War Lyrics dedicated to the friends of the dead. By A. and L. Shore. Second edition, with additions |
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THE BRITISH SOLDIER. |
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THE BRITISH SOLDIER.
I.
We know our soldier—recognise
In him the land whose huts and towers,
Whose social freedom, household ties,
Alone could train such men as ours.
In him the land whose huts and towers,
Whose social freedom, household ties,
Alone could train such men as ours.
The Chief who spurred his charger forth,
Soon as the dreadful message came,
The followers sweeping on his path,
Into the heart of sword and flame;
Soon as the dreadful message came,
The followers sweeping on his path,
Into the heart of sword and flame;
The beauteous boy in his first fight,
While his young voice cheered on his band
Into the death-shots' thickest flight,
Falling, his colours in his hand;
While his young voice cheered on his band
Into the death-shots' thickest flight,
Falling, his colours in his hand;
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The soldier, who with man's devotion,
Fought by his dear young leader's side,
And who, with woman's soft emotion,
Buried and blest him where he died;
Fought by his dear young leader's side,
And who, with woman's soft emotion,
Buried and blest him where he died;
Nor less than those made great by death,
The great by what they live to bear,
Who bravely yet draw painful breath,
Strong to sustain, as quick to dare.
The great by what they live to bear,
Who bravely yet draw painful breath,
Strong to sustain, as quick to dare.
These are the men of England, these
The men who left sweet homes, who sleep
On Tartar-hills, by far wild seas—
The men we loved, the men we weep.
The men who left sweet homes, who sleep
On Tartar-hills, by far wild seas—
The men we loved, the men we weep.
And these are they for whom in turn
Their homes our Englishwomen leave,
True sisters of the brave, to earn
Blessings 'tis glory to receive.
Their homes our Englishwomen leave,
True sisters of the brave, to earn
Blessings 'tis glory to receive.
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They wait those ships that touch the beach,
Fast emptying out the ghastly shoals
Of their live freight—they welcome each
With the strong love of seraph-souls.
Fast emptying out the ghastly shoals
Of their live freight—they welcome each
With the strong love of seraph-souls.
And Light on those strange Eastern walls,
Where the nurse glides through pain's pale ranks,
From her bright eyes of pity falls,
And shines in their dim eyes of thanks.
Where the nurse glides through pain's pale ranks,
From her bright eyes of pity falls,
And shines in their dim eyes of thanks.
II.
Oh British Soldier! 'mid thy feats
Of wonder, still show what thou art—
That in thine iron frame yet beats
Thy mother's and thy sister's heart.
Of wonder, still show what thou art—
That in thine iron frame yet beats
Thy mother's and thy sister's heart.
We saw thee on those fields of woe,
With a calm fierceness worse than hate,
In the death-grapple hold thy foe,
With the relentless arms of fate.
With a calm fierceness worse than hate,
In the death-grapple hold thy foe,
With the relentless arms of fate.
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Then fresh from thine all-bloody part,
Thou, when the battle-wrath was over,
Wert tender as a woman's heart
That breaks for pity o'er a lover.
Thou, when the battle-wrath was over,
Wert tender as a woman's heart
That breaks for pity o'er a lover.
That mangled wretch, slave born and bred,
Half brute by nature, fiend by training,
Who wolf-like fought, and tore the dead,
Or stabbed out all the life remaining—
Half brute by nature, fiend by training,
Who wolf-like fought, and tore the dead,
Or stabbed out all the life remaining—
To tears is his rude heart surprised,
For never priest had taught the slave
That, nursed in freedom, schooled by Christ,
None are so gentle as the brave.
For never priest had taught the slave
That, nursed in freedom, schooled by Christ,
None are so gentle as the brave.
God bless you, soldiers of our land!
Still make yourselves more proudly dear
To us, whose loving eyes are chained
By the stern charms of your career.
Still make yourselves more proudly dear
To us, whose loving eyes are chained
By the stern charms of your career.
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God bless you! though a blood-red name
Mark each strange spot that saw you fall,
England, enamoured of your fame,
Hath set her broad, bright seal on all.
Mark each strange spot that saw you fall,
England, enamoured of your fame,
Hath set her broad, bright seal on all.
God bless you, champions of all lands!
The world, that will be slave no more,
Hath given her cause into your hands,
Your hands that are both strong and pure.
The world, that will be slave no more,
Hath given her cause into your hands,
Your hands that are both strong and pure.
A. December 10, 1854.
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