.

Through waving hats, through thunders that from mad thousands leap,
Round, round they come! hurrah, hurrah! down, down the tide they sweep;
Now, by the gods, brave rowers, in this day's noblest strife,
Such moments as you're breathing now are worth dull years of life.
O, nobly matched!—full hardly the gazers can descry
Which leads as, almost head to head, each four-oar flashes by.
Hurrah, bend to it, Oxford! to lose will you begin?
Hurrah, brave boasts of Harvard! have you not come to win?
A hundred waiting millions are listening 'neath the sun,
Ay, twenty nations hunger, men, to know which crew has won.
On to the goal! who dares to flag? who dares to bring defeat?
Steer, coxswains, steer, as if with you alone it lay to beat.

Magenta wins! no, blue creeps up, the dark blue creeps ahead;
On, Harvard, on! or victory's lost; on, lead as you have lead.
See Mortlake's here; a minute more, and no more can be done.
Cheer, England, cheer; two lengths ahead, the blue, the blue has won!
And cheer, cheer too, the pink and white, for long will England say,
‘Never was victory harder won than that we won today.’

A SONG OF THE SEA.

‘Sailor, sailor, tell to me
What sights have you seen on the mighty sea?
‘When the seas were calm and the skies were clear,
And the watch I've kept until day was near,
Eyes I have seen, black as yours, dear, are,
And a face I've looked on that was, how far!
That was, girl, oh! how far from me!’

‘Sailor, sailor, tell to me
What else have you seen on the far, far sea?’
‘I've seen the flying-fish skim the brine,
And the great whales blow, and these eyes of mine
Have seen on the icebergs the north-lights play—
But often I've seen a home far away,
And a girl, oh, how dear to me!’

‘Sailor, sailor, tell to me
The sounds men hear on the stormy sea.’
‘I've heard, my girl, the wild winds blow,
And the good ship creak to her keel below;
But a laugh, too, I've heard, that, O well, well I know!
And a far, far voice—a voice that was, O
How sweet! O how sweet to me!’

‘Nay tell me, sailor, tell to me
The sights and scenes of the wild, wild sea.’
‘Alike in calm, and breeze, and storm
I've dream'd one dream and I've seen one form;
One dream that, dearest, shall soon be true,
One form that, my girl, I clasp in you,
That my own sweet wife shall be.’

THE ARMADA.

July 19th, 1588.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise:
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain,
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle
At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;
Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast;
And with loose reign, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes,
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums:
His yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space,
For there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace;
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.
Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!
So stalked he when he turn'd to flight, on that famed Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay,
And crush'd and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids:
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades:
Thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy fold,
The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of gold:
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea;
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay,
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;
For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-flame spread,
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone, it shone on Beachy Head:
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves,
The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves;
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew,
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town;
And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate look'd forth into the night,
And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light:
Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the deathlike silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke;
At once, on all her stately gates arose the answering fires;
At once the wild alarum clash'd from all her reeling spires;
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear,
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer:
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rush'd down each roaring street:
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,
As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in;
And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went
And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent:
Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth;
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north;
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;
All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill;
Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales:
Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height;
Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light;
Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent;
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

Macaulay.

That night in Plymouth harbour there were song, yo-ho and shout
As to sea, against the shoreward wind, Drake warped his war-ships out;
Round ran the creaking capstans and, as the anchors swung,
No words of fear, but merry cheer and jests were on each tongue,
And fast aboard the powder and heaps of shot were rowed,
And deep the beef-casks and the bread with rough sea-jokes were stowed.
And many a tale of torture wrought by Rome and hell was told,
As they hoisted high the stores on deck or swung them down the hold;
And as out swept ship on ship, at the windlass as they cheered,
They minded how in Cadiz bay they'd singed the Spaniard's beard;

With a will those stout arms seaward, the ships of England, strained;
Before the break of Saturday, but few in port remained;
Before the dawn of Saturday, before a sou'west breeze,
Full sixty sail towards the foe were sailing o'er the seas;
Through mist and drizzling rain they drove, and by noon that July day
Eastward before them, seven long miles, the Armada stretched away.

There rode the fleet Invincible that towards each English home
Bore the slaughterers of Antwerp's saints, the chains and racks of Rome;
Woe to thy daughters, England, to thy babes, and grey-haired, woe,
If Philip's mercy, Parma's ruth, thy stately towns shall know!
Woe for the hour that in his power, thy stately London sees,
His power who hardened Alva's heart and loosed the swords of Guise!
Each towering galleon is filled with hate that never tires
To wake the shrieks of tortured saints, to light the martyrs' fires;
Remember how cursed Bonner Spain's work within thee wrought;
Let Cranmer's pile and Ridley's flames to-day be in thy thought;
If faint this hour be thy stout heart, if thy arm smite in vain,
Worse than thy bloody Mary's days shall be thy days again;
Let the shrieks of reeking Paris, let Zutphen's moaning woe,
Tell the doom the Jesuit dooms thee to, the fate thy land shall know:

With saint, and Pope-blessed standard each castled galleasse comes,
With the blare of Spanish trumpets and theroll of Romish drums;
There swings the Pagan censer, there the mass's chant they raise,
And gloat the while o'er pile on pile in Smithfield soon to blaze;
Shall the Lord not shield His people and wall His faithful round!
O Lord, for Thine own glory, Thy foes and ours confound!
Let the nations see this day once more Thy wonders wrought of old
For the people Thou hast chosen, for the faithful of Thy fold!

They came, as to a triumph, gilt and tapestried; with boast
And vaunt they could but scatter us, they rode along the coast;
In a huge and mighty crescent, dim through the mist, they loomed,
And they looked on England's pigmy craft as to destruction doomed;
Goliaths, on they came to us with scoffs upon their tongue;
Down from their lofty bulwarks, on us, their scorn they flung:
But like the blessèd David, their mightiness we saw
With trust in God the Lord, our strength, and scarce a thought of awe;
What though with hosts of Princes they laboured o'er the flood,
With many a famous Bastard of many a royal blood,
Though pike and lance from every land were there with cruel joy,
To bind our sovereign Queen in chains, our nobles to destroy!

Amongst us there were those who had met them without fear
In breach and mine, on dyke and plain, with Norris and De Vere;
Who, overmatched, undaunted, had fought them far away
In the Minion and the Judith, in St. Jean d'Ulloa's bay,
Who many a laden carrack had lightened, spite of Spain,
Of bar, donbloon and crucifix, upon the Spanish Main;
Who but a year ago had put their mighty king to shame,
And given in Cadiz harbour his hundred sail to flame;
Had blocked his royal Tagus and made his Santa Cruz,
Lepanto's Iron Marquis, their offered fight refuse;
Through high and low, unquailing, the blood of England ran,
The fear that only feared its God, but knew no fear of man;
And they, so stout for Queen and God, by valiant ones were led
Who for faith and fame and plunder, in many a fight had bled;
From the masts of the Ark Royal blew England's standard fair,
And, with the Lord High Admiral, was dauntless Raleigh there,
And in the Triumph, Frobisher came crowding to the fray,
As stout as when through seas of ice he sought for far Cathay;
And, in the Victory, Hawkins, safe from their perjured wiles
That strove his barks to capture amongst the Western Isles;
And there was he who, ere his sails in Plymouth port were furled,
Had swept their Southern sea and cut a furrow round the world;
Well we knew the stout Revenge his mark amongst the first would make,
The stout Revenge that led the van with Devon's famous Drake

And there the Golden Lion bore Sheffield on to fame,
And the White Bear brought another of the Howard's famous name,
And Fenner in the Nonpareil and Fenton in the Rose,
Came thronging with the foremost to seize their share of blows;
What wonder if they dreaded nought when, crowding o'er the seas,
Came England's fearless sea-dogs there with captains such as these;
What marvel if, to triumph there, they thronged with fierce delight,
If but with thought of victory they gathered to the fight!

And hour on hour, in boat and sloop, came speeding from the shore,
In haste to play their valiant parts, unnumbered brave hearts more;
The sons of famous fathers, they came with courage true,
To prove them worthy of the blood from mighty sires they drew;
From many an inland castle and hall and grange they came,
Afire they came to strike with all for Queen and land and fame;
From every creek and Devon stream came squire and noble forth,
With Oxford and with Hatton and the great Earls of the North;
And many a soft-tongued courtier the great Queen's smiles forsook,
And stole to us with Willoughby, with Cecil, and with Brooke;
Theirs were no hearts for soft delights and quiet homes that day;
Small love had those at parting who had counselled them to stay;

With hearts aflame for battle, they swarmed from out the coast,
With merry hearts to dare with us the game they loved the most.

Shout, for the Lord hath triumphed! sing praises to our God,
Who hath put to scorn the scorner and on the proud hath trod;
To His name be the glory, the praise to Him alone
Whose hand hath given the victory and triumph to His own;
Let His servants sing His greatness! let His faithful tell His praise
Who hath fought and conquered with us through the twelve all-famous days,
The twelve all-famous days of fight whose deeds shall aye be told
While our sons, their fathers' freedom, our sons their pure faith hold;
Weak is our strength and faint our heart unless He make them strong;
He giveth conquest to the right; He smiteth down the wrong.
From Him the hearts of captains are stout for high emprize;
From Him are boldness to the bold and wisdom to the wise;
Where now are Philip's galleons! where are Spain's vaunted hosts!
He gave them to us as a prey; He dashed them on our coasts;
They came to fetter and to slay, but as He gave to death
Assyria's swarming hosts of old, they melted in His breath;
He blew! His winds came forth for us; for us His storms arose;
For us the black rocks shattered them; the billows whelmed our foes;

Therefore to-day, O London, to Him thy psalms are sung,
And unto His great glory with wreaths thy homes are hung;
Hang, hang with pictured tapestries thy every gladsome street,
And be each shop and Hall and Mart to-day with garlands sweet!
Well may the roar of triumph be thundered from thy Tower!
Well may thy thousand steeples clash forth their joy this hour!
Well in this hour of triumph each window may be green,
Each window filled with gazers to gaze upon our Queen,
Our Queen who comes in triumph, who rides in state today
Her offerings of thanksgivings before her Lord to lay;
To-day in glad thanksgiving before His throne she falls;
To-day she leads her people's praise to Him within St. Paul's;
Well may the Strand and Cheap be lined with all the City's pride!
Well, through its marshalled Guilds, arow her counsellors may ride!
And glad may be her nobles' hearts to wend through that array
Of all her liveried Companies so gay of garb to-day;
Strew, strew, fair maids of London, with blossoms strew each street,
That shall glad to feel the stately tread of her cream-white coursers' feet,
And proudly blow, ye trumpets, our triumph shrilly blow,
As, in her pillared chariot, our Lion-Queen shall go;
Not hers a spirit, faint with fear, at martial blare to start;
More than a King's great courage beats in her unquailing heart;
She rides as through the shouting ranks of Tilbury she past
With words that stirred her soldiers' bloods as with a trumpet blast,

When, grasping fierce her truncheon, with bold, unfearing eye,
She told her people that for God and them she'd dare to die,
That she spite of her woman's heart, their general, were there need,
To victory 'gainst the vaunting foe their conquering ranks would lead.
Not for such kingly ruler, O Philip, is thy doom,
The fetter and the dungeon, the scaffold, axe and tomb:
By Monk and Jesuit hated, by the Stuart's rage abhorred,
God hath shielded her from plot and snare, from dagger and from sword;
And now His hand hath lifted from her eyes the gloom of night,
And the morning of the future is bright before her sight;
The starless gloom has lifted, the dread has passed away,
And for the fear and darkness, for her are joy and day;
Heap up your bonfires, 'prentices; pile log and fagot high;
To-night, in every shouting ward, your fires shall light the sky;
To-night, shall many a barrel redly blaze on sign and wall,
From the Barbican and Aldgate, to Southwark and Whitehall;
Dress up your red-legged Cardinals, in mitre, stole and cope;
Let them dance above the dancing flames on halters with the Pope;
To-night, with jeer and scoff, let them roast before our gaze,
Till 'mid cheer and yell, in sparks, at last they fall amid the blaze;
For well may London's casements be glad with lights to-night;
No more the thought of Haarlem's fate her matrons' dreams shall fright.

No more her shuddering maidens shall pale in dread again,
At all the woe that were their doom, the prey of bloody Spain;
Afar the baffled spoilers and their Farnese curse the loss
Of the days they counted surely should see them safely cross;
Ho! Parma, are thy companies still lingering on the shore!
Where be the mighty victors that shall guard them safely o'er!
Are Dunkirk's transports ready? are thy Walloons afloat?
Are horse and horseman safe aboard of Nieuport's many a boat!
We have heard of all thy labours, how toilsome thou hast been,
What stores thou hast of ordnance, of cask and of fascine;
Art thou still watched from Kleyenburg! are Zealand's sea-dogs near!
Dar'st thou not yet to venture forth to waft thy blood-hounds here!
Ho! art thou looking westward, as thou didst look of late!
Long, long, methinks, for the Golden Duke, to free thee, thou shalt wait;
Methinks the Fleet Invincible thou wilt not gaze on soon,
Unless the waves, around thy feet, its scattered wrecks have strewn;
Northward to cliff and boiling rock it reels by tempests driven,
It flies the wrath of man; it feels the scourging wrath of heaven;
For it the rocks of Norway, the cliffs of Scotland wait;
Full few shall 'scape to Philip's ears to tell its fearful fate;
Within the hushed Escurial, he waiteth to be told
That the tiger hath his prey, that the wolf is in the fold;

Let him hear how God hath judged him; that he shall look in vain
For his thousands sent to conquer, for his nobles that are slain;
That his toils and mighty treasures of years have only borne
For him the bitter harvest of foul defeat and scorn,
That the mighty fleet with vauntings he sent undoubting forth
Has heaped the shoals of Holland, the headlands of the North,
That many a flaunting standard that made its galleons gay,
Borne streaming through our shouting streets, shall deck St. Paul's to-day.
O long shall be the sorrow, and wild the weeping mid
The sunny homes of Lisbon and the mansions of Madrid,
And when its doom of shame and death is told to distant ears,
Full many a dame of Italy will blind herself with tears;
Ho! tonsured monks! Ho! shavelings, that count your dull beads o'er,
Is not the Lord's hand heavy! has He not smitten sore!
Despite of curse, anathema, of Romish ban and bull,
Look how the Lord with blessings hath filled His chosen full!
Where be your gods of wood and stone, the idols that ye paint!
What shield against our conquering shot were chapel, cross, and saint!
Hath He not judged betwixt us who cry to Him alone
And ye who, like the heathen, bow down to senseless stone!
Oh be our hearts made thankful His goodness to adore,
That, as this day He shielded us, He shield us evermore!

OUR HEROES OF TO-DAY.

Heroes and saints! and do they say
The past had these alone?
Brothers, have we not both to-day,
And both, the people's own?
Theirs may be homes in lanes and streets,
But theirs are deeds one hears
With blood that quicker, nobler beats,
And the proud praise of tears.
If e'er your heart ignobly faint
At great deeds in your way,
Then think of many a living saint
And hero of to-day.

The ‘Birkenhead,’ see, settles down,
Down to its ocean grave;
Who grasp from death the glorious crown
With life they yet might save?
Ranked on that holy deck, that square
Of English life, for death
Stands calm and hushed, save for low prayer,
Set teeth and hard-drawn breath:
No coward cry; no weak heart faints;
The full boats bear away
But wives and babes! down go those saints,
Those heroes of to-day.

A boat puts from that lighthouse—see,
It cleaves the raging storm!
Who pulls it? light of death, thinks he;
Is that a woman's form?
Her pitying heart forgets all fear,
Sees not the seething waves;
The cries alone her heart can hear
Of those she dreadless saves!

Grace Darling—her heart never faints
On that wild ocean way;
And now we hail her of our saints,
Our heroes of to-day.

Look, through Scutari's ghastly walls—
Plague-haunted, anguish-filled—
Walks Mercy's Saint, to do her Lord's
Dear will, and moans are stilled.
Dreads Florence Nightingale the breath
Of pestilence she breathes?
Thinks she of that crown, won from death,
That now her memory wreathes?
Through all her angel heart ne'er faints:
Blessing and blessed, her way
She takes, white light amongst our saints,
Our heroes of to-day.

Yes, these and others well we know,
And flush with pride to name;
How many to death nameless go
Who well might share their fame!
How many a noble deed unsung,
To mortal lips unknown,
Unsyllabled by earthly tongue,
Is told by heaven alone?
Ah! there where hungered misery faints,
Yet thrusts its crust away
To dear ones, say, have we not saints,
And heroes still to-day?

Thank God! to many a toiling home,
His Angels of the Earth,
With His own love and mercy come,
Though few proclaim their worth.
Ah! could we know the nobleness
By Him to poor lives given,
His graciousness how should we bless
For such high gifts of Heaven!

Thou, Genius, when thy pencil paints
God's chosen, never say
Thou canst not give to glory, saints
And heroes of to-day.

STILL BOAST YOURSELF AN ENGLISHMAN.

‘The English race is multiplying at an unabated velocity, and is peopling the world.’—Registrar-General's Report for 1868.

‘Increase, and fill the earth,’ God said.
In truth we do that bidding well:
We among men may proudly tread,
As we our destiny foretell.
What is our future? One, sublime,
Beyond that dealt to other lands;
We almost count the years till Time
Shall give the world's rule to our hands.
Measured with that, how poor the powers
By races grasped since time began;
He well may prize the pride that's ours,
Who boasts himself an Englishman.

Yes, year by year, still more and more
With English life we flood all lands,
And continent and isle we store
With fearless hearts and restless hands.
Where'er we go, free faith, free speech,
Go with us, and the ringing strife
Of clashing thoughts, in words that teach
To man the nobleness of life.
Where'er we plant our free feet, there
Man may say all, be all he can;
Therefore a righteous pride is where
There speaks and boasts an Englishman.

Ours are great deeds, ours mighty names
That we and Glory treasure well;
Of Shakespeare's, Milton's, Cromwell's fames
Our love and reverence proudly tell.
Ever the march of man we've led;
We hold the gains of glorious fights
Won by our living and our dead,
Whose conquests were our priceless rights;
Those rights of ours, of sumless worth,
All lands are gaining as they can;
The guide, the envy of the earth,
Is every freeborn Englishman.

O olden glories, ever last,
Shine on us still, as still you've shone!
O mighty memories of our past
To other glories hurl us on.
Not on the gains of days gone by
Our pride shall now ignobly rest,
But on our will to smile to die,
So we but make our race more blest.
Up to our greatness we must live,
Give to the future all we can;
Be it our pride fresh pride to give
To every coming Englishman.

Where'er it spreads, our race is one,
In laws, in rights, in blood, in tongue,
One by the fame of all we've done,
Of all we've suffered, thought, and sung.
The curse of all of England born
Be his who'd thrust us heart from heart;
Let all our nations laugh to scorn
The wretch who'd strive their love to part.
One in all climes, where'er at birth
Your English-speaking life began,
Where'er your free feet tread the earth
Still boast yourself an Englishman.

FROM THE CASSITERIDES.

In Tyre. b.c. 1000.

So again we ocean-voyagers have once more our hearts' desire,
Ah! how we longed and laboured thus to sit once more in Tyre.

How we urged our worn bark onward, month on month, old Tyre to win!
How we plyed our oars this morning as to port we swept us in!

Little know you blest home-dwellers what it is to seatost eyes
To see upward out of ocean, temple, tower, and homeroof rise!

Ah! but that home-bath was pleasant—pleasant too that fragrant oil,
Dear the meat and dear the wine-draught after all our ocean-toil.

Now the pleasant feast is over—now in quiet joy I sit,
Wife and children, friends around me, and the evening lamps are lit,

Now the holy Gods are worshipped and with offerings duly blest,
Strangely calm's the sense of safety and the blessedness of rest.

And the long, long days of danger and of toil and hardship seem
To me, dear ones, looking on you, all a strange and troubled dream.

Lost are fears of dread sea-monsters that the wandering lone bark track,
Of the foul men-eaters' savage shores—the pirate Greeks' attack.

Far—far have we voyaged westward—westward to the ocean's bound,
Where the circling mists of chaos gird the ends of Earth around.

Where strange shapes of terror haunt us—horrors of the waves and wind,
Where are glooms to which the dead are ferried when life's left behind.

Hardy hearts, O friends, were ours when, after vows at Gades' fane,
To great Melcart, there we launched us forth out in the unknown main.

For there from out the far north waves, rise the grey Isles of Tin
To Tyrians known, where they alone the rare white ingots win,

The precious hardeners of our bronze—the edge to sword and spear,
Won through our sweat and life-risk, to our merchants' eyes how dear!

White rose the cliffs of the lone isles, when in the sinking sun,
We saw the foam break on their rocks and knew our goal was won.

Fair in the quiet light of eve—the flush of dying day,
White cliff and pebbly beach and leafy hill and valley lay.

Still as just fresh from the Gods' hands, that far new world we saw,
So on creation's utmost bound, it hushed our lips with awe.

No life, save the grey gull's o'erhead; no sight—no sound of man,
Till a skin canoe stole out from where to sea a river ran,

And with signs we called the savage, and one, our crew among,
Shouted some uncouth words he knew of the strange British tongue.

Near paddled the barbarian, rough-wolf-skin-clad, blue-dyed,
The lip unshaven, the hair unclipped, the neck torque-girt, fierce-eyed.

Some gay Sidonian glass-beads, some Tyrian toys we gave;
He led us where a land-locked bay knew not the boisterous wave.

Our messages of friendship inland the savage bore;
Soon plaided chiefs and shaggy braves thronged down upon the shore.

Then down car-borne they bore the tin, the treasures that we sought;
Well stored were we for trading, and right well the tin we bought.

And friendship grew as weeks went by, and trust; without a fear
We trod the land; with the wild tribes we hunted boar and deer.

We feasted in their chieftains' halls; we heard their glories sung
In songs that streamed in living fire from many a wild bard's tongue.

And in the awful temples of their circled stones, our eyes
Saw their Druids' fires flame to their Gods with shrieking sacrifice.

And fearless grew our feet to range green Britain's solitudes,
To trace the car-tracks to the huts that clustered in its woods,

Where, in many a forest clearing that deep-trenched rampart girds,
The scattered hamlets homed the tribes amongst their flocks and herds.

Oh pleasant are those British woods—those boundless roofs of green,
With grassy lawns and ferny dells their giant trunks between.

Where quiet glassy rivers wind through soundless woodland shades,
And wildfowl scream from reedy fens and hares fleet through the glades.

There the grey wolf howls along the waste—the beaver dams the lake,
And the wild boar routs through the beeches' mast and shoulders through the brake,

And nought is heard but bird and beast save when the rush and cry
Of the roaring hunt with its sounding horns through the forest depths sweep by.

So we traded on in peace until our hold could store no more,
And our hearts and eyes for the sight of Tyre and our homes were longing sore.

Then war amongst the fierce tribes rose, and with javelin shaft and bow,
Target and huge bronze broadsword, we watched their warriors go.

And we dipped our oars for the long toil of our homeward ocean way,
And to our guardian Gods we vowed rich offerings to pay.

And to Gades steered we safe and, through the Columns that the hand
Of Melcart set, we toiled, and long we coasted land on land.

And we 'scaped the pirate Carians, 'scaped the tempests' whelming wrath,
And the perils of rock, and shore, and shoal that thronged our ocean-path.

And always our hearts' home-longing, our eyes' desiring, grew
More eager and more hungering for the sights so well we knew.

And always our weary arms grew strong and quicker bent the oar,
As we sang the songs that seamen sing when they near their homes once more.

And Oh how cheerily rang our song and how hot grew our desire
For land as we swept through the long glad waves that were rolling in to Tyre.

And Oh with what praise to Melcart we vowed our vows anew
As the holiest temple Tyrians know rose from the ocean's blue!

Then our pull grew strongest and swiftest as to port our oars strained in
With the burdened bark we had safely brought from the far strange Isles of Tin.

IN A ROMAN WINE-HOUSE.

DURING CÆSAR OCTAVIUS'S TRIUMPHS, B.C. 29.

Now, by Mars's beard, Favonius, these that Rome to-day is loud of
I name not with great Julius: these are men; he was a god.
What years were those in Gaul when fierce they surged around us, proud of
Their countless strength! We tamed them; how they trembled at his nod!

Fill! nay, spare thou not the wine, man! red as that, we of his legions,
I of the Tenth, world-famous, soaked Alesia's reeking ways;
How we heaped their gold-torqued chieftains—piled the brave of all its regions!
Not the swift, broad Rhine could stay our conquering eagles in his days.

Not the farthest circling ocean that stretched vast and horror-haunted,
With no further land than Britain, where the mystic Druids taught
Fell strange spells that flung the lightnings, that our truest spirits daunted;
But our Cæsar willed to show its pearls to Rome—so there we fought.

War they loved, the long-haired tribes there; wild, woad-stained, skin-clad, I see them
As I saw them as our transports neared their unknown wooded shore;
As they yelled along their white cliffs, few, I swear, from dread could free them,
And our boldest, to plunge shoreward through the foe-filled surf, forbore.

Even under Cæsar's very eyes, not one Centurion, leaping,
Led the gazing ranks to battle through the billows to the land;
Then I cried to the great gods to have my eagle in their keeping,
And I looked one look to him as towards the beach he drove his hand.

On his galley's prow I see him; in his sight (he saw and told it)
I, standard-bearer of the Tenth, leapt with the ringing cry:
‘Men of the Tenth, will you betray this eagle? I that hold it
Bear it there, where it should be; I plunge, to conquer or to die!’

Then the shout of Rome rang upwards, and a thousand plunging round me;
Made the long foam break on flashing arms—then breast to breast was set,
With shout and shriek, and clash and groan, at stroke and thrust I found me;
That hour, I say, our General looked upon us hard beset.

Ah, these Britons! (have you seen them in the Campus, matched with others
Of all races? then you know, man, of what stuff the brood is come);
Hot and sudden cold the Gaul is; these are like their Teuton brothers,
Stern of purpose, that can look in death's eyes with the gaze of Rome.

How they met us on that flat shore, pouring down the cliffs to meet us,
From the rolling downs down-roaring, foot and horse, and scythe-armed car!
Huge they came in boar and wolf skin, with fierce battle-songs to greet us,
With bare breasts that fearless thrust them joyous to the front of war.

Then they knew us not; they met us knowing not that Cæsar's coming
Was to see and to destroy still all who met the short sword's thrust—
That the Fates to the great city's yoke all lands and tribes were dooming—
That the sons of the wolf-suckled must grind all foes in the dust.

Help the bald-pate saw we needed (so his words said when he wrote them),
Struggling through the clinging sea-depths, armourcumbered, stormed with blows;
So our slingers, archers, engines from the transports for us smote them
Sideways with a hail of death, and brought our sea-war to a close.

Once on firm ground from the ocean, then they stood not long before us,
Then we gave them point and pilum, and they learned to know our mark;
Rome's brand we scored on breast and back, and as the eve closed o'er us
The uproar sank to silence, and we camped us in the dark.

Fill again to him, great Julius! curses on the steel that slew him!
Never will the hate that stabbed him, or Time, see his like again.

Here I sit worn-out and useless, yet to think I served, I knew him,
Makes me young and I can laugh even when my old wounds rack with pain.

Fighting this same British fight now, till its very yells are present,
As my old words tell the old tale and my old thoughts see it all,
Makes, O brother, this same warm hour in this wineshop doubly pleasant,
As the Forum's hum flows past us and the shadows eastward crawl.

THE BOAT-RACE.

‘There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
‘I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,
‘Or wait a twelvemonth. Books—for ever books!
‘Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!
‘I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
‘To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,

‘No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,
‘She needing yours. There—there—I love you, Ned,
‘Both for your own, and for your mother's sake,
‘So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
‘And you shall have her.’ With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,
He left the subject; and, across the wine,
We talked,—or rather, all the talk was his,—
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others—Clare, the boast
Of Jesus',—and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,
There was young Chester might be named with them;
‘Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
‘Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins;
‘Small chance for you, boy!’ And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,
But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one
Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,
There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond
Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her—found her there,
A summer blossom that the peering sun
Peep'd at through blossoms,—that the summer airs
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold
Warm as that rain'd on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path
I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming, (was I her thought?) my murmur'd ‘Kate’
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek,
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest
Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears

Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went,
And in my College rooms what blissful hopes
Were mine!—what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes,
Even my new tragedy upon the stocks,
I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight,
Its by-laid cunning back: so, day by day,
From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars
And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,
Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I fear'd but Chester—him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,
And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden greenness of the fields,

And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh,
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,
My eye saw only; one, that morning, left
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart,
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears—
One, that upon my neck had parting hung
Arms white as daisies—on my bosom hid
A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart,
Fill'd with what fondness! yearning with what love!
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine!
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?
There was a murmur in my heart of ‘Yes,’
That sung to slumber every wakening fear
That still would stir and shake me with its dread.
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach,
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn
A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags
And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went,
As in a horse-race, all, at first, a crowd;
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off,
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar,
Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength
Held on, enduring,—mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,

Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard,
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick,
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words:
‘What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?
‘The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
‘No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win.’
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry
Burst: ‘Kate, O dearest Kate—O love—we lose!’
‘Ah! I've a Kate too, here to see me win,’
He answered: ‘Faith! my boy, I pity you.’
‘Oh, if you lose,’ I answered, ‘you but lose
‘A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
‘I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
‘Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness—
‘What years with her that I might call my wife!
‘Winning, I win her!’ O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;
I saw the flush of pride die into one
Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve:
No word he spoke; only one look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, ‘Chester foil'd at last!’
O how I turn'd to him! with what a heart!
Unheard the shouts—unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife, and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only she
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.

THE WRECK OF THE LONDON.

Glory to God for all He wills beneath His awful skies!
Even when His savage, weltering seas and His fierce storms arise:
Alike in calm and tempest, on ocean and on land,
Children, we trust in perfect faith the guidance of His hand;
We murmur not that He who gave our days should stay our breath,
Whate'er He gives we bless His gifts, or be they life or death;
Even when we hear ring in our ears, ring through the murky air,
That smothered shriek, that sinking cry, those hundreds' wild despair;
Not, faithless, do we doubt His love, we creatures of the dust,
In good and ill, in life and death, alike in Him we trust;
Why agony like this should be we see with vision dim,
With sinking hearts, but, it is good, our faith is firm in Him.

100

The storm is calm, the pain is past, and for the night away,
We trust His love has given to these the brightness of His day.

Glory to God! He gives to us the lesson these have left;
To us who live—the nobleness they showed of hope bereft,
These Christian heroes whom henceforth we think upon with awe,
Remembering how amid His waves His awfulness they saw
Yet how amid the weltering storm He heard their shuddering breath
Praise Him they closer clung to as they closer drew to death.
O servants true of God the Lord of all, to you was given
The glorious task ye did so well to stay their souls to heaven;
We thank Him that His servants here are nobler now through you—
More trustful through your trust to death—through your last truth more true,
Not for yourselves alone, O saints, do you, ye blessed ones, die—
But evermore to lift men's souls to reach eternity:
Your faith to death shall bid henceforth that faith to us belong,
And in your strength for evermore the living shall grow strong.

And you, O Captain of the wreck, our hearts with praise swell high,
Thinking how well your nobleness knew how to do and die;
Yes, when the London's awful end is told in years to be;
One form amid those fearful hours men's swimming eyes shall see,
You, Martin, amid storm, and wreck, and hope, dead to despair,
Still grimly wrestling with the seas for those beneath your care;

101

Still calm, with firm, unfaltering voice, while aught remained to do,
Battling with death, still at your post to God and duty true,
Cheering weak hearts while hope remained; when hopeless, firmly trod
Your feet along the ways of death that led you to your God.
To you 'twas given with these to die—to leave and live with those;—
Calmly you put your life aside, calmly your death you chose.
O noble heart, thou art with Him where storm and tears are o'er,
Thou art with us to teach us truth to trust for evermore!

FROM ‘OUR GLORY ROLL.’

But nobler crowns than those that earth has wreathed around thy brow,
From every sea that knows thy sails and owns thy rule, hast thou;
What oceans have not given thee fame, lent to thy heroes, graves,
Thy mighty, caught to them whilst thou didst thundercalm their waves,
Thy sea-kings who from age to age have shown the heart of Drake,
Have matched the deeds of Frobisher, and lived the days of Blake;
Through all the centuries, through our veins has leapt the salt sea-spray;
They who joy not to front the storm, no sons of thine are they:
Thou, throned upon the subject isles, what triumphs, land, to thee,
What spoils and rules, thy brave have borne from every wind-swept sea!

102

How have they joyed as through the thundering lines they cleft their way,
As gun to gun, for fiery hours, amid the foe they lay,
As their fierce broadsides, crash on crash, through side and port-hole roared,
And shroud and sail and splintering mast went over by the board!
Thunder, thou sea, the mighty fames that made our glory sure,
How Edward smote crushed France at Sluys, and Bedford at Harfleur;
Fitly, how Spain's Armada came and was not, must be sung,
O Earth, to thee in ocean-bursts by tempests to thee flung.
O savage tongues of storms and seas, wild voices of the deep,
Chant ye the world-known deeds of Blake, ye sang to death's own sleep,
Repeat, with savage love, the days, with you, that Russell knew,
The deeds that Rooke and Shovel dared in ocean's sight to do,
How Anson streamed our conquering flag in triumph round the world,
How Vernon its consuming fire to Darien's winds unfurled,
How through the shoals of Quiberon, through its white breakers' roar,
In storm and fire, our fearless Hawke, brave Conflans, clutched and tore;
Nor yet forget how, one to ten, bold Benbow struck Du Casse,
Nor how keen Rodney and stout Hood in thunder crushed De Grasse,
How, on that day that brightens still June with its far renown,
Our Howe from many a crashing mast the Tricolor tore down.

103

Still in your dash, O wind-swept waves, these glories England hears,
Still swells to catch St. Vincent's roar and Camperdown's fierce cheers,
Still hearkens, with lit eyes, to all told by the billows' roar
Of Exmouth, Cochrane, and Napier, and fames unnumbered more.

But one great name, O mighty land, dearer than all to thee,
With countless memories to thine ear is thundered by the sea;
No other, with an equal love, can bid thee throb the while
Thou tak'st his to thy mother-heart with all exultant smile;
Unto thy lips, O sceptered land, what other glories are
As dear as his whose broadsides stilled the Nile and Trafalgar,
Who, from a hundred battle-days, for thee, red conquest, tore,
And gave to thee thy ocean-rule and glory evermore?

TO OUR BROTHERS IN AMERICA TALKING OF WAR WITH US.

Yes, yes; we sent our armies forth
And dared to think war right, 'tis true;
But that was, brothers, 'gainst the North,
The despots' stay, not such as you;
Yet then we clung to peace, how long!
And almost truckled to the Czar,
And almost owned the right the wrong,
Rather than curse the world with war.
Now shall we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

104

Too much of war before to-day,
Of mutual hate and loss we've had
That losing game again to play;
Oh, brothers, no, we're not so mad.
Shoulder to shoulder, you and we,
Twin boasts of liberty should stand;
The strength, the vanguard of the free,
The help of every fettered land.
And shall we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

What would the tyrants of the earth,
From German Prince to Russian Czar,
Think you, think such a struggle worth,
Where Freedom slew herself with War?
How would they laugh! full sure of this,
When every deadly blow was dealt,
Whoe'er it struck it could not miss
To be too well by Freedom felt.
What! we—we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

Too strong are you, by far, to need
To bluster of your power, and boast;
Too mighty we to care to heed
Taunts that but gall the weakest most.
History our gain from war can tell;
Yours too shall she in vain rehearse?
Let one begin this work of hell,
How soon we both that work shall curse.
What! shall we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

105

Why should I fear some fools—how few!
Will goad us on with this poor fuss?
Their devil's work you will not do;
Their work shall not be done by us.
Your pride in us, we know, is such,
These fools' poor spite we need not fear;
And, friends, we glory far too much
In you to dare to hate you here.
What! we—we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

O mighty freemen of the West!
O mightier, greater, yet to be!
He who from you for us would wrest
One right of yours, accursed be he!
You owe us much: how great your debt,
To you it need be told by none;
And cursed be they who would forget
The ties that make both nations one.
What! we—we play the despots' game?
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace! madmen, peace!

Oh, shall mere trifles such as these,
For such a crime afford pretence?
To let this frenzy on us seize,
For such things, shows us void of sense.
No, leave them to some friend's award!
What if we lose? 'twere better far
Than if we won them with the sword—
The cursëd wickedness of war.
We will not play the despots' game;
Oh, let this senseless wrangling cease!
In blood, in rights, in tongue, the same,
We talk of war! Peace, madmen, peace!

1856.

106

OUR GREAT ENGLAND OVER THE WATER.

Two nations? pshaw! nonsense! two peoples? we're one,
By our subject the sea tied together;
Through all time, through the future, beneath every sun,
Storm and sunshine, united, we'll weather;
The greatness of each shall be gladness to both;
One, our language, our glory, our freedom;
If any would part us, for one, I'll be loath
To own either England could breed 'em;
So, glory to her who our glory shall be,
Our motherland's mightiest daughter!
Every ill may she shun! every good may she see,
Our great England over the water.

They say, we grow weaker, more tame than of old,
You and I, you know, don't quite conceive it;
We're not to take in all the nonsense we're told,
Whoever may will to believe it;
But if ever, as 'twill not, the croak could come true,
Though, like good wine, the older we're stronger,
In the youth of the West, we our youth shall renew,
The mightier as we live the longer.
Then here's might to her, in whose might ours re-lives,
Our freedom, that we here have taught her!
What a future of greatness to us, boys, she gives,
Our grand England over the water!

What, if we've had squabbles! the nearest in blood
Show, by tiffs, best their love for each other;
But they're fools who on such things are given to brood,
And let coldness divide child and mother;
The quarrels of kinsmen should love but renew,
By the contrast but make it the clearer;
So, if we've our tiffs, may they be far and few,
Let them make each to each but the dearer!
Happier, mightier, wiser, each age, may both be,
Old England, and this her dear daughter;
Hand in hand, may they on, England this side the sea
And our great England over the water.

107

STAND TO YOUR GUARD!

THE WARNING OF THE WAR.

August 18th, 1870.

Listening with awe and wonder,
England, thou well mayst stand.
Hark! crash upon crash, war's thunder
Rolls o'er the Frenchmen's land:
To-day thou in peace art dwelling;
Yet is not that awful sound
To thee, too, the warning telling
It tells to the nations round?
If thou would'st secure be living,
Thy safety is in thy sword;
Good heed to thy arms be giving:
Yes, England, stand to thy guard!

Put not trust in thy olden glory;
In thy past, thou wast mighty; true:
Such deeds as it gave to story,
To-day thou may'st have to do;
But yesterday, little dreading,
Men looked not for sudden strife;
To-day, red battle-fields treading,
Armed Germany strikes for life:
And if thou would'st secure be living,
Look at once to war-ship and sword:
Good heed to thy arms be giving:
Yes, England, stand to thy guard!

Close your ranks, brothers all; who mutters
Of discord or party? none;
While war its dread warning utters,
To-day and henceforth we're one;
Oh Motherland, look upon us
And gladden with pride to see,
When for service thou callest on us,
How faithful thy sons can be;
That thou shalt secure be living,
Look, Mother, we grasp the sword;
Good heed to our arms we're giving:
Yes, England, we stand to our guard!