The Poor

    FEW, save the poor, feel for the poor:
        The rich know not how hard
    It is to be of needful food
        And needful rest debarred.

    Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
        They sleep on silk and down;
    And never think how heavily
        The weary head lies down.

    They know not of the scanty meal,
        With small pale faces round;
    No fire upon the cold, damp hearth
        When snow is on the ground.

    They never by the window lean,
        And see the gay pass by;
    Then take their weary task again,
        But with a sadder eye.

        L.E.L.

Cities and Thrones and Powers

        CITIES and Thrones and Powers,
            Stand in Time's eye,
        Almost as long as flowers,
            Which daily die:
        But, as new buds put forth,
        To glad new men,
        Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
            The Cities rise again.

        This season's Daffodil,
            She never hears
        What change, what chance, what chill,
            Cut down last year's:
        But with bold countenance,
        And knowledge small,
        Esteems her seven days' continuance
            To be perpetual.

        So time that is o'er kind,
            To all that be,
        Ordains us e'en as blind,
            As bold as she:
        That in our very death,
            And burial sure,
        Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,
            "See how our works endure!"

            Rudyard Kipling

Gentlemen-Rankers

    TO the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
        To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
    Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
        And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
    Yes, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
        And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
    And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
        But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.
        We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
            Baa! Baa! Baa!
        We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
            Baa--aa--aa!
        Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
        Damned from here to Eternity,
        God ha' mercy on such as we,
            Baa! Yah! Bah!

    Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
        And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
    To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
        And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
    Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,
        And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
    When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy living cleanly
        Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".

    If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
        And all we know most distant and most dear,
    Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
        Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
    When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
        And the horror of our fall is written plain,
    Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
        Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

    We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
        We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
    And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
        God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
    Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
        Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
    And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
        And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.
        We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
            Baa! Baa! Baa!
        We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
            Baa--aa--aa!
        Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
        Damned from here to Eternity,
        God ha' mercy on such as we,
            Baa! Yah! Bah!

        Rudyard Kipling

The English Flag


    WINDS of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro --
    And what should they know of England who only England know? --
    The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,
    They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!

    Must we borrow a clout from the Boer -- to plaster anew with dirt?
    An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt?
    We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share.
    What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!

    The North Wind blew: -- "From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;
    I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
    By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,
    And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

    "I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,
    Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came;
    I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,
    And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

    "The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,
    The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:
    What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare,
    Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!"

    The South Wind sighed: -- "From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en
    Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
    Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon
    Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

    "Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
    I waked the palms to laughter -- I tossed the scud in the breeze --
    Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
    But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.

    "I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn;
    I have chased it north to the Lizard -- ribboned and rolled and torn;
    I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;
    I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.

    "My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
    Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
    What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare,
    Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!"

    The East Wind roared: -- "From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,
    And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
    Look -- look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon
    I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!

    "The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,
    I raped your richest roadstead -- I plundered Singapore!
    I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose,
    And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.

    "Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake,
    But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake --
    Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid --
    Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.

    "The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows,
    The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.
    What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare,
    Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!"

    The West Wind called: -- "In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly
    That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.
    They make my might their porter, they make my house their path,
    Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.

    "I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole,
    They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll,
    For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath,
    And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.

    "But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day,
    I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away,
    First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,
    Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

    "The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it -- the frozen dews have kissed --
    The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
    What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare,
    Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!"

        Rudyard Kipling

 The Three Fishers

    THREE fishers went sailing away to the West,
        Away to the West as the sun went down;
    Each thought on the woman who loved him the best;
        And the children stood watching them out of the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
        Though the harbor bar be moaning.

    Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
        And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
    They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
        And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
    But men must work, and women must weep,
    Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
        And the harbor bar be moaning.

    Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
        In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
    And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
        For those who will never come home to the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
        And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

        Charles Kingsley

On Seeing the Elgin Marbles

    MY spirit is too weak--mortality
        Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep
        And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep
    Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die
    Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
        Yet tis a gentle luxury to weep
        That I have not the cloudy winds to sweep
    Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
    Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
        Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
    So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
        Which mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
    Wasting of old Time--with a billowy main--
        A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.

        John Keats

Ye Jacobites By Name

Ye Jacobites by name, lend an ear, lend an ear!
Ye Jacobites by name, lend an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame - you shall hear, you shall hear!
Your doctrines I maun blame - you shall hear!

What is right, and what is wrong, by the law, by the law?
What is right, and what is wrong, by the law?
What is right, and what is wrong?
A short sword and a long,
A weak arm and a strong, for to draw, for to draw!
A weak arm and a strong, for to draw!

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife famed afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th' assassin's knife,
Or hunt a Parent's life, wi bluidy war, wi bluidy war!
Or hunt a Parent's life, wi bluidy war!

Then let your schemes alone, in the State, in the State!
Then let your schemes alone, in the State!
Then let your schemes alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man alone, to his fate, to his fate!
And leave a man alone, to his fate!

Robert Burns

The Ronalds Of The Bennals

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a', man.

Their father's laird, and weel he can spare't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man;
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a', man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O' lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau't wad be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
Nor hae't in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,
O'pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man

I never had frien's weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher'
d aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a', man.

I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,
Or claughtin't together at a', man;
I've little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.

Robert Burns

Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn

Scots, what hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power -
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha, for Scotland's King and Law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa',
Let him on wi' me!

By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We sill drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do or die!

Robert Burns

My Heart's In The Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Robert Burns

M'Pherson's Rant

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.

Chorus:
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He play'd a spring , and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

O, what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain
I've dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!


Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring me to my sword;
And there's no a man in all Scotland
But I'll brave him at a word.


I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart,
And not avenged be.


Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

Robert Burns

Here's A Health To Them That's Awa

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Altho that his band be sma'!
May Liberty meet wi success,
May Prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and Tyranny tine i' the mist
And wander their way to the Devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie,
That lives at the lug o' the Law!
Here's freedom to thern that wad read,
Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,
But they whom the truth would indite!

Here's a health to them that's awa,
An here's to them that's awa!
Here's to Maitland and Wycombe! let wha does na like 'em
Be built in a hole in the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core,
And may he that wad turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn'd to the back o' the door!

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,
And wha wad betray old Albion's right,
May they never eat of her bread!

Robert Burns

Fareweel To A'Our Scottish Fame


Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue
Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;
But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O, would or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration:
We're bought and sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Robert Burns

Bonnie Lesley

O SAW ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the Border?
She 's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he couldna scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face
And say, 'I canna wrang thee!'

The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune sha'na steer thee:
Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There 's nane again sae bonnie!

Robert Burns

The Battle Of Sherramuir



"O cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see, man?"
"I saw the battle, sair and teugh
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O clans frae woods in tartan duds
Wha glaum'd at icingdoms three, man.

"The red-coat lads wi' black cockauds,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd,
And monie a bouk did fa', man!
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles;
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords clashed,
And thro they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.

"But had ye seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man;
When in the teeth they daur'd our Whigs,
And Covenant trueblues, man!
In lines extended lang and large,
When baig'nets o'erpower'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath and frac the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath.
They fled like frightened dows, man!"

"O, how Deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man!
I saw mysel, they did pursue
The horseman back to Forth, man:
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi a' their might
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And monie a huntit poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man!"

My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man:
She swoor she saw some rebels run
To Perth and to Dundee, man!
Their left-hand general had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' bluid to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o brose; they scar'd at blows,
And hameward fast did flee, man.

"They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man!
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or in his en'mies' hands, man.
Now wad ye sing this double flight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right,
But monie bade the world guid-night;
Say, pell and mell, wi' muskets' knell
How Tories feil, and Whigs to Hell
Flew off in frightened bands, man!"


Robert Burns

A Man's a Man for A' That
 


Is there for honesty poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave - we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A price can mak a belted knight,
A marquise, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Robert Burns

 Auld Lang Syne

    SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
        And never brought to mind?
    Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
        And days of auld lang syne!

                Chorus:
            For auld lang syne, my dear,
                For auld lang syne,
            We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
                For auld lang syne.
    And surely ye'll be your pint stowp,
        And surely I'll be mine!
    And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
        For auld lang syne.

    We twa hae run about the braes;
        And pou'd the gowans fine;
    But we've wander'd mony a weary fit
        Sin' auld lang syne.

    We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
        Frae morning sun till dine;
    But seas between us braid hae roar'd
        Sin' auld lang syne.

    And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
        And gie's a hand o' thine!
    And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
        For auld lang syne.


        Robert Burns

 Address to a Haggis

    FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
    Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
                  Painch, tripe, or thairm:
    Well are ye wordy o' a grace
                  As lang's my arm.

    The groaning trencher there ye fill,
    Your hurdies like a distant hill,
    Your pin wad help to mend a mill
                  In time o' need,
    While thro' your pores the dews distil
                  Like amber bead.

    His knife see rustic Labour dight,
    An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
    Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
                  Like ony ditch;
    And then, O what a glorious sight,
                  Warm-reekin, rich!

    Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
    Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
    Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
                  Are bent lyke drums;
    Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
                  ``Bethankit!'' hums.

    Is there that owre his French ragout
    Or olio that wad staw a sow,
    Or fricasse wad mak her spew
                  Wi' perfect sconner,
    Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' view
                  On sic a dinner?

    Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
    As feckless as a wither'd rash,
    His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
                  His nieve a nit;
    Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
                  O how unfit!

    But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
    The trembling earth resounds his tread.
    Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
                  He'll mak it whissle;
    An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
                  Like taps o' thrissle.

    Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
    And dish them out their bill o' fare,
    Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
                  That jaups in luggies;
    But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
                  Gie her a haggis!

        Robert Burns

Note: It is Burns Night!

     Edgehill Fight


        NAKED and gray the Cotswolds stand
            Beneath the summer sun,
        And the stubble fields on either hand
            Where Sour and Avon run.
        There is no change in the patient land
            That has bred us every one.

        She should have passed in cloud and fire
            And saved us from this sin
        Of war--red war--'twixt child and sire,
            Household and kith and kin,
        In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire,
            With the harvest scarcely in.

        But there is no change as we meet at last
            On the brow-head or the plain,
        And the raw astonished ranks stand fast
            To slay or to be slain
        By the men they knew in the kindly past
            That shall never come again--

        By the men they met at dance or chase,
            In the tavern or the hall,
        At the justice bench and the market place,
            At the cudgel play or brawl--
        Of their own blood and speech and race,
            Comrades or neighbours all!

        More bitter than death this day must prove
            Whichever way it go,
        For the brothers of the maids we love
            Make ready to lay low
        Their sisters' sweethearts, as we move
            Against our dearest foe.

        Thank Heaven! At last the trumpets peal
            Before our strength gives way.
        For King or for the Commonweal--
            No matter which they say,
        The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel
            Changes the world today!

            Rudyard Kipling

 The Power of the Dog
 

    THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
    From men and women to fill our day;
    And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
    Why do we always arrange for more?
    Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
    Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

    Buy a pup and your money will buy
    Love unflinching that cannot lie--
    Perfect passion and worship fed
    By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
    Nevertheless it is hardly fair
    To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

    When the fourteen years which Nature permits
    Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
    And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
    To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
    Then you will find--it's your own affair--
    But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.

    When the body that lived at your single will,
    With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
    When the spirit that answered your every mood
    Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
    You will discover how much you care,
    And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

    We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
    When it comes to burying Christian clay.
    Our loves are not given, but only lent,
    At compound interest of cent per cent.
    Though it is not always the case, I believe,
    That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
    For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
    A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
    So why in Heaven (before we are there)
    Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

        Rudyard Kipling

The Widow at Windsor

    'AVE you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
        With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
    She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome,
        An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
             [Ow, poor beggars in red!]:
    There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
        There's 'er mark on the medical stores --
    An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
        That takes us to various wars.
             [Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!]:

             Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
                  An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
             The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
                  O' Missis Victorier's sons.
             [Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!]:

    Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
        For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
    We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
        An' we've salted it down with our bones.
             [Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!]:
    Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
        Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
    For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
        When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
             [Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!]:

             Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
                  From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --
             To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
                  An' open in form with the guns.
             [Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!]:

    We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
        It's safest to let 'er alone:
    For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
        Wherever the bugles are blown.
             [Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!]:
    Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
        An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
    But you won't get away from the tune that they play
        To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
             [Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!]:

             Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
                  Wherever, 'owever they roam.
             'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
                  A speedy return to their 'ome.
             [Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!]:

        Rudyard Kipling

 Robin Hood

          NO! those days are gone away,
    And their hours are old and gray,
    And their minutes buried all
    Under the down-trodden pall
    Of the leaves of many years:
    Many times have winter's shears,
    Frozen North, and chilling East,
    Sounded tempests to the feast
    Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
    Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

          No, the bugle sounds no more,
    And the twanging bow no more;
    Silent is the ivory shrill
    Past the heath and up the hill;
    There is no mid-forest laugh,
    Where lone Echo gives the half
    To some wight, amaz'd to hear
    Jesting, deep in forest drear.

          On the fairest time of June
    You may go, with sun or moon,
    Or the seven stars to light you,
    Or the polar ray to right you;
    But you never may behold
    Little John, or Robin bold;
    Never one, of all the clan,
    Thrumming on an empty can
    Some old hunting ditty, while
    He doth his green way beguile
    To fair hostess Merriment,
    Down beside the pasture Trent;
    For he left the merry tale,
    Messenger for spicy ale.

          Gone, the merry morris din;
    Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
    Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
    Idling in the "grene shawe";
    All are gone away and past!
    And if Robin should be cast
    Sudden from his turfed grave,
    And if Marian should have
    Once again her forest days,
    She would weep, and he would craze:
    He would swear, for all his oaks,
    Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
    Have rotted on the briny seas;
    She would weep that her wild bees
    Sang not to her---strange! that honey
    Can't be got without hard money!

          So it is; yet let us sing
    Honour to the old bow-string!
    Honour to the bugle-horn!
    Honour to the woods unshorn!
    Honour to the Lincoln green!
    Honour to the archer keen!
    Honour to tight little John,
    And the horse he rode upon!
    Honour to bold Robin Hood,
    Sleeping in the underwood!
    Honour to maid Marian,
    And to all the Sherwood clan!
    Though their days have hurried by
    Let us two a burden try.

        John Keats

The Raining

    THE night I left my father said:
    "You'll go and do some stupid thing.
    You've no more sense in that fat head
    Than silly Billy Witterling.

    "Not sense to come in when it rains--
    Not sense enough for that, you've got.
    You'll get a bullet through your brains,
    Before you know, as like as not."

    And now I'm lying in the trench
    And shells and bullets through the night
    Are raining in a steady drench,
    I'm thinking the old man was right.

        Wilfred Gibson

The Young Warrior
 

    MOTHER, shed no mournful tears,
    But gird me on my sword;
    And give no utterance to thy fears,
    But bless me with thy word.

    The lines are drawn! The fight is on!
    A cause is to be won!
    Mother, look not so white and wan;
    Give Godspeed to thy son.

    Now let thine eyes my way pursue
    Where'er my footsteps fare;
    And when they lead beyond thy view,
    Send after me a prayer.

    But pray not to defend from harm,
    Nor danger to dispel;
    Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm
    I fight the battle well.

    Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep
    My heart and purpose strong,
    My sword unsullied and ready to leap
    Unsheathed against the wrong.

        James Weldon Johnson

The White Witch

    O, BROTHERS mine, take care! Take care!
    The great white witch rides out to-night,
    Trust not your prowess nor your strength;
    Your only safety lies in flight;
    For in her glance there is a snare,
    And in her smile there is a blight.

    The great white witch you have not seen?
    Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
    Like nursery children you have looked
    For ancient hag and snaggled tooth;
    But no, not so; the witch appears
    In all the glowing charms of youth.

    Her lips are like carnations red,
    Her face like new-born lilies fair,
    Her eyes like ocean waters blue,
    She moves with subtle grace and air,
    And all about her head there floats
    The golden glory of her hair.

    But though she always thus appears
    In form of youth and mood of mirth,
    Unnumbered centuries are hers,
    The infant planets saw her birth;
    The child of throbbing Life is she,
    Twin sister to the greedy earth.

    And back behind those smiling lips,
    And down within those laughing eyes,
    And underneath the soft caress
    Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
    The shadow of the panther lurks,
    The spirit of the vampire lies.

    For I have seen the great white witch,
    And she has led me to her lair,
    And I have kissed her red, red lips
    And cruel face so white and fair;
    Around me she has twined her arms,
    And bound me with her yellow hair.

    I felt those red lips burn and sear
    My body like a living coal;
    Obeyed the power of those eyes
    As the needle trembles to the pole;
    And did not care although I felt
    The strength go ebbing from my soul.

    Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
    And heard your laughter loud and gay,
    And in your voices she has caught
    The echo of a far-off day,
    When man was closer to the earth;
    And she has marked you for her prey.

    She feels the old Antaean strength
    In you, the great dynamic beat
    Of primal passions, and she sees
    In you the last besieged retreat
    Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
    Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

    O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
    The great white witch rides out to-night.
    O, younger brothers mine, beware!
    Look not upon her beauty bright;
    For in her glance there is a snare,
    And in her smile there is a blight.

        James Weldon Johnson

Inverquharity
 

    ASIDE the Quharity burn
        I ken na what I'm seein'
        Wi' the licht near deein'
    An' the lang year at the turn;
        But the dog that gangs wi' me
        Creeps whingein' at my knee,
    And we baith haud thegither
    Like a lad an' his brither
        At the water o' Quharity.

    Alang the Quharity glen
        I mind on warlock's faces,
        I' the still, dark places
    Whaur the trees hae airms like men;
        And I ken the beast can see
        Yon een that's watchin' me,
    Whaur the arn-boughs darken
    An' I'm owre fear'd to harken
        I' the glen o' Quharity.

    By Quharity Castle wa's
        The toor is like a prison,
        Or a deid man risen
    Amang the birken shaws ;
        And the sweit upon my bree
        Is drappin' cauld frae me
    Till the ill spell's broken
    By the Haly Word spoken
        At the wa's o' Quharity.

    Alang the Valley o' Deith
        There'll be mony a warlock wait'n
        Wi' the thrangin' hosts o' Sat'n
    Till I tak' my hin'maist breith;
        An' I'm fear'd there winna be
        The dog to gang wi' me
    An' I doot the way is wearier
    An' the movin' shadows eerier
        Than the jaws o' Quharity.

    But I'll whisper the Haly Name
        For thae list'nin' lugs to hear me,
        An' the herds o' Hell'll fear me
    An' tak' the road they came;
        For the wild dark wings'11 flee
        Frae their bield in branch an' tree--
    Nae mair the black airms thrawin'!
    Nae mair the ill sough blawin'!
    For my day o' days is dawin'
        Owre the Castle o' Quharity !

        Violet Jacob

Plains of Waterloo

 One fine summer's morning as I went a-walking
 All down by the banks of some clear-flowing stream
 There I spied a fair maiden making sad lamentation
 And I drew myself in ambush for to hear her sad complaint
 Through the woods she marched along, made the valleys to ring oh
 While the small feathered songsters around her head they flew
 Saying, The war it is all over and peace is returning
 But my Willie's not returning from the plains of Waterloo

 I approached this young maiden and I said, My fond creature
 May I make enquiry as to what's your true love's name
 For I have been in battle where the loud cannons rattle
 And by his description well I think I know the same
 Willie Reilly's my love's name, he's a hero of great fame
 Although he's gone and left me in sorrow now 'tis true
 And no man will me enjoy but my own darling boy
 Although he's not returning from the plains of Waterloo

 If Willie Reilly's your love's name then he's a hero of great fame
 He and I have been in battle through many a long campaign
 Through Italy and Russia, through Germany and Prussia
 He was my loyal comrade in France and in Spain
 But alas there at length by the French we were surrounded
 And like heroes of old we did them subdue
 We fought for three days till at last we defeated him
 That bold Napoleon Boney on the plains of Waterloo

 On the fourteenth of June it be an end in the battle
 Leaving many a gallant hero in sorrow to complain
 Where the drums they do beat and the loud cannons rattle
 'Twas by a Frenchman's bullet your young Willie he was slain
 And as I drew near to the spot where he lay bleeding
 Scarcely had I time for to bid him adieu
 And as he lay dying these words he kept repeating
 Farewell my lovely Annie you are far from Waterloo

 When this maiden she heard all this sad declaration
 Her red rosy cheeks they grew pale and woeful wan
 And when he heard the sound of her sad lamentations
 He drew her in his arms and said, I am your loving one
 Oh see here is the ring that between us was broken
 In the midst of all danger it reminded me of you
 And now this young couple well they are reunited
 No more will Willie battle on the plains of Waterloo

The Proper English Gentleman
 

He's a proper English Gentleman who never spills his beer.
He dines with all the ladies and never shows his fear
Of picking up the wrong fork or swearing at the soup
When it's hot enough to burn him, or jumping through the hoop
Of English Society, and all it represents.

But he's a damned good soldier in front of all the troops
And marches like a gentleman in his fine leather boots
And eats in the reg'lar mess and calls the men by name
And shares the dirty work with 'em, what's called the killing game
Of English Imperialism and all it represents.

But by his own hearthside he's a different sort
And he beats his tenants quarterly and no one dares retort,
He takes their wives and daughters, and never stops to think
That a man might someday shoot him when he's had enough to drink!
Of English duplicity, and all it represents.

He's the finest of examples, and there's others of his kind
Who keep their secrets closely and never seem to mind
That the man who sits at table and his their deepest trust
Might carry in his bosom the foulest kind of lust,
Not English respectability, and all it represents.

So watch you step, my laddies, keep your distance, ladies dear,
Watch out for English gentlemen and don't ever let them near.
Their faces won't betray them, their deeds are fine and true,
But put them near temptation and it really will not do --
For certain English gentlemen and all they represent.

The Ploughboy (The Warwickshire R.H.A.)

I am a jolly ploughboy and I'm ploughing up the fields all day,
'Til a silly little thought came into my head I thought I'd be away,
For I'm tired of the dear old country life since the day that I was born,
So I've been and joined the army and I'm off tomorrow morn.

I'll leave behind my pick and spade and I'll leave behind my plough,
I'll leave behind my old grey mare I shall not need her now,
And no more will I go harvesting or gathering the golden corn,
For I've been and joined the army and I'm off tomorrow morn.

Well there's one thing that I'll leave behind and that's my Nelly dear,
And I've promised I'll be true to her whether I be far or near,
And if ever I return again I'll let you all see me,
For we're going to do the churchyard walk and a sergeants wife she'll be.
 

 The Ploughboy
     And hurrah for the scarlet and the green,
     Helmets glistening in the sun,
     And the bayonets flash like lightening to,
     The beating of the military drum.
     And there's a flag in dear old England,
     Floating proudly in the sky,
     And the watchword of our soldiers is,
     We'll conquer or we'll die.
 
The Warwickshire R.H.A.
     And hurrah for the Horse Artillery,
     See the spurs how they glitter in the sun,
     And the horses gallop like lightening,
     With an fifteen pounder gun,
     And when we get to France my boys,
     The Kaiser he will say,
     Ach Ach Mien Gott what a jolly fine lot,
     Are the Warwickshire R.H.A.


Trad.

For Mr. Neil Gaiman...

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.



Kipling 

 I Stood Beside Your Bed Last Night - A Sad Dog's Poem


I stood by your bed last night, I came to have a peep.
I could see that you were crying, you found it hard to sleep.

I whined to you softly, as you brushed away a tear.
"It’s me, I haven't left you, I'm well, I'm fine, I'm here"

I was close to you at breakfast, I watched you pour the tea.
You were thinking of the many times your hands reached down to me.

I was with you at the shops today, your arms were getting sore.
I want to take your parcels, I wished I could do more.

I was with you at my grave today, you tend it with such care.
I want to reassure you that I'm not lying there.

I walked with you towards the house as you fumbled for the key,
I gently put my paw on you, I smiled and said "It's me".

You looked so very tired and then you sank into a chair,
I tried so hard to let you know that I was standing there.

It’s possible for me to be so near you everyday,
To say to you with certainty "I never went away".

You sat there very quietly, then smiled, I think you knew,
That in the stillness of that evening I was very close to you.

The day is over.... I smile and watch you yawning and say,
"Good Night, Sweet Dreams, God Bless, I'll see you in the morning".

And when the time is right for you to cross the brief divide,
I'll rush to greet you and we’ll stand together side by side.

I have so many things to show you, there's much for you to see.
Be patient, live your journey out; then come home and be with me. 


Just My Dog

She is my other eyes that can see above the clouds;
my other ears that hear above the winds.
She is the part of me that can reach out into the sea.

She has told me a thousand times over that I am her reason for being:
by the way she rests against my leg;
by the way she thumps her tail at my smallest smile;
by the way she shows her hurt when I leave without taking her.

(I think it makes her sick with worry when she is not along to care for me.)

When I am wrong, she is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, she clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, she is joy unbounded.
When I am a fool, she ignores it.
When I succeed, she brags.
Without her, I am only another man.
With her, I am all-powerful.

She is loyalty itself.
She has taught me the meaning of devotion.
With her, I know a secret comfort and a private peace.
She has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant.

Her head on my knee can heal my human hurts.
Her presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and unknown things.
She has promised to wait for me...whenever...wherever--in case I need her.
And I expect I will--as I always have.

She is just my dog.

Gene Hill

Into Battle

    THE naked earth is warm with spring,
        And with green grass and bursting trees
    Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,
        And quivers in the sunny breeze;
    And life is colour and warmth and light,
        And a striving evermore for these;
    And he is dead who will not fight;
        And who dies fighting has increase.

    The fighting man shall from the sun
        Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
    Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
        And with the trees to newer birth;
    And find, when fighting shall be done,
        Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

    All the bright company of Heaven
        Hold him in their high comradeship,
    The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven,
        Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

    The woodland trees that stand together,
        They stand to him each one a friend;
    They gently speak in the windy weather;
        They guide to valley and ridge's end.

    The kestrel hovering by day,
        And the little owls that call by night,
    Bid him be swift and keen as they,
        As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

    The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,
        If this be the last song you shall sing,
    Sing well, for you may not sing another;
        Brother, sing."

    In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,
        Before the brazen frenzy starts,
    The horses show him nobler powers;
        O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

    And when the burning moment breaks,
        And all things else are out of mind,
    And only joy of battle takes
        Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

    Through joy and blindness he shall know,
        Not caring much to know, that still
    Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
        That it be not the Destin'd Will.

    The thundering line of battle stands,
        And in the air Death moans and sings:
    But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
        And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

        Julian Grenfell

 The Major General

    from Pirates of Penzance

    I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,
    I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral;
    I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,
    From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
    I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
    I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;
    About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
    With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
    I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,
    I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.
    In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
    I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

    I know out mythic history -- KING ARTHUR'S and SIR CARADOC'S,
    I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox;
    I quote in elegaics all the crimes of HELIOGABALUS,
    In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.
    I tell undoubted RAPHAELS from GERARD DOWS and ZOFFANIES,
    I know the croaking chorus from the 'Frogs' of ARISTOPHANES;
    Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's din afore,
    And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense 'Pinafore.'
    Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
    And tell you every detail of CARACTACUS'S uniform.
    In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
    I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

    In fact, when I know what is meant by 'mamelon' and 'revelin,'
    When I can tell at sight a Cassepôt rifle from a javelin,
    When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,
    And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,
    When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
    When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,
    In short, when I've a smattering of elementary strategy,
    You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee --
    For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
    Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.
    But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,
    I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

        W.S. Gilbert

The Return

    HE went, and he was gay to go;
    And I smiled on him as he went.
    My son, 'twas well he couldn't know
    My darkest dread, nor what it meant--

    Just what it meant to smile and smile
    And let my son go cheerily--
    My son . . . and wondering all the while
    What stranger would come back to me.

        Wilfred Gibson

Reunion in War


    THE windmill in his smock of white
        Stared from his little crest,
    Like a slow smoke was the moonlight
        As I went like one possessed

    Where the glebe path makes shortest way;
        The stammering wicket swung.
    I passed amid the crosses grey
        Where opiate yew-boughs hung.

    The bleached grass shuddered into sighs,
        The dogs that knew this moon
    Far up were harrying sheep, the cries
        Of hunting owls went on.

    And I among the dead made haste
        And over flat vault stones
    Set in the path unheeding paced
        Nor thought of those chill bones.

    Thus to my sweetheart's cottage I,
        Who long had been away,
    Turned as the traveller turns adry
        To brooks to moist his clay.

    Her cottage stood like a dream, so clear
        And yet so dark; and now
    I thought to find my more than dear
        And if she'd kept her vow.

    Old house dog from his barrel came
        Without a voice, and knew
    And licked my hand; all seemed the same
        To the moonlight and the dew.

    By the white damson then I took
        The tallest osier wand
    And thrice upon her casement struck,
        And she, so fair, so fond,

    Looked out, and saw in wild delight
        And tiptoed down to me,
    And cried in silent joy that night
        Beside the bullace tree.

    O cruel time to take away,
        And worse to bring agen;
    Why slept not I in Flanders clay
        With all the murdered men?

    For I had changed, or she had changed,
        Though true loves both had been,
    Even while we kissed we stood estranged
        With the ghosts of war between.

    We had not met but a moment ere
        War baffled Joy, and cried,
    " Love's but a madness, a burnt flare;
        The shell's a madman's bride."

    The cottage stood, poor stone and wood,
        Poorer than stone stood I;
    Then from her kind arms moved in a mood
        As grey as the cere clothed sky.

    The roosts were stirred, each little bird
        Called fearfully out for day;
    The church clock with his dead voice whirred
        As if he bade me stay.

    To trace with madman's fingers all
        The letters on the stones
    Where thick beneath the twitch roots crawl
        In dead men's envied bones.

        Edmund Blunden

Jerusalem

    AND did those feet in ancient time
    Walk upon England's mountains green?
    And was the holy Lamb of God
    On England's pleasant pastures seen?

    And did the Countenance Divine
    Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
    And was Jerusalem builded here
    Among these dark Satanic mills?

    Bring me my bow of burning gold:
    Bring me my arrows of desire:
    Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
    Bring me my chariot of fire.

    I will not cease from mental fight,
    Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
    Till we have built Jerusalem
    In England's green and pleasant land.

        William Blake

The Zeppelin

    GUNS! far and near
    Quick, sudden, angry,
    They startle the still street,
    Upturned faces appear,
    Doors open on darkness,
    There is a hurrying of feet,

    And whirled athwart gloom
    White fingers of alarm
    Point at last there
    Where illumined and dumb
    A shape suspended
    Hovers, a demon of the starry air!

    Strange and cold as a dream
    Of sinister fancy,
    It charms like a snake,
    Poised deadly in the gleam,
    While bright explosions
    Leap up to it and break.

    Is it terror you seek
    To exult in? Know then
    Hearts are here
    That the plunging beak
    Of night-winged murder
    Strikes not with fear

    So much as it strings
    To a deep elation
    And a quivering pride
    That at last the hour brings
    For them too the danger
    Of those who died,

    Of those who yet fight
    Spending for each of us
    Their glorious blood
    In the foreign night. --
    That now we are neared to them
    Thank we God.

        Laurence Binyon

 Dover Beach

    THE sea is calm to-night,
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; -- on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
    The sea of faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.

        Matthew Arnold

 A Nautical Ballad
 

    A CAPITAL ship for an ocean trip
        Was The Walloping Window-blind --
    No gale that blew dismayed her crew
        Or troubled the captain's mind.
    The man at the wheel was taught to feel
        Contempt for the wildest blow,
    And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,
        That he'd been in his bunk below.

    The boatswain's mate was very sedate,
        Yet fond of amusement, too;
    And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,
        While the captain tickled the crew.
    And the gunner we had was apparently mad,
        For he sat on the after-rail,
    And fired salutes with the captain's boots,
        In the teeth of the booming gale.

    The captain sat in a commodore's hat
        And dined, in a royal way,
    On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
        And gummery bread, each day.
    But the cook was Dutch, and behaved as such;
        For the food that he gave the crew
    Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns,
        Chopped up with sugar and glue.

    And we all felt ill as mariners will,
        On a diet that's cheap and rude;
    And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook
        In a tub of his gluesome food.
    Then nautical pride we laid aside,
        And we cast the vessel ashore
    On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,
        And the Anagazanders roar.

    Composed of sand was that favored land,
        And trimmed with cinnamon straws;
    And pink and blue was the pleasing hue
        Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws.
    And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge
        And shot at the whistling bee;
    And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats
        As they danced in the sounding sea.

    On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,
        We fed, till we all had grown
    Uncommonly shrunk, -- when a Chinese junk
        Came by from the torriby zone.
    She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care,
        And we cheerily put to sea;
    And we left the crew of the junk to chew
        The bark of the rubagub tree.

        Charles Edward Carryl

 Hohenlinden

    ON Linden, when the sun was low,
    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
    And dark as winter was the flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    But Linden saw another sight,
    When the drum beat at dead of night,
    Commanding fires of death to light
    The darkness of her scenery.

    By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
    And furious every charger neighed
    To join the dreadful revelry.

    Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
    Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
    And louder than the bolts of heaven
    Far flashed the red artillery.

    But redder yet that light shall glow
    On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
    Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun
    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
    Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

    The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
    Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
    And charge with all thy chivalry!

    Few, few shall part where many meet!
    The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
    And every turf beneath their feet
    Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

    Thomas Campbell