FRANK L. POLLOCK
MOTHER of Swords! while the river runs,Or the steamer seeks the sea;While the North wind blows from the chill of snows,And the South from the scented Key,So long, so long will live the songThat thy lilting bugles sing,As the warship rides down the deep sea tides,Where the green foams white on her armored sides,And the wind'ard gun-shields ring.There be they who sing that the song will cease,The song that thy sons began;That the good old World will loll in peace,In the bond of the Peace of Man.They sing,—and clear 'twixt the notes we hearThe clink of the warrior's trade,And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall,And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall,Where the rifled guns are made.The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea,And the Lies of Men the land;And the craft of the tongue may hold in feeThe strength of the heavy hand;But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken,And hands grow soft and small,Year upon year the day draws nearOf the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear,That shall make amends for all.When the Armageddon sunrise breaksOn the iron-clads' smoking line,When the last dawn lights on that last of fightsWhere the strength of man shall shine,One great grim day of the world at play,With bugle and tuck of drum,While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet,Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat,Then—let the Millennium come!
MOTHER of Swords! while the river runs,Or the steamer seeks the sea;While the North wind blows from the chill of snows,And the South from the scented Key,So long, so long will live the songThat thy lilting bugles sing,As the warship rides down the deep sea tides,Where the green foams white on her armored sides,And the wind'ard gun-shields ring.There be they who sing that the song will cease,The song that thy sons began;That the good old World will loll in peace,In the bond of the Peace of Man.They sing,—and clear 'twixt the notes we hearThe clink of the warrior's trade,And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall,And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall,Where the rifled guns are made.The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea,And the Lies of Men the land;And the craft of the tongue may hold in feeThe strength of the heavy hand;But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken,And hands grow soft and small,Year upon year the day draws nearOf the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear,That shall make amends for all.When the Armageddon sunrise breaksOn the iron-clads' smoking line,When the last dawn lights on that last of fightsWhere the strength of man shall shine,One great grim day of the world at play,With bugle and tuck of drum,While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet,Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat,Then—let the Millennium come!
MOTHER of Swords! while the river runs,Or the steamer seeks the sea;While the North wind blows from the chill of snows,And the South from the scented Key,So long, so long will live the songThat thy lilting bugles sing,As the warship rides down the deep sea tides,Where the green foams white on her armored sides,And the wind'ard gun-shields ring.
MOTHER of Swords! while the river runs,
Or the steamer seeks the sea;
While the North wind blows from the chill of snows,
And the South from the scented Key,
So long, so long will live the song
That thy lilting bugles sing,
As the warship rides down the deep sea tides,
Where the green foams white on her armored sides,
And the wind'ard gun-shields ring.
There be they who sing that the song will cease,The song that thy sons began;That the good old World will loll in peace,In the bond of the Peace of Man.They sing,—and clear 'twixt the notes we hearThe clink of the warrior's trade,And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall,And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall,Where the rifled guns are made.
There be they who sing that the song will cease,
The song that thy sons began;
That the good old World will loll in peace,
In the bond of the Peace of Man.
They sing,—and clear 'twixt the notes we hear
The clink of the warrior's trade,
And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall,
And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall,
Where the rifled guns are made.
The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea,And the Lies of Men the land;And the craft of the tongue may hold in feeThe strength of the heavy hand;But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken,And hands grow soft and small,Year upon year the day draws nearOf the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear,That shall make amends for all.
The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea,
And the Lies of Men the land;
And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee
The strength of the heavy hand;
But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken,
And hands grow soft and small,
Year upon year the day draws near
Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear,
That shall make amends for all.
When the Armageddon sunrise breaksOn the iron-clads' smoking line,When the last dawn lights on that last of fightsWhere the strength of man shall shine,One great grim day of the world at play,With bugle and tuck of drum,While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet,Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat,Then—let the Millennium come!
When the Armageddon sunrise breaks
On the iron-clads' smoking line,
When the last dawn lights on that last of fights
Where the strength of man shall shine,
One great grim day of the world at play,
With bugle and tuck of drum,
While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet,
Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat,
Then—let the Millennium come!