The Exile of Cluny

 
    Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,
       Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;
    And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,
       Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.
    The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,
       And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,
    And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,
       Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.

    He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;
       At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;
    Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!
       In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.
    When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial
       Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:
    "Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;
       "Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."

    What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?
       When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;
    As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,
       As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.
    So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury
       To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;
    So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,
       So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.

    Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,
       Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;
    The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,
       But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.
    Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb
       And sureness of sinew? and — for the stout blow —
    'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,
       Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.

    Ever loyal to reason, we've seen him appeasing
       With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;
    With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,
       Following on for the right in the havoc of life.
    To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
       His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;
    And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak
       His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.

Queen Mary's Escape from Loch Leven



Put off, put off, and row with speed,
   For now 's the time, and the hour of need!
To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,
   Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!
Yon light that plays round the castle's moat
   Is only the warder's random shot!
Put off, put off, and row with speed,
   For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Those pond'rous keys shall the kelpies keep,
   And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;
Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,
   Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;
Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,
   While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;
Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,
   For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,
   And the warder's voice hath treason sung;
The echoes to the falconet's roar,
   Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.
Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,
   We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;
For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,
   Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!

Quote:

Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. 

If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. 

But if we fall, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour!”

Quote:

"You have enemies? 

Good.

That means you have stood up for something, sometime in your life."


Winston Churchill

     I am a friar of orders grey
 

        I AM a friar of orders gray,
        And down in the valleys I take my way;
        I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip, --
        Good store of venison fills my scrip;
        My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
        Where'er I walk no money I want;
        And why I'm so plump the reason I tell, --
        Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
            What baron or squire,
            Or knight of the shire,
            Lives half so well as a holy friar?

        After supper of heaven I dream,
        But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
        Myself, by denial, I morfify --
        With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
        I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin, --
        With old sack wine I'm lined within;
        A chirping cup is my matin song,
        And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong.
            What baron or squire,
            Or knight of the shire,
            Lives half so well as a holy friar?

            John O'Keefe

Of Moira Up the Glen

    It's little that I'd care for the glories of Ireland,
        Waiting for the shadows to gather in the glen,
    Come the time of darkness, sitting by the hearth-light,
        Whispering with bated breath for fear the little men
    Should catch us and spell us to serve them for a year's time,
        Toiling and moiling within a faëry snare.
    I'm thinkin' 'twould be fearsome in the gray misty strangeness. --
        'Tis hiding we'll be in the clear free air!

    The sunlight above us, and willow hedge for shelter,
        A tangle of soft things to rustle by the stream,
    Where Moira, my white dove, whose beauty is my sorrow,
        Would sit with me and travel on the long bright dream,
    Travel with the water from the mountain to the meadow,
        Down across the lowlands and gaily to the sea,
    Out beyond the breakers to the shimmer of a far line
        Poised and trembling within the heart of me.

    What shall I murmur to coax the dream of beauty
        Out from the shadows to welcome in the dawn?
    How shall I sing it that she may know the glory,
        Know it and come by the first flush of morn?
    The moonlight is dark light, 'tis fear I'm after feelin',
        The fairies should be in it and steal her heart away,
    A goblet for their feasting, they'd drain it and fill it
        With dreams of a far world beyond the light of day.

    It's God's light I'm wanting, and Moira to see it,
        See it and tremble with the love of God,
    And seeing it she'd turn, and look within my own eyes,
        And wonder at the vision transforming a sod
    Into worshipful silence and thought that is living,
        Burning and shaped by the warmth of its fire
    To a chalice of tears and of laughter for singing
        The lovely unfolding of dream-purged desire.

    Edward J. O'Brien 

 The Poor Old Cannon

    Up broke the sun
    In red-gold foam;
    Thus spoke the gun
    At the Soldier's Home:

    "Whenever I hear
    Blue thunder speak
    My voice sounds clear
    But little and weak.

    "And when the proud
    Young cockerels crow
    My voice sounds loud,
    But gentle and low.

    "When the mocking-bird
    Prolongs his note
    I cannot be heard
    Though I split my throat."

        Elinor Wylie

The world is too much with us

    THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
    Little we see in nature that is ours;

    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
    The Winds that will be howling at all hours
    And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
    It moves us not—-Great God! I'd rather be
    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn
    Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

        William Wordsworth

The Rivals -- a Tale of the Smart Set

    AT the epoch which I write of quite the smartest men in town
    Were Marmaduke de Coucy and Adolphus Brummel-Brown;
    They led the trend of fashion in the very highest set,
    They were recognized authorities on form and etiquette.

    If Marmaduke appeared in mauve, or didn't part his hair,
    Then parted locks were obsolete and mauve the only wear.
    And did Adolphus don pink shoes to gratify a whim,
    Then everybody did the same. They always followed him.

    Now, before this story opened, Mr Brummel-Brown had wooed
    The lovely daughter of an Earl, the Lady Ermyntrude.
    She'd accepted his proposal when upon his knees he fell.
    But he didn't know de Courcy was in love with her as well.

    And Marmaduke turned pale with rage; his silky locks he tore;
    Regardless of his trousers' crease, he writhed upon the floor.
    "A murrain on the dastard knave!" he muttered (which was rude).
    "By Jove, I'll cut the rotter out, and win my Ermyntrude!'"

    For many weeks he worked amain, but worked without success.
    He got up several epigrams, dsplayed his taste in dress;
    He let her win from him at Bridge, though skilful in the art;
    But he only lost his money, he couldn't win her heart.

    Then all at once a bright idea across his mind there shone:
    "In every fellow's cupboard stands at least one skeleton.
    I'll put detectives on to him -- for I have ample means --
    And when they've caught him out, gadzooks! won't I just give him beans!"

    He summoned private sleuth-hounds, and he put them on the trail.
    He bade them watch Adolphus, and he urged them not to fail,
    To spare no pains in finding out how Brummel-Brown had sinned.
    The youngest slueth-hound tapped his nose, the oldest sleuth-hound grinned.

    He waited for a week or so. They came with their report.
    "We've got him, sir!" the sleuth-hound said. "To put the story short,
    This very morning, sir," they said, "we copped the cove a treat.
    He was eating hot potatoes from a barrow in the stret."

    (Alas! the charge was but too true. Though free from other sins,
    He always had a passion for potatoes in their skins.
    He knew the taste was low and vile -- in short, a social crime,
    But he chouldn't check the craving, and he yielded every time.)

    The news delighted Marmaduke; he bounded in his glee.
    He pressed into their itching palms four times their proper fee;
    His eyes lit up with fell resolve; his heart with triumph stirred.
    He called upon Adolphus, and told him what he'd heard.

    "If this should get about, my lad, you'd look a little blue;
    Society would cut you dead -- that's what they'd do to you.
    But still I'll give you just one chance, and only one. Now, mark!
    Give up the Lady Ermyntrude, and I will keep this dark."

    Adolphus writhed, Adolphus raved, Adolphus had a fit,
    But not a way could he discern of wriggling out of it.
    He wrote a note to Ermyntrude to say farewell for aye,
    And she got it by the early post upon the ensuing day.

    But mark the sequel! Brummel-Brown, distraught, with riven heart,
    Grew pale and melancholy, and preferred to mope apart.
    And to dispel that leaden grief, which grips the soul and numbs,
    He took to feverish midnight walks about the lower slums.

    One night as he was roaming on his self-appointed beat,
    He spied a furtive figure at a barrow in the street.
    And his face next moment was divided by a grin:
    It was Marmaduke de Coucy -- eating winkles with a pin!          

    The rest does not take long to tell. The reunited pair
    Were married three weeks later at St Peter's, Eaton Square.
    The presents were both numerous and costly, so they say,
    And the bride looked very handsome, so declared the Press next day.

    As for the wicked Marmaduke, he met a fitting fate:
    He found it best to pack his boxes up and emigrate,
    And, according to the rumours, is a present big-game shooting
    In the unexplored and trackless wastes of Penge or Upper Tooting.

        P.G. Wodehouse

 Will

    THERE is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
    Can circumvent or hinder or control
    The firm resolve of a determined soul. 

    Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
    All things give way before it, soon or late.
    What obstacle can stay the mighty force
    Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
    Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

    Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
    Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
    Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
    Whose slightest action or inaction serves
    The one great aim.

    Why, even Death stands still,
    And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

        Ella Wheeler Wilcox