The Vigil
 

ENGLAND! where the sacred flame   
    Burns before the inmost shrine,   
Where the lips that love thy name   
    Consecrate their hopes and thine,   
Where the banners of thy dead           
Weave their shadows overhead,   
Watch beside thine arms to-night,   
Pray that God defend the Right.   

Think that when to-morrow comes   
    War shall claim command of all,           
Thou must hear the roll of drums,   
    Thou must hear the trumpet’s call.   
Now, before thy silence ruth,   
Commune with the voice of truth;   
England! on thy knees to-night           
Pray that God defend the Right.   

Single-hearted, unafraid,   
    Hither all thy heroes came,   
On this altar’s steps were laid   
    Gordon’s life and Outram’s fame.           
England! if thy will be yet   
By their great example set,   
Here beside thine arms to-night   
Pray that God defend the Right.   

So shalt thou when morning comes           
    Rise to conquer or to fall,   
Joyful hear the rolling drums,   
    Joyful hear the trumpets call,   
Then let Memory tell thy heart:   
“England! what thou wert, thou art!”           
Gird thee with thine ancient might,   
Forth! and God defend the Right!


Henry Newbolt

The Old Soldier


LEST the young soldiers be strange in heaven,   
  God bids the old soldier they all adored   
Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven,   
  A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord.   

Lest it abash them, the strange new splendour,           
  Lest it affright them, the new robes clean;   
Here’s an old face, now, long-tried, and tender,   
  A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in.   

“My boys,” he greets them: and heaven is homely,   
  He their great captain in days gone o’er;           
Dear is the friend’s face, honest and comely,   
  Waiting to welcome them by the strange door.   
 

Katharine Tynan

Chaplain to the Forces


AMBASSADOR of Christ you go   
Up to the very gates of Hell,   
Through fog of powder, storm of shell,   
To speak your Master’s message: “Lo,   
The Prince of Peace is with you still,           
His peace be with you, His good-will.”   

It is not small, your priesthood’s price,   
To be a man and yet stand by,   
To hold your life while others die,   
To bless, not share the sacrifice,           
To watch the strife and take no part—   
You with the fire at your heart.   

But yours, for our great Captain Christ,   
To know the sweat of agony,   
The darkness of Gethsemane,           
In anguish for these souls unpriced.   
Vicegerent of God’s pity you,   
A sword must pierce your own soul through.   

In the pale gleam of new-born day,   
Apart in some tree-shadowed place,           
Your altar but a packing-case,   
Rude as the shed where Mary lay,   
Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod,   
You bring the kneeling soldier God.   

As sentinel you guard the gate           
’Twixt life and death, and unto death   
Speed the brave soul whose failing breath   
Shudders not at the grip of Fate,   
But answers, gallant to the end,   
“Christ is the Word—and I his friend.”           

Then God go with you, priest of God,   
For all is well and shall be well.   
What though you tread the roads of Hell,   
Your Captain these same ways has trod.   
Above the anguish and the loss           
Still floats the ensign of His Cross.   
 

Winifred M. Letts

To Fellow Travellers in Greece -  March–September, 1914


’T WAS in the piping time of peace   
We trod the sacred soil of Greece,   
Nor thought, where the Ilissus runs,   
Of Teuton craft or Teuton guns;   

Nor dreamt that, ere the year was spent,           
Their iron challenge insolent   
Would round the world’s horizons pour,   
From Europe to the Australian shore.   

The tides of war had ebb’d away   
From Trachis and Thermopylæ,           
Long centuries had come and gone   
Since that fierce day at Marathon;   

Freedom was firmly based, and we   
Wall’d by our own encircling sea;   
The ancient passions dead, and men           
Battl’d with ledger and with pen.   

So seem’d it, but to them alone   
The wisdom of the gods is known;   
Lest freedom’s price decline, from far   
Zeus hurl’d the thunderbolt of war.           

And so once more the Persian steel   
The armies of the Greeks must feel,   
And once again a Xerxes know   
The virtue of a Spartan foe.   

Thus may the cloudy fates unroll’d           
Retrace the starry circles old,   
And the recurrent heavens decree   
A Periclean dynasty.    



 
W. Macneile Dixon
 

A Letter from the Front


I WAS out early to-day, spying about   
From the top of a haystack—such a lovely morning—   
And when I mounted again to canter back   
I saw across a field in the broad sunlight   
A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along           
With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and—would you believe it?—   
A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.   

So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster,   
And shouted out “the top of the morning” to him,   
And wished him “Good sport!”—and then I remembered           
My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing:   
And I rode nearer, and added, “I can only suppose   
You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief’s order   
Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies   
By hunting and shooting.”           
        But he stood and saluted   
And said earnestly, “I beg your pardon, Sir,   
I was only going out to shoot a sparrow   
To feed my cat with.”   
        So there was the whole picture,           
The lovely early morning, the occasional shell   
Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,—   
Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting,   
And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.   

I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly,           
But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous.


Henry Newbolt

The Toy Band -  A Song of the Great Retreat


DREARY lay the long road, dreary lay the town,   
  Lights out and never a glint o’ moon:   
Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down,   
  Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon.   
“Oh! if I’d a drum here to make them take the road again,           
  Oh! if I’d a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come!   
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,   
  Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!   

“Hey, but here’s a toy shop, here’s a drum for me,   
  Penny whistles too to play the tune!           
Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see   
  We’re a band!” said the weary big Dragoon.   
“Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,   
  Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!   
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,           
  Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!”   

Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night,   
  Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat:   
Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight   
  With a little penny drum to lift their feet.           
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,   
  Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!   
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,   
  Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!   

As long as there’s an Englishman to ask a tale of me,           
  As long as I can tell the tale aright,   
We’ll not forget the penny whistle’s wheedle-deedle-dee   
  And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night,   
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,   
  Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!           
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,   
  Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!   



Henry Newbolt
 

 Qui Vivo?


Qui vive? Who passes by up there?   
Who moves—what stirs in the startled air?   
What whispers, thrills, exults up there?   
Qui vive?   
            “The Flags of France.”            

What wind on a windless night is this,   
That breathes as light as a lover’s kiss,   
That blows through the night with bugle notes,   
That streams like a pennant from a lance,   
That rustles, that floats?           
            “The Flags of France.”   

What richly moves, what lightly stirs,   
Like a noble lady in a dance,   
When a men’s eyes are in love with hers   
And needs must follow?           
            “The Flags of France.”   

What calls to the heart—and the heart has heard,   
Speaks, and the soul has obeyed the word,   
Summons, and all the years advance,   
And the world goes forward with France—with France?            
Who called?   
            “The Flags of France.”   

What flies—a glory, through the night,   
While the legions stream—a line of light,   
And men fall to the left and fall to the right,            
But they fall not?   
            “The Flags of France.”   

Qui vive? Who comes? What approaches there?   
What soundless tumult, what breath in the air   
Takes the breath in the throat, the blood from the heart?            
In a flame of dark, to the unheard beat   
Of an unseen drum and fleshless feet,   
Without glint of barrel or bayonets’ glance,   
They approach—they come. Who comes? (Hush! Hark!)   
“Qui vive?”            
            “The Flags of France.”   

Uncover the head and kneel—kneel down,   
A monarch passes, without a crown,   
Let the proud tears fall but the heart beat high:   
The Greatest of All is passing by,            
On its endless march in the endless Plan:   
“Qui vive?”   
            “The Spirit of Man.”   

“O Spirit of Man, pass on! Advance!”   
And they who lead, who hold the van?            
Kneel down!   
            The Flags of France.


Grace Ellery Channing

Italy in Arms


OF all my dreams by night and day,   
    One dream will evermore return,   
The dream of Italy in May;   
    The sky a brimming azure urn   
    Where lights of amber brood and burn;            
The doves about San Marco’s square,   
    The swimming Campanile tower,   
    The giants, hammering out the hour,   
        The palaces, the bright lagoons,   
The gondolas gliding here and there            
        Upon the tide that sways and swoons.   

The domes of San Antonio,   
    Where Padua ’mid her mulberry-trees   
Reclines; Adige’s crescent flow   
    Beneath Verona’s balconies;            
    Rich Florence of the Medicis;   
Sienna’s starlike streets that climb   
    From hill to hill; Assisi well   
    Remembering the holy spell   
        Of rapt St. Francis; with her crown            
Of battlements, embossed by time,   
        Stern old Perugia looking down.   

Then, mother of great empires, Rome,   
    City of the majestic past,   
That o’er far leagues of alien foam            
    The shadows of her eagles cast,   
    Imperious still; impending, vast,   
The Colosseum’s curving line;   
    Pillar and arch and colonnade;   
    St. Peter’s consecrated shade,            
        And Hadrian’s tomb where Tiber strays;   
The ruins on the Palatine   
        With all their memories of dead days.   

And Naples, with her sapphire arc   
    Of bay, her perfect sweep of shore;            
Above her, like a demon stark,   
    The dark fire-mountain evermore   
    Looming portentous, as of yore;   
Fair Capri with her cliffs and caves;   
    Salerno drowsing ’mid her vines            
    And olives, and the shattered shrines   
        Of Pæstum where the gray ghosts tread,   
And where the wilding rose still waves   
        As when by Greek girls garlanded.   

But hark! What sound the ear dismays,            
    Mine Italy, mine Italy?   
Thou that wert wrapt in peace, the haze   
    Of loveliness spread over thee!   
    Yet since the grapple needs must be,   
I who have wandered in the night            
    With Dante, Petrarch’s Laura known,   
    Seen Vallombrosa’s groves breeze-blown,   
        Met Angelo and Raffael,   
Against iconoclastic might   
        In this grim hour must wish thee well!


Clinton Scollard

The Challenge of the Guns


BY day, by night, along the lines their dull boom rings,   
And that reverberating roar its challenge flings.   
Not only unto thee across the narrow sea,   
But from the loneliest vale in the last land’s heart   
The sad-eyed watching mother sees her sons depart.            

And freighted full the tumbling waters of ocean are   
With aid for England from England’s sons afar.   
The glass is dim; we see not wisely, fax, nor well,   
But bred of English bone, and reared on Freedom’s wine,   
All that we have and are we lay on England’s shrine.    


A. N. Field
         

 The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
 

        S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
        Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
        Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
        Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

    LET us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherised upon a table;
    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
    Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair --
    [They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin --
    [They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all: --
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
        So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
        And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all --
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
    Is it perfume from a dress
    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
        And should I then presume?
        And how should I begin?

        . . . . .

    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

        . . . . .

    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep . . tired . . or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a
        platter,
    I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter;
    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
    To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" --
    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
        Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
        That is not it, at all."

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
        the floor --
    And this, and so much more? --
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
    Would it have been worth while
    If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say:
        "That is not it at all,
        That is not what I meant, at all."

        . . . . .

    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,
    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous --
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


    T. S. Eliot

 When You Are Old
 

    WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
    And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
    And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
    Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

    How many loved your moments of glad grace,
    And loved your beauty with love false or true,
    But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
    And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

    And bending down beside the glowing bars,
    Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
    And paced among the mountains overhead
    And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

    William Butler Yeats

 No Second Troy

    WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
    With misery, or that she would of late
    Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
    Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
    Had they but courage equal to desire?

    What could have made her peaceful with a mind
    That nobleness made simple as a fire,
    With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
    That is not natural in an age like this,
    Being high and solitary and most stern?
    Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
    Was there another Troy for her to burn?

    William Butler Yeats

Kelley's Irish Brigade.


Come all you that hold communion
With southern Confederates bold,
While I tell you of some men who for the Union
In the northern ranks were enrolled;
Who came to Missouri in their "glory,"
And thought by their power we'd be dismayed;
But we soon made them tell a different story
When they met Relley's Irish Brigade.
 
     Three cheers for the Irish Brigade,
     Three cheers for the Irish Brigade;
     And all true-hearted Hibernians
     In the ranks of Kelley's Irish Brigade!
 
You call us rebels and traitors,
But you have thrown off the name of late.
Yon were called it by the English invaders
At home in seventeen and ninety-eight
The name to us is not a new one,
It's one that we never will degrade.
And all true-hearted Hibernians
In the ranks of Kelley's Irish Brigade.

You dare not call us invaders,
'Tis but state rights and liberties we ask;
And Missouri, we will ever defend her,
No matter how hard be the task.
Then let the Irishmen assemble,
Let the voice of Missouri be obeyed;
And northern fanatics may tremble
When they meet Kelley's Irish Brigade.

The Battle of Elkhorn Tavern


My name ls Daniel Martin,
I'se borned in Arkansas;
I fled from those base rebels
Who fear not God or law.

I left my aged father
And my beloved wife;
I'se forced to go to Rollie
For to try to save my life.

I jined in Phillips's regiment-
I'm not ashamed to tell-
My colonel and my officer
They treated me mighty well.

I served four months at Rollie
Through sleet, snow, and ice,
And next received my orders:
Go meet old Sterling Price.

That old secession traitor
He didn't like the fun;
He gathered up his rebel band,
To Arkansas he run.

We were close pursuing them
By night and by day,
And a many of those base rebels
We killed upon the way.

We followed through to Pea Ridge,
Bnd there we stopped our chase;
But that poor frightened rebel band
Rolled on in mighty haste.

They joined old Ben McCullough,
Old Mackintosh and Rain,
And they mustered eighty thousand,
And here they come again.

They marched through pomp and splendor
Led on by brave Van Dorn,
And there they found us waiting
At a tavern called Elkhorn.

They threw themselves around us
In the dark shade of night
And planted out their batteries
And waited till daylight.

We opened up our batteries,
Which made the mountain roar,
And on the ground in many a place
Was red with human gore;

We shot old Ben McCullough,
Old Slack and Mackintush,
And shot old Sterling in the arm
And sent him in a rush.

Reckon what secesh will think
When we tell 'em of our rhyme
About old Sterling Price
He's a-gettin on quick time.

Segal's after him
In a mighty purty gait;
He wants to whip the old secesh
And drive him from our State.

The Battle of the Nile.
 

'Twas on the ninth day of August in the year ninety-eight
We'll sing the praise of Nelson and the bold British fleet;
For the victory we've gained o'er the rebellious crew,
And to the Mediterannean Sea, brave boys, we'll bid adieu.

 So come, you British tars, let your hands and hearts agree
     To protect the lives and liberties of the mother country.

At four o'clock that evening he brought that fleet in sight
And like undaunted heroes we were eager for the fight,
They were lying at an anchor near the Egyptian shore,
Superior to the British fleet, and to take us they made sure.

Our noble captain he was slain soon after we began;
Brave Cuthbert in succession he boldly took command,
For four full hors that evening we engaged them on the main,
And early the next morning we renewed the fight again.

Full fifty seamen we had slain, which grieved our hearts full sore
Two hundred more were wounded, lay bleeding in their gore.
But early the next morning most glorious to see
Our British ships of war, brave boys, were crowned with victory.

Buonapartes pride we demolished, and that very soon
We made his crew to rue the day that they ever left Toulon,
But now he's got among the Turks where he'll be forced to stay
And besides he has lost the title of The Conqueror of Italy.

A building castles in the air and doing these great feats,
And thretening of Albania's plans in our united states,
Planting the Tree of Liberty all on our native shore,
But Nelson's stars have nipped the bud will never flourish more.

And now the fight is over and we have gained the day
Nine sails we took and four we burnt, the rest they ran away.
But when we come hole to England, so loudly we will sing,
"Success to our Majestic, boys, and long live George the King!"

The Battle of the Shannon and Chesapeake.
 

'Twas of the Shannon frigate in the merry month of May,
To watch those bold Americans off Boston light she lay.
The Chesapeake lying in harbour, a frigate stout and fine,
She had four hundred and sixty men aboard and her guns was forty-nine.

Captain Brooke he commanded us; a challenge he did write
To the captain of the Chesapeake to bring her out to fight;
He says,"My noble Lawrence, don't think it's through enmity
For it's to show to all the world that Britain rules the sea."

The challenge being accepted, the Chesapeake she bore down
And she was as fine a frigate as belonged to the British crown,
Yard-arm and broadside for a quarter of an hour
When that enemy's ship drove up alongside, and her yards got locked in ours.

Battle of Falkirk Muir

Up and run awa', Hawley, up and run awa'
The filabegs are comin' doon to gie your lugs a claw.
Young Charlie's face at Dunipace has gi'ed your mou' a thraw, Hawley
Blasting sight for bastard wight, the worst that e'er he saw!

     Hielan' Geordie's at your tail, wi' Drummond, Perth and a'
     (run awa')

Ere ye saw the bonnets blue down frae the Torwood draw
A wisp in need did ye bestead - perhaps you needed twa!
General Hurst that battle busk that prime o' warriors a', Hawley,
Whip and spur he thrust afar as fast as he could ga'

I hae but just ae word to say and ye maun hear it a',
We came to charge wi' sword and targe and nae to hunt ava',
When we came down aboun the town and saw nae faes at a',
We couldna half believe the truth that ye had left us a'!

Nae man bedeen believed his e'en till your brave back he saw, Hawley,
Bastard brat o' foreign cat had neither pluck nor paw,
We didna ken, but ye were men wha fight for foreign law,
Hey, fill your wame wi' brose at hame, it fits ye best of a'.

The very frown o' Hielan' loon, it gart ye drop the jaw,
Happ'd the face of a' disgrace and sickened Southron maw,
The very gleam o' Hielan' flame it puts you in a thaw,
Gae back and kiss your Daddy's miss, you're nane but cowards a'!

Up and scour awa', Hawley, up and scour awa'!
The Hielan' dirk is at your doup and that's the Hielan' law
Hielan Geordie's at your tail, wi' Drummond, Perth and a'
Had you but stayed wi' ladies maid, an hour and maybe twa,
Your bacon bouk and bastard snout, ye might have saved them a'!

The Battle of Hastings

 
I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings
As 'appened in days long gone by
When Duke William became King of England
And 'Arold got shot in the eye

It were this way - one day in October
The Duke  - who was always a toff -
'Aving no battles on at moment
'ad given his lads day off

They'd all tekken boats and gone fishing
'Till some chap in to' Conqueror's ear
Said "Let's go put breeze up Saxons"
Says Bill "By gum, that's an idea"

Then turning around to his soldiers
He lifted his big Norman voice, shouting
'Ands up who's coming to England?
That were swank 'cos they 'adn't no choice

They started away about tea-time
The sea was so calm and so still
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They arrived at a place called Bexhill

King 'Arold came up as they landed
His face full of venim and 'ate
He said If you've come for Regatta
You've got 'ere just six weeks too late

At this William rose, cool but 'aughty
And said: Give us none o' your cheek
Tha'd best have thee throne re-upholstered
I'll be wanting to use it next week

When 'Arold 'eard this 'ere defiance
With rage he turned purple and blue
And shouted some rude words in Saxon
To which William answered - And you!

'Twere a beautiful day for a battle
The Normans set off with a will
And when both sides was duly assembled
They tossed for the top of the hill

King 'Arold he won the advantage
On the hill-top he took his stand
With his knaves and his cads all around him
On 'is 'orse with 'is 'awk in 'is 'and

The Normans had nowt in their favour
Their chance of a victory seemed small
For the slope of the field were against them
And the wind in their faces an' all

Kick-off were sharp at two-thirty
And soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other
Till swineherds could hear 'em in Kent

Saxons had best line of forwards
Well armed with both buckler and sword
But Normans had best combination
And when half time came neither had scored

So Duke called his cohorts together
And said - Let's pretend that we're beat
Once we get Saxons down on t' level
We'll cut off their means of retreat

So they ran and the Saxons ran after
Just exactly as William had planned
Leaving 'Arold alone on the hill-top
On 'is 'orse with 'is 'awk in 'is 'and

When the Conqueror saw what 'ad 'appened
A bow and an arrer he drew
He went right up to 'Arold and shot him
He were off-side but what could they do?

The Normans turned round in a fury
And gave back both parry and thrust
Till t' fight were all over bar t' shouting
And you couldn't see Saxons for dust

And after the battle were over
They found 'Arold so stately and grand
Sitting there, with an eye-full of arrer
On 'is 'orse with 'is 'awk in 'is 'and.

How Coventry Was Made Free By Godiva, Countess of Chester
 

Leofricus, that noble earl
Of Chester, as I read,
Did for the city of Coventry,
Many a noble deed.

Great privileges for the town
This nobleman did get,
And of all things did make it so,
That they toll-free did sit,

Save only that for horses still,
They did some custom pay,
Which was great charges to the town,
Full long and many a day.

Wherefore his wife, Godiva fair,
Did of the earl request,
That therefore he would make it free,
As well as all the rest.

So when the lady long had sued,
Her purpose to obtain,
Her noble lord at length she took,
Within a pleasant vain,

And unto him with smiling cheer,
She did forthwith proceed,
Entreating greatly that he would
Perform that goodly deed.

You move me much, fair dame (quoth he)
Your suit I fain would shun.
But what would you perform and do,
To have this matter done?

Why, any thing, my lord, (quoth she)
You will with reason crave.
I will perform it with good will,
If I my wish may have.

If thou wilt grant one thing (said he)
Which I shall now require,
So soon as it is finished,
Thou shalt have thy desire.

Command what you think good, my lord,
I will thereto agree,
On this condition that this town
For ever may be free.

If thou wilt thy clothes strip off,
And here wilt lay them down,
And at noonday on horseback ride
Stark naked through the town,

They shall be free for evermore.
If thou wilt not do so,
More liberty than now they have,
I never will bestow.

The lady at this strange demand,
Was much abashed in mind,
And yet for to fulfill this thing,
She never a whit repined.

Wherefore to all the officers
Of all the town she sent,
That they perceiving her good will,
Which for the weal was bent,

That on the day that she should ride,
All persons through the town,
Should keep their houses and shut their doors,
And clap their windows down,

So that no creature, young or old,
Should in the street be seen,
Till she had ridden all about,
Throughout the city clean.

And when the day of riding came,
No person did her see,
Saving her lord, after which time,
The town was ever free.

The Battle of Largs

Stately stept he East the wa',
And stately stept he West;
Full sev'nty zeirs he now had seen
With skerfs sevin ziers of rest.

He livit quhen Birton's breach of faith
Wroucht Scotland Meickle wae,
And ay his sword tauld to their skaith,

He was their deidly fae.

Hie on a hill his castle stude,
With halls and towers a hicht,
And guidly chambers fair to se
Quhair he lodgit mony a knight.

His dame fae peerlefs anes and fair,
For chaft and bewtie deimt,
Nae marrow had in all the lands
Saif Elenor the queen.

Full thirtein fons tea him foho bare,
All men of valour frout;
In bludy fichf with fword in hand
Nyne loft their lives hot doubt;

Four zit remain, lang may they live
To ftand by liege and land:
Hie was their fame, hie was their micht,
And hie was their command.

Great luve they bare to Fairly-fair,
Their fifter faft and deir;
Her girdle flawd her middle gimp,
And gowden glift her hair.

Q chat waefou wae her bewtie bred,
Waefou to zung and auld,
Waefou I trow to kyth and kiq,
As ftory ever tauld!
The King of Norfe in fummer tyde,
Puft up with powir and micht,
Landed iii fair Scotland the yle,
With mony a hardy kniclit.

The tydings to our gude Scots king
Came, as he fat at dyne,
With noble chiefs in braif any,
Drinking the blude - reid wyne

'To hone, to hark, my royal Leige
Zours faes ftand on the ftrand,
Foil twenty thousand glittering fears
The King of Norfe commands.'

'Bring me my fteed Mage dapple gray
Our gude King riafe and cry'd,
'A truftier beaft in all the land
A Scots king nevir feyd.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives on hill fae hie,
To draw his fword, the dreid of fats.
And halt and follow me.'

The little page flew fwift as dirt
Flung by his mafters arm:
'Cum clown, cum down, Lord Hardy
A-rid rid zour King frae harm.'

Then reid reid crew his dark-brown che-
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
His luiks grew kene, as they were wont.
In dangers great, to do.

Hanging From the Old Barbed Wire
 

If you want to find the Sargeant,
I know where he is,
I know where he is,
I know where he is.
If you want to find the Sargeant,
I know where he is,
He's drunk on the dug-out floor.

cho: I saw him,
     I saw him,
     Drunk on the dug-out floor,
     I saw him,
     Drunk on the dug-out floor.

If you want to find the Captain
He's off on a seven-day leave

If you want to find the Colonel
He's pinning another medal on his chest

If you want the old battalion,
We know where they are,
We know where they are,
We know where they are.
If you want the old battalion,
We know where they are,
They're hangin' on the old barbed wire.

     We've seen them,
     We've seen them,
     Hangin' on the old barbed wire,
     We've seen them,
     Hangin' on the old barbed wire.

Walking Into Battle With The Lord


A new crusade to the Holy Land
Walking into battle with the Lord
An army of men under my command
Walking into battle with the Lord
Fight the good fight here at home
Walking into battle with the Lord
Send those men to kingdom come
Walking into battle with the Lord

Take my aim with a higher will
Trust my Lord to hold me still
Say 'amen' and shoot to kill
Walking into battle with the Lord
Walking into battle with the Lord

With open arms on Judgement Day
Walking into battle with the Lord
Teach the children how to pray
Walking into battle with the Lord
Faithful, blind, we all believe
Walking into battle with the Lord
I was taught by Adam but I blame it on Eve
Walking into battle with the Lord

All my words in kindness came
Your souls in mercy to reclaim
Cleanse this world of sin and shame
Walking into battle with the Lord
Walking into battle with the Lord

Holy Father, Mother Tongue
Walking into battle with the Lord
Manna from heaven, right from wrong
Walking into battle with the Lord
Take my place on the witness stand
Walking into battle with the Lord
Trigger fingers, praying hands
Walking into battle with the Lord

When two men meet on the field of war
They both ask 'what are we fighting for?'
And haven't we heard this all before?
Walking into battle with the Lord
Walking into battle with the Lord
Walking into battle with the Lord
Walking into battle with the Lord


Chumbawamba

Victory Won at Richmond

The southern boys may longer lie
On the first and fourth of sweet July
Our General Beauregard resound
     For his southern boys at Richmond.

That night we laid on the cold ground
No tents nor shelter could be found
With rain and hail was nearly drowned
     To cheer our hearts at Richmond.

Next morn the burning sun did rise
Beneath the cloudy eastern skies
Our general viewed the forts and cried
     "We'll have hot work at Richmond!"

As soon as the height we strove to gain
Our balls did fly as thick as rain
I'm sure the plains they did run red
     With the blood that was shed at Richmond.

As soon as the heights we did command
We fought the Yankees hand to hand
And many a hero there was slain
     On the plains at Richmond.

And many a pretty fair maid will mourn
For her lover who will ne'er return
And parents mourn beyond control
     For their sons they lost at Richmond.

Thirty thousand Yankees, I heard them say
Were slain all on that fatal day
And seven thousand Southerners lay
     In the bloody gore at Richmond.

Their guns and knapsacks they threw down
And ran like hares before the hounds
I'm sure the plains they did run red
     With the blood that was shed at Richmond.

Cease, you Southerners, from your hand
Which from Yankees we cannot stand
Go spread the news throughout the land
     Of the victory that was won at Richmond.

On Eagles' Wings

You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,
Who abide in His shadow for life,
Say to the Lord: "My refuge,
My rock in whom I trust!"

And he will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His hand.

The snare of the fowler will never capture you,
And famine will bring you no fear:
Under His wings your refuge,
His faithfulness your shield.

You need not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day;
Though thousands fall about you,
Near you it shall not come.

For to His angels He's given a command
To guard you in all of your ways;
Upon their hands they will bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.

 
Adaptation of Psalm 91 - Michael Joncas

Oh! It's a Lovely War!

Up to your waist in water,
Up to your eyes in slush,
Using the kind of language
That makes the sergeants blush;
Who wouldn't join the army,
That's what we all enquire,
Don't we pity the poor civilians
Sitting beside the fire ?

 Chorus:
Oh! Oh! Oh! It's a lovely war,
Who wouldn't be a soldier, eh ?
Oh, it's a shame to take the pay.

As soon as reveille has gone
We feel just as heavy as lead,
But we never get up till the sergeant
Brings our breakfast up to bed.
What do you want with eggs and ham
When you've got plum and apple jam ?
Form fours! Right turn!
How shall we spend the money we earn ?

When does a soldier grumble ?
When does a soldier make a fuss ?
No one is more contented
In all the world than us.
Oh, it's a cushy life, boys,
Really, we love it so;
Once a fellow was sent on leave
And simply refused to go.

Come to the cook-house door, boys,
Sniff at the lovely stew,
Who is it says the colonel
Gets better grub than you ?
Any complaints this morning?
Do we complain ? Not we.
What's the matter with lumps of onion
Floating around the tea ?

Outside of a Small Circle of Friends

Look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed
They've dragged her to the bushes and now she's being stabbed
Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
But Monopoly is so much fun, I'd hate to blow the game
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anyone
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Riding down the highway, yes, my back is getting stiff
Thirteen cars are piled up, they're hanging on a cliff.
Maybe we should pull them back with our towing chain
But we gotta move and we might get sued and it looks like it's gonna rain
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Sweating in the ghetto with the colored and the poor
The rats have joined the babies who are sleeping on the floor
Now wouldn't it be a riot if they really blew their tops?
But they got too much already and besides we got the cops
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Oh there's a dirty paper using sex to make a sale
The Supreme Court was so upset, they sent him off to jail.
Maybe we should help the fiend and take away his fine.
But we're busy reading Playboy and the Sunday New York Times
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

Smoking marihuana is more fun than drinking beer,
But a friend of ours was captured and they gave him thirty years
Maybe we should raise our voices, ask somebody why
But demonstrations are a drag, besides we're much too high
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

Oh look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed
They've dragged her to the bushes and now she's being stabbed
Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
But Monopoly is so much fun, I'd hate to blow the game
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

Phil Ochs

The Old Fenian Gun

It hung above the kitchen fire
It's barrel long and brown
And one day with a child's desire
I climbed and took it down
My father's eyes in anger flashed
He cried ""what have you done?!
I wish you'd left it where it was
That's my old Fenian gun"".

I fondled it with love and pride
I looked it o'er and o'er
I placed it on my shoulder
And I marched across the floor
My father's anger softened
And he shared my boyish fun
"Ah, well"" he said "'tis in your blood
Like that old Fenian gun"".

I placed it o'er the fire once more
I heard my father sigh
I knew his thoughts were turning back
To days now long gone by
And then I vowed within my heart
I'll be my father's son
And if ever Ireland wants my aid
I'll hold the Fenian gun.

That's years ago I've grown a man
And weathered many a gale
This last long year's been spent inside
This gloomy English jail
I've done my part I'll do it still
Until the fight is won
When Ireland's free she'll bless the men
Who held the Fenian gun.

O'Donnell Abu

Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding
Loudly the warcries arise on the gale
Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding
To join the thick squadrons on Saimiers green vale!
On every mountaineer! Stranger to flight or fear!
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh!
Bonnaught and Gallowglass, throng from each mountain pass!
Onward for Erin! O'Donnell abu!

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing
With many a chieftain and warrior clan!
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing
Neath the Borderers brave from the banks of the Bann!
Many a heart shall quail under its coat of mail,
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue
When on his ear shall ring, borne on the breezes wing
TyrConnell's dread war cry O'Donnell abu!

Wildly o'er Desmond the warwolf is howling
Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling
And all who would conquer them are banished, or slain!
On with O'Donnell then! Fight the good fight again!
Sons of TyrConnell are valiant and true!
Make the proud Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel!
Strike! For your Country! O'Donnell abu!

Taliesin

I have been all men known to history,
Wondering at the world and at time passing;
I have seen evil, and the light blessing
Innocent love under a spring sky.

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods
Of a far country, where the winds waken
Unnatural voices, my mind broken
By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.

I have been Glyn Dwr set in the vast night,
Scanning the stars for the propitious omen,
A leader of men, yet cursed by the crazed women
Mourning their dead under the same stars.

I have been Goronwy, forced from my own land
To taste the bitterness of the salt ocean;
I have known exile and a wild passion
Of longing changing to a cold ache.

King, beggar and fool, I have been all by turns,
Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind's treason;
Taliesin still, I show you a new world, risen,
Stubborn with beauty, out of the heart's need.
 

Ronald Stuart Thomas

The Old Language

England, what have you done to make the speech
My fathers used a stranger to my lips,
An offence to the ear, a shackle on the tongue
That would fit new thoughts to an abiding tune?
Answer me now. The workshop where they wrought
Stands idle, and thick dust covers their tools.

The blue metal of streams, the copper and gold
Seams in the wood are all unquarried; the leaves'
Intricate filigree falls, and who shall renew
Its brisk pattern? When spring wakens the hearts
Of the young children to sing, what song shall be theirs?
 

Ronald Stuart Thomas

Welsh History

We were a people taut for war; the hills
Were no harder, the thin grass
Clothed them more warmly than the coarse
Shirts our small bones.

We fought, and were always in retreat,
Like snow thawing upon the slopes
Of Mynydd Mawr; and yet the stranger
Never found our ultimate stand
In the thick woods, declaiming verse
To the sharp prompting of the harp.
Our kings died, or they were slain
By the old treachery at the ford.

Our bards perished, driven from the halls
Of nobles by the thorn and bramble.
We were a people bred on legends,
Warming our hands at the red past.
The great were ashamed of our loose rags
Clinging stubbornly to the proud tree
Of blood and birth, our lean bellies
And mud houses were a proof
Of our ineptitude for life.

We were a people wasting ourselves
In fruitless battles for our masters,
In lands to which we had no claim,
With men for whom we felt no hatred.
We were a people, and are so yet.
When we have finished quarrelling for crumbs
Under the table, or gnawing the bones
Of a dead culture, we will arise
And greet each other in a new dawn.
 

Ronald Stuart Thomas

“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That's the problem.”


A.A. Milne

From the hilltop, I beheld the valley deep,
Where brave King Lothar crushed his foes
As they took flight across the little stream.

On Charles’ side, on Louis’ side as well,
The ground grows white with shrouds to cloak the dead,
As when autumn fields grow white with birds. 

Angelbert, survivor of the battle of Fontenoy

When A Man Hath No Freedom

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And, is always as nobly requited;

Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.
 

George Gordon Lord Byron

A Very Mournful Ballad On The Siege And Conquest Of Alhama


I
THE Moorish King rides up and down,
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gate to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.
Woe is me, Alhama!

II
Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.
Woe is me, Albamal

III
He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
And through the street directs his course;
Through the street of Zacatin
To the Alhambra spurring in.
Woe is me, Alhama!

IV
When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,
On the moment he ordain'd
That the trumpet straight should sound
With the silver clarion round.
Woe is me, Alhamal

V
And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain.
Woe is me, Alhama!

VI
Then the Moors, by this aware,
That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.
Woe is me, Alhama!

VII
Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
'Wherefore call on us, oh King?
What may mean this gathering?'
Woe is me, Alhama!

VIII
'Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow;
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Albania's hold.'
Woe is me, Alhama!

IX
Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see,
'Good King! thou art justly served,
Good King! this thou hast deserved.
Woe is me, Alhama!

X
'By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XI
'And for this, oh King! is sent
On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XII
'He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,
And thyself with her undone.'
Woe is me, Alhama!

XIII
Fire Crashed from out the old Moor's eyes,
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answer'd, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XIV
'There is no law to say such things
As may disgust the ear of kings:
'Thus, snorting with his choler, said
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XV
Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thee seized,
For Alhama's loss displeased.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XVI
And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That thus for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XVII
'Cavalier, and man of worth!
Let these words of mine go forth!
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XVIII
'But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XIX
'Sires have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives!
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XX
'I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day.'
Woe is me, Alhama!

XXI
And as these things the old Moor said,
They sever'd from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'Twas carried, as the King decreed.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XXII
And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Woe is me, Alhama!

XXIII
And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.
Woe is me, Alhama!
 

George Gordon Lord Byron

The Spirit of Air

Coral and clear emerald,
And amber from the sea,
Lilac-coloured amethyst,
Chalcedony;

The lovely Spirit of Air
Floats on a cloud and doth ride,
Clad in the beauties of earth
Like a bride.

So doth she haunt me; and words
Tell but a tithe of the tale.
Sings all the sweetness of Spring
Even in the nightengale?

Nay, but with echoes she cries
Of the valley of love;
Dews on the thorns of her feet,
And darkness above.
 

Walter de la Mare

How Sleep the Brave

Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve!
Not one of these poor men who died
But did within his soul believe
That death for thee was glorified.

Ever they watched it hovering near
That mystery 'yond thought to plumb,
Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear
They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! --

Heard and obeyed. O, if thou weep
Such courage and honour, beauty, care,
Be it for joy that those who sleep
Only thy joy could share.
 

Walter de la Mare

What Shall I Do For the Land that Bred Me

What shall I do for the land that bred me,
Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?—
Be under her banner and live for her honour:
Under her banner I’ll live for her honour.
 
CHORUS. Under her banner live for her honour.

Not the pleasure, the pay, the plunder,
But country and flag, the flag I am under—
There is the shilling that finds me willing
To follow a banner and fight for honour.  

We follow her banner, we fight for her honour.

Call me England’s fame’s fond lover,
Her fame to keep, her fame to recover.
Spend me or end me what God shall send me,
But under her banner I live for her honour.
 
Under her banner we march for her honour.

Where is the field I must play the man on?
O welcome there their steel or cannon.
Immortal beauty is death with duty,
If under her banner I fall for her honour.
 
Under her banner we fall for her honour.
 

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Laws of God, The Laws of Man

The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbor to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man's bedevilment and God's?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.
 

Alfred Edward Housman

Others, I Am Not the First

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.

More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.

Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.

But from my grave across my brow
Plays no wind of healing now,
And fire and ice within me fight
Beneath the suffocating night.
 

Alfred Edward Housman

Is My Team Ploughing

"Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?"

Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.

"Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?"

Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.

"Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?"

Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep,
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.

"Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?"

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.
 

Alfred Edward Housman

Bothwell Castle

Immured in Bothwell's Towers, at times the Brave
(So beautiful is the Clyde) forgot to mourn
The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;

The river glides, the woods before me wave;
But, by occasion tempted, now I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight.

Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give
Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.

Memory, like Sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive;
How little that she cherishes is lost!

 
William Wordsworth

Address To Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe

CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off-abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring.-Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
The chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard
The toils and struggles of thy infant years!

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character-the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!
 

William Wordsworth

Ave Imperatrix

SET in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
The treacherous Russian knows so well,
With gaping blackened jaws are seen
Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England's wars
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
To battle with the storm that mars
The star of England's chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows
Across the Pathan's reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
Shake to the tread of armèd men.

And many an Afghan chief, who lies
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
When on the mountain-side he sees

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
To tell how he hath heard afar
The measured roll of English drums
Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet
Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
England with bare and bloody feet
Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height,
Grey pillar of the Indian sky,
Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight
Our wingèd dogs of Victory?

The almond groves of Samarcand,
Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

And on from thence to Ispahan,
The gilded garden of the sun,
Whence the long dusty caravan
Brings cedar and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool
Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet,
Whose marble tanks are ever full
With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circassian
Is led, a present from the Czar
Unto some old and bearded khan,--

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;
But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England--she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes:
Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see
The lingering wistful children wait
To climb upon their father's knee;
And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord
Will kiss the relics of the slain--
Some tarnished epaulette--some sword--
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afghan land,
And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie,
And others in the seas which are
The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves! O restless sleep!
O silence of the sunless day!
O still ravine! O stormy deep!
Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

And thou whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won,
O Cromwell's England! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son?

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,
Change thy glad song to song of pain;
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
And will not yield them back again.

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
Possess the flower of English land--
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found
The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest-like, on every main?
Ruin and wreck are at our side,
Grim warders of the House of pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?
Where is our English chivalry?
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,
And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away,
What word of love can dead lips send!
O wasted dust! O senseless clay!
Is this the end! is this the end!

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so;
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,
Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,
Her watchmen shall descry from far
The young Republic like a sun
Rise from these crimson seas of war.
 

Oscar Wilde

Apostrophe To Man

(On reflecting that the world is ready to go to war again)

Detestable race, continue to expunge yourself, die out.
Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sing hymns, build
bombing airplanes;
Make speeches, unveil statues, issue bonds, parade;
Convert again into explosives the bewildered ammonia
and the distracted cellulose;
Convert again into putrescent matter drawing flies
The hopeful bodies of the young; exhort,
Pray, pull long faces, be earnest,
be all but overcome, be photographed;
Confer, perfect your formulae, commercialize
Bacteria harmful to human tissue,
Put death on the market;
Breed, crowd, encroach,
expand, expunge yourself, die out,
Homo called sapiens.
 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Byzantium

THE unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miraclc than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.
Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!

Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.
 

William Butler Yeats