Produced by Brian Coe, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) PATRIOTIC SONG PATRIOTIC SONG A Book of English Verse BEING AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE PATRIOTIC POETRY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE, FROM THE DEFEAT OF THE SPANISH ARMADA TILL THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY ARTHUR STANLEY WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE RIGHT REVEREND J.Â E.Â C. WELLDON Lord Bishop of Calcutta; late Head-Master of Harrow School TORONTO WILLIAM BRIGGS 1901 THIS BOOK IS Sacred to the Memory OF THAT GLORIOUS COMPANY OF MEN WOMEN AND CHILDREN WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES FOR ENGLANDâS SAKE EDITORâS PREFACE This book is intended to be a representative collection of the patriotic poetry of the British Empire. I have taken a wide view of the term âpatrioticâ--wide enough, indeed, to include the Jacobite Songs of Scotland and the National Songs of Ireland. Many of my numbers breathe the spirit of war; for the national instinct is most deeply stirred in times of great national emotion. But I have aimed at making this volume something more than a book of war-songs, holding that a man may prove his patriotism as well at home in the pursuit of his daily business as on the battlefield in the presence of his countryâs enemies. Love of country is the root of the matter; and, after all, it is harder to live for oneâs country than to die for it. I gratefully acknowledge the debt I owe to authors and owners of copyright poems. I am equally grateful to all who, whether at home or in the Colonies, have given me encouragement, assistance, or advice. My obligations to Professor Dowden, Mr. W.Â E. Henley, and Mr. A.Â T. Quiller-Couch are very great. My scheme, as originally conceived, provided for the inclusion of a section representing the patriotism of America; but, on reconsideration, I have decided not to go beyond the limits of the British Empire. A.Â S. INTRODUCTION The present collection of patriotic songs will, I think, accord with the imperial spirit of the day; for they are representative of the whole British Empire. It is needless to dwell upon the inspiring energy of song. Since the age of TyrtÃ¦us it has everywhere been recognised as a powerful incentive to valour. A nation can scarcely exist without a national anthem. How characteristic are the anthems of the nations! It may almost be said that the difference of the English and the French nations is expressed by the contrast between _God Save the King_ and the _Marseillaise_. What an influence songs have exercised upon the life of nations! The debt of Scotland to Burns, the debt of Ireland to Moore, is greater than words can tell. Fletcher of Saltoun was perhaps not wrong in his estimate of the songs, as compared with the laws, of a nation. I am not responsible for the present collection; perhaps, if I had made it, I should have left out some few songs which find a place in it, and should have inserted some few others which do not, but the purpose of it I heartily approve. To consolidate the Empire, and to animate it as a whole with noble ideas, is one of the greatest needs and duties of the present day; and an empire, like an individual, lives not by bread alone, but by its sentiments, its ambitions, its ideals. J.Â E.Â C. CALCUTTA. _October 1901._ ERRATUM Page xii, line 6, _for_ âan admiralâ _read_ âan individual.â CONTENTS I.--ENGLAND PAGE ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1580). I. SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN 3 GEORGE PEELE (1558?-1592?). II. FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS 4 MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). III. BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 5 IV. THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE 8 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616). V. A PICTURE OF ENGLAND 11 VI. ENGLAND INVINCIBLE 11 VII. ENGLAND AT WAR 12 VIII. WOLSEY TO CROMWELL 17 BALLADS. IX. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY (_c._ 1590) 18 X. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL (_c._ 1626) 21 JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL 24 XII. DELIVERANCE 24 ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678). XIII. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELLâS RETURN FROM IRELAND 25 XIV. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA 28 MARTIN PARKER (_ob._ 1656?). XV. THE KINGâS EXILE 30 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1667). XVI. HEREâS A HEALTH UNTO HIS MAJESTY 31 JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). XVII. A SONG OF KING ARTHUR 31 XVIII. LONDON IN 1666 32 JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748). XIX. RULE BRITANNIA 33 JOHN DYER (_c._ 1708). XX. DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN 34 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1740). XXI. GOD SAVE THE KING 34 DAVID GARRICK (1717-1779). XXII. HEARTS OF OAK 35 WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759). XXIII. THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE 36 WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800). XXIV. BOADICEA 36 XXV. THE _ROYAL GEORGE_ 38 CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814). XXVI. TOM BOWLING 39 XXVII. THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR 40 XXVIII. TOM TOUGH 41 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1750). XXIX. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS 42 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1758). XXX. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 43 PRINCE HOARE (1755-1834). XXXI. THE _ARETHUSA_ 44 WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827). XXXII. JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND 45 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850). XXXIII. ON LANDING IN ENGLAND 46 XXXIV. DESTINY 47 XXXV. THE MOTHERLAND 47 XXXVI. TO THE MEN OF KENT 48 XXXVII. THE HAPPY WARRIOR 48 XXXVIII. AFTER WATERLOO 50 XXXIX. MERRY ENGLAND 50 XL. HOPE 51 SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). XLI. IN MEMORIAM 51 THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841). XLII. THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND 55 XLIII. THE MERRY SOLDIER 57 ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843). XLIV. THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS 58 THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844). XLV. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 59 XLVI. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 60 XLVII. MEN OF ENGLAND 62 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). XLVIII. THE BRITISH SAILORâS SONG 63 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824). XLIX. ON LEAVING ENGLAND 64 L. THE ISLES OF GREECE 65 LI. THE EVE OF WATERLOO 67 CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823). LII. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 69 FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). LIII. THE BENDED BOW 71 LIV. ENGLANDâS DEAD 72 THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859). LV. THE ARMADA 74 LVI. A JACOBITEâS EPITAPH 77 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH (1807-1886). LVII. THE TASK 78 LVIII. THE UNFORGOTTEN 78 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-1861). LIX. THE FORCED RECRUIT 80 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892). LX. THE ANSWER 81 LXI. FREEDOM 82 LXII. BATTLE SONG 83 LXIII. VICTORIAâS REIGN 83 LXIV. HANDS ALL ROUND 84 LXV. BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN! 85 LXVI. WELLINGTON AT ST. PAULâS 85 LXVII. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 87 LXVIII. THE USE OF WAR 89 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1888). LXIX. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 90 ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). LXX. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 91 LXXI. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 92 CHARLES MACKAY (1814-1889). LXXII. A SONG OF ENGLAND 92 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861). LXXIII. GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 93 LXXIV. THE RALLY 94 CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875). LXXV. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND 94 SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889). LXXVI. THE _BIRKENHEAD_ 96 WILLIAM CORY (1823-1892). LXXVII. SCHOOL FENCIBLES 97 WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW (1823-1897). LXXVIII. A NATIONAL HYMN 99 JOHN KELLS INGRAM (_b._ 1823). LXXIX. A NATIONâS WEALTH 99 SIR FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON (_b._ 1823). LXXX. THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS 100 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE (1824-1897). LXXXI. ALFRED THE GREAT 103 LXXXII. TRAFALGAR 104 SYDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874). LXXXIII. A SEA ADVENTURE 108 WILLIAM ALEXANDER, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH (_b._ 1824). LXXXIV. WAR 109 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER (1825-1864). LXXXV. THE LESSON OF THE WAR 112 GERALD MASSEY (_b._ 1828). LXXXVI. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLEâS LAST FIGHT 113 THOMAS EDWARD BROWN (1830-1897). LXXXVII. LAND, HO! 117 BENN WILKES JONES TREVALDWYN (_b._ 1830). LXXXVIII. THE _GEORGE_ OF LOOE 118 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (_b._ 1832). LXXXIX. THE FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE VICTORIA CROSS 120 RICHARD GARNETT (_b._ 1835). XC. ABROAD 121 WILLIAM SCHWENK GILBERT (_b._ 1836). XCI. THE ENGLISH GIRL 122 THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON (_b._ 1836). XCII. THE BREATH OF AVON 123 XCIII. ENGLAND STANDS ALONE 124 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (_b._ 1837). XCIV. ENGLAND 125 XCV. A JACOBITEâS EXILE 126 XCVI. NEW YEARâS DAY 129 XCVII. TO WILLIAM MORRIS 129 THOMAS HARDY (_b._ 1840). XCVIII. THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 131 AUSTIN DOBSON (_b._ 1840). XCIX. BALLAD OF THE ARMADA 132 C. RANK AND FILE 133 ROBERT BRIDGES (_b._ 1844). CI. THE FAIR BRASS 133 JOHN HUNTLEY SKRINE (_b._ 1848). CII. THE GENTLE 134 CIII. THE MOTHER AND THE SONS 136 WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (_b._ 1849). CIV. ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND 137 ERIC MACKAY (1851-1898). CV. A SONG OF THE SEA 139 WILLIAM SHARP (_b._ 1856). CVI. THE BALLAD OF THE RAM 141 SIR RENNELL RODD (_b._ 1858). CVII. SPRING THOUGHTS 141 WILLIAM WATSON (_b._ 1858). CVIII. ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES 143 ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (_b._ 1859). CIX. THE SONG OF THE BOW 143 CX. A BALLAD OF THE RANKS 144 BARRY PAIN (_b._ 1860). CXI. OUR DEAD 147 HENRY NEWBOLT (_b._ 1862). CXII. ADMIRALS ALL 147 CXIII. DRAKEâS DRUM 149 CXIV. A TOAST 150 RUDYARD KIPLING (_b._ 1865). CXV. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND 150 CXVI. RECESSIONAL 154 LAUCHLAN MACLEAN WATT (_b._ 1867). CXVII. THE GREY MOTHER 155 GEORGE FREDERIC STEWART BOWLES (_b._ 1877). CXVIII. THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES 157 II.--WALES THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). CXIX. THE BARD 161 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859). CXX. BODRYDDAN 165 FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). CXXI. THE HARP OF WALES 166 CXXII. PRINCE MADOGâS FAREWELL 166 JOHN JONES (1810-1869). CXXIII. THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH 167 SIR LEWIS MORRIS (_b._ 1833). CXXIV. LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD 168 RICHARD BELLIS JONES (1837-1900). CXXV. RHUDDLAN MARSH 171 EDMUND OSBORNE JONES (_b._ 1858). CXXVI. LIBERTY 172 CXXVII. THE POETS OF WALES 173 III.--SCOTLAND ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758). CXXVIII. FAREWELL TO LOCHABER 177 JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805). CXXIX. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 177 ANNE MACIVAR GRANT (1755-1838). CXXX. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE 178 ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796). CXXXI. MY HEARTâS IN THE HIGHLANDS 180 CXXXII. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBUR 180 CXXXIII. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS 181 CXXXIV. THEIR GROVES Oâ SWEET MYRTLE 182 SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). CXXXV. THE OUTCAST 183 CXXXVI. FLODDEN FIELD 183 CXXXVII. GATHERING-SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK 185 CXXXVIII. OVER THE BORDER 186 CXXXIX. BONNIE DUNDEE 187 CXL. WAR-SONG 189 JOHN LEYDEN (1775-1811). CXLI. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN 190 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). CXLII. LOYALTY 193 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1790). CXLIII. THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMINâ 193 ROBERT GILFILLAN (1798-1850). CXLIV. MY AIN COUNTRIE 194 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894). CXLV. IN THE HIGHLANDS 195 CXLVI. EXILED 196 NEIL MUNRO (_b._ 1864). CXLVII. TO EXILES 196 JACOBITE SONGS ANONYMOUS. CXLVIII. THE KING OVER THE WATER 198 CXLIX. WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE! 199 CL. CAMâ YE BY ATHOL? 199 CLI. LADY KEITHâS LAMENT 200 ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796). CLII. OâER THE WATER TO CHARLIE 201 CLIII. A SONG OF EXILE 202 CLIV. KENMUREâS MARCH 202 CLV. A JACOBITEâS FAREWELL 203 CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN (1766-1845). CLVI. CHARLIE IS MY DARLING 204 CLVII. WHAâLL BE KING BUT CHARLIE? 205 WILLIAM GLEN (1789-1826). CLVIII. WAEâS ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE 205 HAROLD BOULTON (_b._ 1859). CLIX. SKYE BOAT-SONG 207 SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON. CLX. A KISS OF THE KINGâS HAND 207 IV.--IRELAND OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1725-1774). CLXI. HOME 211 ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1798). CLXII. THE WEARINâ Oâ THE GREEN 211 THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852). CLXIII. THE MINSTREL BOY 212 CLXIV. A SONG OF THE IRISH 213 CLXV. DEPARTED GLORY 213 CLXVI. THE CHOICE 214 CLXVII. A SONG OF TRUE LOVE 215 CLXVIII. TO ERIN 215 CLXIX. THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP 216 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH TONNA (1790-1846). CLXX. THE MAIDEN CITY 216 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803-1849). CLXXI. KINCORA 218 CLXXII. DARK ROSALEEN 219 HELEN, LADY DUFFERIN (1807-1867). CLXXIII. THE BAY OF DUBLIN 222 CLXXIV. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT 222 SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886). CLXXV. OâBYRNEâS BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW 224 CLXXVI. THE HILLS OF IRELAND 225 THOMAS DAVIS (1814-1845). CLXXVII. MY LAND 226 CLXXVIII. THE DEAD CHIEF 227 AUBREY DE VERE (_b._ 1814). CLXXIX. THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE 229 JOHN KELLS INGRAM (_b._ 1823). CLXXX. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 229 CLXXXI. NATIONAL PRESAGE 231 GEORGE SIGERSON (_b._ 1839). CLXXXII. THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS 231 CLXXXIII. LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA OâNEILL 232 GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG (_b._ 1845). CLXXXIV. THE OLD COUNTRY 233 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES (_b._ 1846). CLXXXV. THE SONGS OF ERIN 234 JOHN KEEGAN CASEY (1846-1870). CLXXXVI. THE RISING OF THE MOON 235 THOMAS WILLIAM ROLLESTON (_b._ 1857). CLXXXVII. THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS 236 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (_b._ 1861). CLXXXVIII. SHAMROCK SONG 237 LIONEL JOHNSON (_b._ 1867). CLXXXIX. WAYS OF WAR 239 V.--CANADA WILLIAM WYE SMITH (_b._ 1827). CXC. THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE 243 DUNCAN ANDERSON (_b._ 1828). CXCI. THE DEATH OF WOLFE 244 SARAH ANNE CURZON (1833-1898). CXCII. THE LOYALISTS 246 THEODORE HARDING RAND (1835-1900). CXCIII. THE WHITETHROAT 247 ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE (_b._ 1837). CXCIV. WELCOME HOME 248 CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY (_b._ 1855). CXCV. THEIR TESTAMENT 249 CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS (_b._ 1860). CXCVI. CANADA 250 WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL (_b._ 1861). CXCVII. ENGLAND 252 CXCVIII. THE WORLD-MOTHER 254 FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT (_b._ 1861). CXCIX. QUEBEC 258 CC. IN MEMORIAM 258 FRANCIS SHERMAN (_b._ 1871). CCI. A WORD FROM CANADA 260 ARTHUR STRINGER (_b._ 1874). CCII. CANADA TO ENGLAND 262 STUART LIVINGSTON (_b._ 1876). CCIII. THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS 262 VI.--INDIA SHOSHEE CHUNDER DUTT (1824-1883). CCIV. THE HINDUâS ADDRESS TO THE GANGES 267 SIR ALFRED LYALL (_b._ 1835). CCV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 268 WILLIAM TREGO WEBB (_b._ 1847). CCVI. THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD 272 CCVII. THE MEMORIAL WELL 273 CCVIII. SPRING IN CALCUTTA 274 JOHN RENTON DENNING (_b._ 1858). CCIX. THE LUCKNOW GARRISON 275 CCX. SOLDIERS OF IND 276 CCXI. SARANSAR 278 RUDYARD KIPLING (_b._ 1865). CCXII. THE GALLEY-SLAVE 280 VII.--SOUTH AFRICA THOMAS PRINGLE (1789-1834). CCXIII. THE DESOLATE VALLEY 285 WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE (_b._ 1842). CCXIV. ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA 286 WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (_b._ 1849). CCXV. FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA 286 ARTHUR VINE HALL (_b._ 1862). CCXVI. ON LEAVING TABLE BAY 286 HILDA MARY AGNES COOK (_b._ 1865). CCXVII. THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING 287 ROBERT RUSSELL (_b._ 1867). CCXVIII. THE VANGUARD 288 VIII.--AUSTRALIA GERALD HENRY SUPPLE (1822-1898). CCXIX. DAMPIERâS DREAM 293 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON (1833-1870). CCXX. BY FLOOD AND FIELD 295 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS (_b._ 1835). CCXXI. FULFILMENT 297 PERCY RUSSELL (_b._ 1847). CCXXII. THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA 299 HENRY LAWSON (_b._ 1867). CCXXIII. THE WAR OF THE FUTURE 300 ARTHUR MAQUARIE (_b._ 1876). CCXXIV. A FAMILY MATTER 302 ARTHUR ADAMS. CCXXV. THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD 303 WILLIAM OGILVIE. CCXXVI. THE BUSH, MY LOVER 305 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. CCXXVII. A FEDERAL SONG 307 JOHN BERNARD OâHARA. CCXXVIII. FLINDERS 308 CCXXIX. THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH 309 IX.--NEW ZEALAND THOMAS BRACKEN (_b._ 1843). CCXXX. NEW ZEALAND HYMN 315 ALEXANDER BATHGATE (_b._ 1845). CCXXXI. OUR HERITAGE 316 ELEANOR ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY. CCXXXII. TO ONE IN ENGLAND 317 CCXXXIII. A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND 318 NOTES 323 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 357 I ENGLAND ANONYMOUS I SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt, Where English slew and hurt All their French foemen? With their pikes and bills brown, How the French were beat down, Shot by our Bowmen! Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt, Never to be forgot, Or known to no men? Where English cloth-yard arrows Killed the French like tame sparrows, Slain by our Bowmen! Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? English of every sort, High men and low men, Fought that day wondrous well, All our old stories tell, Thanks to our Bowmen! Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? Where our fifth Harry taught Frenchmen to know men: And, when the day was done, Thousands there fell to one Good English Bowman! Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? Dear was the victâry bought By fifty yeomen. Ask any English wench, They were worth all the French: Rare English Bowmen! _Anonymous._ PEELE II FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS Have done with care, my hearts! aboard amain, With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves: Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home: Bid all the lovely British dames adieu! To arms, my fellow-soldiers! Sea and land Lie open to the voyage you intend. To arms, to arms, to honourable arms! Hoist sails; weigh anchors up; plough up the seas With flying keels; plough up the land with swords! You follow them whose swords successful are: You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain, The dreadful dragon, terror to your foes, Victorious in his return from Inde, In all his high attempts unvanquishÃ¨d; You follow noble Norris whose renown, Won in the fertile fields of Belgia, Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts Of Christian kings and heathen potentates. You fight for Christ and Englandâs peerless Queen, Elizabeth, the wonder of the world, Over whose throne the enemies of God Have thunderâd erst their vain successless braves, O ten-times-treble happy men, that fight Under the cross of Christ and Englandâs Queen, And follow such as Drake and Norris are! All honours do this cause accompany; All glory on these endless honours waits; These honours and this glory shall He send, Whose honour and Whose glory you defend. _George Peele._ DRAYTON III BALLAD OF AGINCOURT Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way Where the French genâral lay With all his power: Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, âThough they to one be ten, Be not amazÃ¨d. Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisÃ¨d.â âAnd for myself,â quoth he, âThis my full rest shall be: England neâer mourn for me, Nor more esteem me; Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.â âPoitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.â The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which did the single aim To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to oâerwhelm it, And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent BruisÃ¨d his helmet. Gloâster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another! Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon St. Crispinâs Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay, To England to carry. O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? _Michael Drayton._ IV THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE You brave heroic minds Worthy your countryâs name, That honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame. Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretchâd sail With vows as strong As the winds that blow you. Your course securely steer West and by south forth keep, Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals When Ãolus scowls You need not fear, So absolute the deep. And cheerfully at sea Success you shall entice To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia Earthâs only paradise. Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitfullâst soil Without your toil Three harvests more, All greater than your wish. And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine And useful sassafras. To whom the golden age Still natureâs laws doth give, Nor other cares attend But them to defend From winterâs rage, That long there doth not live. When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land Above the seas that flows The clear wind throws Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand. In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven. And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north. And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere,-- Apolloâs sacred tree,-- You it may see A poetâs brows To crown that may sing there. Thy voyages attend Industrious Hackluit Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after times thy wit. _Michael Drayton._ SHAKESPEARE V A PICTURE OF ENGLAND This royal throne of kings, this sceptrâd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fearâd by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the worldâs ransom, blessed Maryâs Son, This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land. _William Shakespeare._ VI ENGLAND INVINCIBLE This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. _William Shakespeare._ VII ENGLAND AT WAR THE PREPARATION Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: Now thrive the armourers, and honourâs thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man: They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With wingÃ¨d heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural! AT SEA Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young PhÅbus fanning: Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowâd sea, Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow: Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; For who is he, whose chin is but enrichâd With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cullâd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS (_At the Siege of Harfleur_) âOnce more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace, thereâs nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard favourâd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspÃ¨ct; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow oâerwhelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Oâer hang and jutty his confounded base, Swillâd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you callâd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The gameâs afoot; Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry âGod for Harry, England, and Saint George!ââ THE EVE OF BATTLE Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixâd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each otherâs watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the otherâs umbered face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the nightâs dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation: The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morningâs danger, and their gesture sad Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruinâd band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry âPraise and glory on his head!â For forth he goes and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to everyone, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly. KING HARRYâS PRAYER âO God of battles! steel my soldiersâ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord, O, not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richardâs body have interred new; And on it have bestowâd more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a-day their witherâd hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richardâs soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.â St. Crispinâs Day at Agincourt (_King Harry to his Soldiers_) âThis day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say âTo-morrow is saint Crispian:â Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say âThese wounds I had on Crispinâs day.â Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But heâll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly rememberâd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall neâer go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; And gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispinâs day.â THE WELCOME HOME Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthâd sea, Which like a mighty whiffler âfore the king Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath, Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruisÃ¨d helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Giving full trophy, signal and ostent Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering CÃ¦sar in. _William Shakespeare._ VIII WOLSEY TO CROMWELL âCromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Letâs dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missâd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruinâd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aimâst at be thy countryâs, Thy Godâs, and truthâs; then if thou fallâst, O Cromwell, Thou fallâst a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And,--Prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; âtis the kingâs: my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.â _William Shakespeare._ ANONYMOUS IX BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most conspicuous officers Were English captains three, But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughby. The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was he: The other, Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with forty thousand then Upon the bloody shore. âStand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bowmen, And we will keep them out: You musket and cailÃ¬ver men, Do you prove true to me, Iâll be the bravest man in fight,â Says brave Lord Willoughby. And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most valiantly Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most piteous for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughby. For seven hours to all menâs view This fight endurÃ¨d sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get. When they had fed so freely, They kneelÃ¨d on the ground, And praisÃ¨d God devoutly For the favour they had found; And bearing up their colours, The fight they did renew, And cutting towârds the Spaniard, Five thousand more they slew. The sharp steel-pointed arrows And bullets thick did fly, Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously: Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee: They feared the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughby. Then quoth the Spanish general, âCome let us march away, I fear we shall be spoilÃ¨d all If that we longer stay: For yonder comes Lord Willoughby With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of ground For all the devils in hell.â And when the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men pursued courageously To rout his forces quite; And at last they gave a shout Which echoed through the sky: âGod and Saint George for England!â The conquerors did cry. This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious Queen was told Of this same victory. âO! this is brave Lord Willoughby My love that ever won: Of all the lords of honour âTis he great deeds hath done!â To the soldiers that were maimÃ¨d, And wounded in the fray, The Queen allowed a pension Of eighteen pence a day, And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free; And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughby. Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismayed! If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foreign enemies, And set our country free, And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughby. _Anonymous._ X THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL Attend you, and give ear awhile, And you shall understand Of a battle fought upon the seas By a ship of brave command. The fight it was so glorious Menâs hearts it did fulfil, And it made them cry, âTo sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!â This lusty ship of Bristol, Sailed out adventurously Against the foes of England, Her strength with them to try; Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, With good provision still, Which made them cry, âTo sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!â The Captain, famous Netherway (That was his noble name); The Master--he was called John Mines-- A mariner of fame: The Gunner, Thomas Watson, A man of perfect skill: With many another valiant heart In the _Angel Gabriel_. They waving up and down the seas Upon the ocean main, âIt is not long ago,â quoth they, âThat England fought with Spain: O would the Spaniard we might meet Our stomachs to fulfil! We would play him fair a noble bout With our _Angel Gabriel_!â They had no sooner spoken But straight appeared in sight Three lusty Spanish vessels Of warlike trim and might; With bloody resolution They thought our men to spill, And vowed that they would make a prize Of our _Angel Gabriel_. Our gallant ship had in her Full forty fighting men; With twenty piece of ordnance We played about them then, With powder, shot, and bullets Right well we worked our will, And hot and bloody grew the fight With our _Angel Gabriel_. Our Captain to our Master said, âTake courage, Master bold!â Our Master to the seamen said, âStand fast, my hearts of gold!â Our Gunner unto all the rest, âBrave hearts, be valiant still! Fight on, fight on in the defence Of our _Angel Gabriel_!â We gave them such a broadside It smote their mast asunder, And tore the bowsprit off their ship, Which made the Spaniards wonder, And causÃ¨d them in fear to cry, With voices loud and shrill, âHelp, help, or sunken we shall be By the _Angel Gabriel_!â So desperately they boarded us For all our valiant shot, Threescore of their best fighting men Upon our decks were got; And lo! at their first entrances Full thirty did we kill, And thus with speed we cleared the deck Of our _Angel Gabriel_. With that their three ships boarded us Again with might and main, But still our noble Englishmen Cried out âA fig for Spain!â Though seven times they boarded us At last we showed our skill, And made them feel what men we were On the _Angel Gabriel_. Seven hours this fight continued: So many men lay dead, With Spanish blood for fathoms round The sea was coloured red. Five hundred of their fighting men We there outright did kill, And many more were hurt and maimed By our _Angel Gabriel_. Then seeing of these bloody spoils, The rest made haste away: For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay. Then they fled into CalÃ¨s, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again With our _Angel Gabriel_. We had within our English ship But only three men slain, And five men hurt, the which I hope Will soon be well again. At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, That thus hath blest our lusty hearts And our _Angel Gabriel_. _Anonymous._ MILTON XI TO THE LORD GENERAL Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownÃ¨d Fortune proud Hast reared Godâs trophies, and His work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcesterâs laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. _John Milton._ XII DELIVERANCE O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppressâd! When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth; He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour armâd; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless; while With winged expedition, Swift as the lightning glance, he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. _John Milton._ MARVELL XIII HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELLâS RETURN FROM IRELAND The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. âTis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unusÃ¨d armourâs rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war UrgÃ¨d his active star: And, like the three-forkâd lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide: For âtis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such to inclose Is more than to oppose; Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And CÃ¦sarâs head at last Did through his laurels blast. âTis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heavenâs flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservÃ¨d and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould; Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain-- (But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak), Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrookâs narrow case, That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armÃ¨d bands Did clap their bloody hands. He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axeâs edge did try; Nor callâd the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bowâd his comely head Down, as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcÃ¨d power: So, when they did design The Capitolâs first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate! And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republicâs hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!), He to the Commonsâ feet presents A Kingdom for his first yearâs rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs: And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Publicâs skirt So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year? As CÃ¦sar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid. Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the warâs and fortuneâs son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. _Andrew Marvell._ XIV SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA Where the remote Bermudas ride In the Oceanâs bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. âWhat should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze, Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelatesâ rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospelâs pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heavenâs vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!â Thus sang they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. _Andrew Marvell._ PARKER XV THE KINGâS EXILE Let rogues and cheats prognosticate Concerning kingsâ or kingdomsâ fate, I think myself to be as wise As he that gazeth on the skies, Whose sight goes beyond The depth of a pond Or rivers in the greatest rain; For I can tell All will be well, When the King enjoys his own again! Though for a time we see Whitehall With cobwebs hanging on the wall, Instead of gold and silver brave, Which formerly âtwas wont to have, With rich perfume In every room, Delightful to that princely train,-- Yet the old again shall be When the happy time you see That the King enjoys his own again. Full forty years this royal crown Hath been his fatherâs and his own; And is there any one but he That in the same should sharer be? For who better may The sceptre sway Than he that hath such right to reign? Then letâs hope for a peace, For the wars will not cease Till the King enjoys his own again. _Martin Parker._ ANONYMOUS XVI HEREâS A HEALTH Hereâs a health unto His Majesty, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ Confusion to his enemies, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ And he that will not drink his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ _Anonymous._ DRYDEN XVII A SONG OF KING ARTHUR Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum. Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again: The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind, that will perish for gold. The fainting Saxons quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound: They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly; Victoria, Victoria, the
{'title': 'Patriotic Song by J. E. C. Welldon and Arthur Stanley', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}