REGULUS

WEare drifting back from the End of Hell to the home we long for so,—Back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men;Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow—That we knew too well in the land of Cain, the guarded prisoners' den.We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago,And there we wait in the Truce of God for the hand of Death to fall,Waiting aside in hovel or hall—where only neighbours know—The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.Is it nothing to you that pass us by—hurrying on your way,Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay—With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng.Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand,And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land,And all Eternity waits for you—what need of rest till then?We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust,But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust,The curse of the captive men be yours—the day when you forget—!

WEare drifting back from the End of Hell to the home we long for so,—

Back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men;

Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow—

That we knew too well in the land of Cain, the guarded prisoners' den.

We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago,And there we wait in the Truce of God for the hand of Death to fall,Waiting aside in hovel or hall—where only neighbours know—The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.

We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago,

And there we wait in the Truce of God for the hand of Death to fall,

Waiting aside in hovel or hall—where only neighbours know—

The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.

Is it nothing to you that pass us by—hurrying on your way,Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay—With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng.

Is it nothing to you that pass us by—hurrying on your way,

Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?

Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay—

With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng.

Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand,And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land,And all Eternity waits for you—what need of rest till then?

Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand,

And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.

The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land,

And all Eternity waits for you—what need of rest till then?

We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust,But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust,The curse of the captive men be yours—the day when you forget—!

We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust,

But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.

If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust,

The curse of the captive men be yours—the day when you forget—!

(Written after reading the story of that name in 'A Diversity of Creatures' by Kipling.)

OUT to the wharf where the long ship lay with her beak to the open sea,He went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of Spain;Clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea:"Hero—Pride of the Roman State! Turn again at the Harbour-Gate,Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again."Out on the wharf he walked from those—that wailed and wept to see him go;And hand in his she walked with him—her royal head on high.And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke—her hand in his and her eyes aglow:"Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;"Pass to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the Gods you left for Earth;Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.A God, the man that leaves me now—but ah! a lover that thought me worth—The whispered word of a husband true—I thank the Gods that I hold from youThe right that fair Eurydice knew—the love of a man Divine."

OUT to the wharf where the long ship lay with her beak to the open sea,

He went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of Spain;

Clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea:

"Hero—Pride of the Roman State! Turn again at the Harbour-Gate,

Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again."

Out on the wharf he walked from those—that wailed and wept to see him go;And hand in his she walked with him—her royal head on high.And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke—her hand in his and her eyes aglow:"Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;

Out on the wharf he walked from those—that wailed and wept to see him go;

And hand in his she walked with him—her royal head on high.

And the crowd was still as she turned and spoke—her hand in his and her eyes aglow:

"Here where the tide and Tiber foam, I turn from you to an empty home.

But alone of women of wailing Rome I have no tears to dry;

"Pass to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the Gods you left for Earth;Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.A God, the man that leaves me now—but ah! a lover that thought me worth—The whispered word of a husband true—I thank the Gods that I hold from youThe right that fair Eurydice knew—the love of a man Divine."

"Pass to the sea and the Death beyond to the home of the Gods you left for Earth;

Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine.

A God, the man that leaves me now—but ah! a lover that thought me worth—

The whispered word of a husband true—I thank the Gods that I hold from you

The right that fair Eurydice knew—the love of a man Divine."

THE wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay,Died away as the dark closed down,Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the dayIn the Fortress-Town.In the silence of the night as the big ships swungTo the buoys as the flood-tide made,Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rungBy a foemen's blade.Far above the masts where the wireless showed,Traced out against a star-lit sky,A voice called down from the Whist-hound's roadWhere the clouds went by—Listen down below—In the High Sea Fleet,For a signal that was shouted up to meBy the sailors that I left on the old, old beat,Far out in the cold North Sea.They shouted up to me as the glass went down,And they ducked to the North-West spray,"Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town,And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North,And we'll wait till the seas run dry—Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth,And the twelve-inch shells go by."We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubtThey are longing for the day we'll meet.But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out,All the better for the English Fleet."For when we see 'em sinking—(they'll be fighting to the last,And for those that are lost we'll grieve,)We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast—On arrival at the Base—Long Leave!"

THE wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay,Died away as the dark closed down,Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the dayIn the Fortress-Town.

THE wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay,

Died away as the dark closed down,

Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the day

In the Fortress-Town.

In the silence of the night as the big ships swungTo the buoys as the flood-tide made,Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rungBy a foemen's blade.

In the silence of the night as the big ships swung

To the buoys as the flood-tide made,

Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rung

By a foemen's blade.

Far above the masts where the wireless showed,Traced out against a star-lit sky,A voice called down from the Whist-hound's roadWhere the clouds went by—

Far above the masts where the wireless showed,

Traced out against a star-lit sky,

A voice called down from the Whist-hound's road

Where the clouds went by—

Listen down below—In the High Sea Fleet,For a signal that was shouted up to meBy the sailors that I left on the old, old beat,Far out in the cold North Sea.

Listen down below—In the High Sea Fleet,

For a signal that was shouted up to me

By the sailors that I left on the old, old beat,

Far out in the cold North Sea.

They shouted up to me as the glass went down,And they ducked to the North-West spray,"Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town,And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?

They shouted up to me as the glass went down,

And they ducked to the North-West spray,

"Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town,

And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay?

"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North,And we'll wait till the seas run dry—Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth,And the twelve-inch shells go by.

"Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North,

And we'll wait till the seas run dry—

Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth,

And the twelve-inch shells go by.

"We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubtThey are longing for the day we'll meet.But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out,All the better for the English Fleet.

"We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubt

They are longing for the day we'll meet.

But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out,

All the better for the English Fleet.

"For when we see 'em sinking—(they'll be fighting to the last,And for those that are lost we'll grieve,)We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast—On arrival at the Base—Long Leave!"

"For when we see 'em sinking—(they'll be fighting to the last,

And for those that are lost we'll grieve,)

We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast—

On arrival at the Base—Long Leave!"

"THEGerman Fleet is coming,"TheSunday papers say,"And the shell will soon be hummingWhen they fix upon the Day."All the Sunday experts write,Working very late at night—"They are coming—they'll be on you any day."Though it's very cheery reading,And we hear it ev'ry week;Yet the Hun is still unheeding,And is just as far to seek.And it seems so unavailingThey should write and tell us so—If the Hun is shortly sailing,Couldn'tsome onelet him know?We are ready, and we're waiting,And we know they're going to fight;And we're just as good at hatingAs the Brainy Ones that write.But they talk of InformationThey have gathered unbeknown—That "the mighty German NationIs a mass of skin and bone."And they take their affidavyThat a fight is due at sea:Dammit—tell the German Navy,What's the use of telling me?

"THEGerman Fleet is coming,"

TheSunday papers say,

"And the shell will soon be humming

When they fix upon the Day."

All the Sunday experts write,

Working very late at night—

"They are coming—they'll be on you any day."

Though it's very cheery reading,And we hear it ev'ry week;Yet the Hun is still unheeding,And is just as far to seek.And it seems so unavailingThey should write and tell us so—If the Hun is shortly sailing,Couldn'tsome onelet him know?

Though it's very cheery reading,

And we hear it ev'ry week;

Yet the Hun is still unheeding,

And is just as far to seek.

And it seems so unavailing

They should write and tell us so—

If the Hun is shortly sailing,

Couldn'tsome onelet him know?

We are ready, and we're waiting,And we know they're going to fight;And we're just as good at hatingAs the Brainy Ones that write.But they talk of InformationThey have gathered unbeknown—That "the mighty German NationIs a mass of skin and bone."And they take their affidavyThat a fight is due at sea:Dammit—tell the German Navy,What's the use of telling me?

We are ready, and we're waiting,

And we know they're going to fight;

And we're just as good at hating

As the Brainy Ones that write.

But they talk of Information

They have gathered unbeknown—

That "the mighty German Nation

Is a mass of skin and bone."

And they take their affidavy

That a fight is due at sea:

Dammit—tell the German Navy,

What's the use of telling me?

ALL our fighting brothers are away across the foam,Hats off to the Englishman!Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home,Make a lot of money while you can!We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the RaceWith the Bulldog Grip they know;Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace?You'll be taken for a Yank—Go slow!All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth;Three cheers for the lads in blue!An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth—But a half-day's work will do.The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with prideAs we live for England's fame;To save us for posterity was why they went and died—Oh! The War is a real fine game!Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile,Let the line stand fast in the West;Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style,While the Bulldog Boys have a rest.What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win;We can stand to the strain all right.What about another rise? Send the notice in—Just to show how the Bulldogs fight.Chorus! all together—We're the finest race of all,So beware of the English Blade;Now the fighting men are gone—why, however many fall,All the more for the lads that stayed.

ALL our fighting brothers are away across the foam,Hats off to the Englishman!Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home,Make a lot of money while you can!

ALL our fighting brothers are away across the foam,

Hats off to the Englishman!

Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home,

Make a lot of money while you can!

We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the RaceWith the Bulldog Grip they know;Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace?You'll be taken for a Yank—Go slow!

We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the Race

With the Bulldog Grip they know;

Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace?

You'll be taken for a Yank—Go slow!

All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth;Three cheers for the lads in blue!An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth—But a half-day's work will do.

All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth;

Three cheers for the lads in blue!

An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth—

But a half-day's work will do.

The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with prideAs we live for England's fame;To save us for posterity was why they went and died—Oh! The War is a real fine game!

The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with pride

As we live for England's fame;

To save us for posterity was why they went and died—

Oh! The War is a real fine game!

Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile,Let the line stand fast in the West;Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style,While the Bulldog Boys have a rest.

Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile,

Let the line stand fast in the West;

Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style,

While the Bulldog Boys have a rest.

What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win;We can stand to the strain all right.What about another rise? Send the notice in—Just to show how the Bulldogs fight.

What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win;

We can stand to the strain all right.

What about another rise? Send the notice in—

Just to show how the Bulldogs fight.

Chorus! all together—We're the finest race of all,So beware of the English Blade;Now the fighting men are gone—why, however many fall,All the more for the lads that stayed.

Chorus! all together—We're the finest race of all,

So beware of the English Blade;

Now the fighting men are gone—why, however many fall,

All the more for the lads that stayed.

(1916).

TOO proud to fight? I'm not so sure—our skipper now and thenHas lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men,And other nation's submarines, when cruising round the Bight;And 'seems to me—when they begin—the Yankee chaps can fight.Why, if I was in the army (which I ain't—and no regrets)And had my pick of Generals—from London's latest pets,To Hannibal and Wellington—to follow whom I chose,I wouldn't think about it long—I'd give the job to thoseWho fought across a continent for three long years and more(I bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-fourOf Jackson, Sherman, Lee and Grant—"The Yanks can only shout"—That lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out);But what the Skipper said was this; "There's only been but oneSuccessful submarine attack before this war begun,And it wasn't on a liner on the easy German plan,But on a well-found man-of-war, and Dixon was the manWho showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you,And I'd like to keep the standard up of Dixon and his crew,For they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou',But a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bowA spar torpedo like a mine, and they and Dixon knewThat if they sank the enemy they'd sink theDavidtoo.She'd drowned a crew or two before—they dredged her up again,And manned and pushed her off to sea.—My oath, it's pretty plainThey had some guts to give away, that tried another tripIn a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship;And they carried out a good attack, and did it very well.As a model for the future, why, it beats the books to Hell,A tradition for the U.S.A., and, yes—for England too;For they were men with English names, and kin to me and you,And I'd like to claim an ancestor with Dixon when he diedAt the bottom of the river at theHousatonic'sside."

TOO proud to fight? I'm not so sure—our skipper now and then

Has lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men,

And other nation's submarines, when cruising round the Bight;

And 'seems to me—when they begin—the Yankee chaps can fight.

Why, if I was in the army (which I ain't—and no regrets)

And had my pick of Generals—from London's latest pets,

To Hannibal and Wellington—to follow whom I chose,

I wouldn't think about it long—I'd give the job to those

Who fought across a continent for three long years and more

(I bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-four

Of Jackson, Sherman, Lee and Grant—"The Yanks can only shout"—

That lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out);

But what the Skipper said was this; "There's only been but one

Successful submarine attack before this war begun,

And it wasn't on a liner on the easy German plan,

But on a well-found man-of-war, and Dixon was the man

Who showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you,

And I'd like to keep the standard up of Dixon and his crew,

For they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou',

But a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bow

A spar torpedo like a mine, and they and Dixon knew

That if they sank the enemy they'd sink theDavidtoo.

She'd drowned a crew or two before—they dredged her up again,

And manned and pushed her off to sea.—My oath, it's pretty plain

They had some guts to give away, that tried another trip

In a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship;

And they carried out a good attack, and did it very well.

As a model for the future, why, it beats the books to Hell,

A tradition for the U.S.A., and, yes—for England too;

For they were men with English names, and kin to me and you,

And I'd like to claim an ancestor with Dixon when he died

At the bottom of the river at theHousatonic'sside."

OVER the low Virginian farms the smoke of the ev'ning rose and flowed,The scent of cedar hung in the air—the scent of burning sap,And up the valley the murmur died, the sound of feet on a dusty road—A clatter and ring of horse and guns that led to Ashby's Gap.And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream,As the Massanutton hills grew black—"Look your last, Shenandoah—where the bayonets gleam,On your man who is never coming back."Ah! Manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steelThat you lit with the red fires' glow,When the Grey men roared at an all-night meal,Look again as the Grey men go."He is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes,Look your last, Shenandoah, as he ridesTo a death beyond the Gap where the dust-clouds rise,O'er the road that the greenwood hides."He will send a message back as the dark clouds lower,And you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze,Let us pass across the river (can you hear me, Shenandoah?)To a rest in the shadow of the trees."

OVER the low Virginian farms the smoke of the ev'ning rose and flowed,

The scent of cedar hung in the air—the scent of burning sap,

And up the valley the murmur died, the sound of feet on a dusty road—

A clatter and ring of horse and guns that led to Ashby's Gap.

And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream,As the Massanutton hills grew black—"Look your last, Shenandoah—where the bayonets gleam,On your man who is never coming back.

And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream,

As the Massanutton hills grew black—

"Look your last, Shenandoah—where the bayonets gleam,

On your man who is never coming back.

"Ah! Manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steelThat you lit with the red fires' glow,When the Grey men roared at an all-night meal,Look again as the Grey men go.

"Ah! Manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steel

That you lit with the red fires' glow,

When the Grey men roared at an all-night meal,

Look again as the Grey men go.

"He is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes,Look your last, Shenandoah, as he ridesTo a death beyond the Gap where the dust-clouds rise,O'er the road that the greenwood hides.

"He is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes,

Look your last, Shenandoah, as he rides

To a death beyond the Gap where the dust-clouds rise,

O'er the road that the greenwood hides.

"He will send a message back as the dark clouds lower,And you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze,Let us pass across the river (can you hear me, Shenandoah?)To a rest in the shadow of the trees."

"He will send a message back as the dark clouds lower,

And you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze,

Let us pass across the river (can you hear me, Shenandoah?)

To a rest in the shadow of the trees."

"... And will remain on your Patrol till the 8th December...."—(Extract from Orders.)

THE North-East Wind came armed and shod from the ice-locked Baltic shore,The seas rose up in the track he made, and the rollers raced before;He sprang on the Wilhelmshaven ships that reeled across the tide."Do you cross the sea to-night with me?" the cold North-Easter cried—Along the lines of anchored craft the Admiral's answer flashed,And loud the proud North-Easter laughed as the second anchors splashed."By God! you're right—you German men, with a three-day gale to blow,It is better to wait by your harbour gate than follow where I go!"Over the Bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered:"I rule—I rule the Northern waste—I speak, and the seas are cleared;You nations all whose harbours ring the edge of my Northern sea,At peace or war, when you hear my voice you shall know no Lord but me."Then into the wind in a cloud of foam and sheets of rattling spray,Head to the bleak and breaking seas in dingy black and grey,Taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy greenCame out to her two-year-old patrol—an English submarine.The voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white:"You'll know my power, you English craft, before you make the Bight;I rule—I rule this Northern Sea, that I raise and break to foam.Whom do you call your Overlord that dares me in my home?"Over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray,She showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay,Clanging her answer up the blast that made her wireless sing:"I serve the Lord of the Seven Seas. Ha! Splendour of God—the King!!"Twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang,Over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang;Then down she fell till the waters rose to meet her straining rails—"I serve my King, who sends me here to meet your winter gales."(Rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through,While high above her reeling bridge their shattered remnants flew);"If you blow the stars from the sky to-night, your boast in your teeth I'll fling,I am your master—Overlord, and—Dog of the English King!"

THE North-East Wind came armed and shod from the ice-locked Baltic shore,

The seas rose up in the track he made, and the rollers raced before;

He sprang on the Wilhelmshaven ships that reeled across the tide.

"Do you cross the sea to-night with me?" the cold North-Easter cried—

Along the lines of anchored craft the Admiral's answer flashed,

And loud the proud North-Easter laughed as the second anchors splashed.

"By God! you're right—you German men, with a three-day gale to blow,

It is better to wait by your harbour gate than follow where I go!"

Over the Bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered:"I rule—I rule the Northern waste—I speak, and the seas are cleared;You nations all whose harbours ring the edge of my Northern sea,At peace or war, when you hear my voice you shall know no Lord but me."Then into the wind in a cloud of foam and sheets of rattling spray,Head to the bleak and breaking seas in dingy black and grey,Taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy greenCame out to her two-year-old patrol—an English submarine.The voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white:"You'll know my power, you English craft, before you make the Bight;I rule—I rule this Northern Sea, that I raise and break to foam.Whom do you call your Overlord that dares me in my home?"Over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray,She showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay,Clanging her answer up the blast that made her wireless sing:"I serve the Lord of the Seven Seas. Ha! Splendour of God—the King!!"

Over the Bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered:

"I rule—I rule the Northern waste—I speak, and the seas are cleared;

You nations all whose harbours ring the edge of my Northern sea,

At peace or war, when you hear my voice you shall know no Lord but me."

Then into the wind in a cloud of foam and sheets of rattling spray,

Head to the bleak and breaking seas in dingy black and grey,

Taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy green

Came out to her two-year-old patrol—an English submarine.

The voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white:

"You'll know my power, you English craft, before you make the Bight;

I rule—I rule this Northern Sea, that I raise and break to foam.

Whom do you call your Overlord that dares me in my home?"

Over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray,

She showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay,

Clanging her answer up the blast that made her wireless sing:

"I serve the Lord of the Seven Seas. Ha! Splendour of God—the King!!"

Twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang,Over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang;Then down she fell till the waters rose to meet her straining rails—"I serve my King, who sends me here to meet your winter gales."(Rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through,While high above her reeling bridge their shattered remnants flew);"If you blow the stars from the sky to-night, your boast in your teeth I'll fling,I am your master—Overlord, and—Dog of the English King!"

Twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang,

Over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang;

Then down she fell till the waters rose to meet her straining rails—

"I serve my King, who sends me here to meet your winter gales."

(Rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through,

While high above her reeling bridge their shattered remnants flew);

"If you blow the stars from the sky to-night, your boast in your teeth I'll fling,

I am your master—Overlord, and—Dog of the English King!"

(Late of H.M.S.Maidstone.)

INthe Diving-room, where theO.O.D.[6]his weary vigil keeps,Battered and scarred with years of strife behind the door she sleeps,Fighting her battles o'er again as ancient warriors may,With bristling fur as she dreams anew of many a noble fray.Savage and Silent,Swift in the onslaughtAs the great eagleStoops to the victim;Guard of the Gangway,Dreadful—prolific,Mother of hundreds,Terrier-Strafer,Messenger-biter.Hail to the guard of theMaidstone'sGangway—Skoal!Sing of the day the air was full of words like "Alabaster,"When she ate a piece of the Corporal's hand and bit the Quartermaster;The day she fought with an Airedale dog and drove him back to shore—For the sake of her sixty little ones, she fought—and had some more.Faithful and loyal,Guard of the Gangway,Turning the dogs back—Yelping and howling.Biting her masters—Corporals—any oneFiercely domestic,Easily queen of—Pugnacious obstetrics—Motherly War.Hail to the terror and pride of theMaidstone—Skoal!!Sing of the day she won the fray with a new "Pandora" dog,And the Quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log:"At 10P.M.we dowsed our pipes and drew theNettle'sfires,At 10.15 six births aboard—that blinkin' cat of ours!"

INthe Diving-room, where theO.O.D.[6]his weary vigil keeps,

Battered and scarred with years of strife behind the door she sleeps,

Fighting her battles o'er again as ancient warriors may,

With bristling fur as she dreams anew of many a noble fray.

Savage and Silent,

Swift in the onslaught

As the great eagle

Stoops to the victim;

Guard of the Gangway,

Dreadful—prolific,

Mother of hundreds,

Terrier-Strafer,

Messenger-biter.

Hail to the guard of theMaidstone'sGangway—Skoal!

Sing of the day the air was full of words like "Alabaster,"When she ate a piece of the Corporal's hand and bit the Quartermaster;The day she fought with an Airedale dog and drove him back to shore—For the sake of her sixty little ones, she fought—and had some more.Faithful and loyal,Guard of the Gangway,Turning the dogs back—Yelping and howling.Biting her masters—Corporals—any oneFiercely domestic,Easily queen of—Pugnacious obstetrics—Motherly War.Hail to the terror and pride of theMaidstone—Skoal!!

Sing of the day the air was full of words like "Alabaster,"

When she ate a piece of the Corporal's hand and bit the Quartermaster;

The day she fought with an Airedale dog and drove him back to shore—

For the sake of her sixty little ones, she fought—and had some more.

Faithful and loyal,

Guard of the Gangway,

Turning the dogs back—

Yelping and howling.

Biting her masters—

Corporals—any one

Fiercely domestic,

Easily queen of—

Pugnacious obstetrics—

Motherly War.

Hail to the terror and pride of theMaidstone—Skoal!!

Sing of the day she won the fray with a new "Pandora" dog,And the Quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log:"At 10P.M.we dowsed our pipes and drew theNettle'sfires,At 10.15 six births aboard—that blinkin' cat of ours!"

Sing of the day she won the fray with a new "Pandora" dog,

And the Quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log:

"At 10P.M.we dowsed our pipes and drew theNettle'sfires,

At 10.15 six births aboard—that blinkin' cat of ours!"

OUR brothers of the landward sideAre bound by Church and stall,By Councils Œcumenical,By Gothic arches tall;But we who know the cold grey sea,The salt and flying spray,We praise the Lord in our fathers' way,In the simple faith of the sea we pray,To the God that the winds and waves obeyWho sailed on Galilee.We pray as the Flag-Lieutenant prayed,At St Vincent's cabin door(Twenty sail of the line in view—South-West by South they bore):"O Lord of Hosts, I praise Thee now,And bow before Thy might,Who has given us fingers and hands to fight,And twenty ships of the line in sight;Thou knewest, O Lord, and placed them right—To leeward, on the bow."

OUR brothers of the landward side

Are bound by Church and stall,

By Councils Œcumenical,

By Gothic arches tall;

But we who know the cold grey sea,

The salt and flying spray,

We praise the Lord in our fathers' way,

In the simple faith of the sea we pray,

To the God that the winds and waves obey

Who sailed on Galilee.

We pray as the Flag-Lieutenant prayed,

At St Vincent's cabin door

(Twenty sail of the line in view—

South-West by South they bore):

"O Lord of Hosts, I praise Thee now,

And bow before Thy might,

Who has given us fingers and hands to fight,

And twenty ships of the line in sight;

Thou knewest, O Lord, and placed them right—

To leeward, on the bow."

THAT far-off day when Peace is signed (and all the papers say—"A most important by-election starts at Kew to-day;We urge our readers one and all to loyally supportThe Independent Candidate—Count Katzenjammerdordt")Will change a lot of little things—perhaps we'll get some leave,And hear a yarn of extra pay, which no one will believe;The salvage ships will hurry out, two thousand wrecks to find,The monuments to Kultur that the Huns have left behind.We'll watch the sweepers put to sea ten million mines to seek,And—Patrol Flotilla Exercise will start within a week;Someone Big will say to Someone: "Time for work and time for play,(Rub his hands together briskly) We'll commence the work to-day;They have had their fun and fighting, and they must be getting slack,Stop all leave and start manœuvres—for the good old times are back."Then destroyers and torpedo-boats and submarines and oilersWill receive a little notice headed "Maintenance of Boilers,""To economise in fuel while the ships are out at seaEach pound of steam will count as two, and every knot as three."We'll have the old manœuvre Rules to show us what to do."I rose within two thousand yards and have torpedoed you,"My counter-claim is obvious—to port you must retire,""I sank you with a Maxim gun just as you rose to fire."Ships will carry navigation lights—"Precautionary Measure,""An infringement of this solemn rule incurs My Lords' Displeasure."Yes, the after-war manœuvres will be fearful to behold,Not been held since nineteen—("half a minute, surely you've been told"),Hush, you'll get me into trouble ("it was eighteen months ago—And the whole Grand Fleet was in it—I was there, I ought to know:Red Fleet to start from Helgoland and Blue from Udsire Light,To meet in sixty-twenty North and have a morning fight.No ship should cross a line between the Jahde and Amrum Bank,But should a German flag be seen (unless of junior rank),No captain can do very wrong who indicates by guns—We won't have our manœuvres spoilt by interfering Huns.Perhaps the wording isn't right, perhaps it isn't true,But we've got to have manœuvres when there's nothing else to do.")And when the Censor fades away and leaves the presses clearFor all the "Truths about the War," by "One who has no fear,"And all the "Contract Scandals," by "A Clerk behind the Door,"The book I want to see in print is "Humours of the War,"Though I fear the other Censor (Morals, Cinemas, and Vice)Would expurgate the best of them as being hardly nice;Still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filledWith the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed,With a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave,When a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "Bluecher's" grave,Who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry,Read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye,And said: "A Westo ship, I think—I guess my luck is in,I'm sick of German substitutes—now for some Plymouth gin."And a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine,Which was diving through the waters where the sweepers hadn't been,And who heard a muffled bumping noise that passed along the side—A noise that many men have heard an instant ere they died;And broke the silence following the last appalling thudWith "Good old ruddy Kaiser! there's another bloomin' dud!"There's a story too of Jutland, or perhaps another show,When the cruisers and destroyers had a meeting with the foe;And as the range was closing, and they waited for the word,From a sailor at an after-gun the following was heard:"It isn'tthatthat turns me up—'e's not the only one"—But then the roar of ranging guns—the action had begun—And for twenty awful minutes there was undiluted hell,With flame and steam and cordite smoke and high-explosive shell.Then as the bugle-call rang out, the savage fire to check,The loading numbers wiped their brows and looked around the deck:"As I was saying," came the voice, "before this row began,I think 'e should 've married 'er—if 'e'd bin 'alf a man."

THAT far-off day when Peace is signed (and all the papers say—

"A most important by-election starts at Kew to-day;

We urge our readers one and all to loyally support

The Independent Candidate—Count Katzenjammerdordt")

Will change a lot of little things—perhaps we'll get some leave,

And hear a yarn of extra pay, which no one will believe;

The salvage ships will hurry out, two thousand wrecks to find,

The monuments to Kultur that the Huns have left behind.

We'll watch the sweepers put to sea ten million mines to seek,

And—Patrol Flotilla Exercise will start within a week;

Someone Big will say to Someone: "Time for work and time for play,

(Rub his hands together briskly) We'll commence the work to-day;

They have had their fun and fighting, and they must be getting slack,

Stop all leave and start manœuvres—for the good old times are back."

Then destroyers and torpedo-boats and submarines and oilers

Will receive a little notice headed "Maintenance of Boilers,"

"To economise in fuel while the ships are out at sea

Each pound of steam will count as two, and every knot as three."

We'll have the old manœuvre Rules to show us what to do.

"I rose within two thousand yards and have torpedoed you,"

My counter-claim is obvious—to port you must retire,"

"I sank you with a Maxim gun just as you rose to fire."

Ships will carry navigation lights—"Precautionary Measure,"

"An infringement of this solemn rule incurs My Lords' Displeasure."

Yes, the after-war manœuvres will be fearful to behold,

Not been held since nineteen—("half a minute, surely you've been told"),

Hush, you'll get me into trouble ("it was eighteen months ago—

And the whole Grand Fleet was in it—I was there, I ought to know:

Red Fleet to start from Helgoland and Blue from Udsire Light,

To meet in sixty-twenty North and have a morning fight.

No ship should cross a line between the Jahde and Amrum Bank,

But should a German flag be seen (unless of junior rank),

No captain can do very wrong who indicates by guns—

We won't have our manœuvres spoilt by interfering Huns.

Perhaps the wording isn't right, perhaps it isn't true,

But we've got to have manœuvres when there's nothing else to do.")

And when the Censor fades away and leaves the presses clear

For all the "Truths about the War," by "One who has no fear,"

And all the "Contract Scandals," by "A Clerk behind the Door,"

The book I want to see in print is "Humours of the War,"

Though I fear the other Censor (Morals, Cinemas, and Vice)

Would expurgate the best of them as being hardly nice;

Still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filled

With the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed,

With a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave,

When a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "Bluecher's" grave,

Who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry,

Read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye,

And said: "A Westo ship, I think—I guess my luck is in,

I'm sick of German substitutes—now for some Plymouth gin."

And a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine,

Which was diving through the waters where the sweepers hadn't been,

And who heard a muffled bumping noise that passed along the side—

A noise that many men have heard an instant ere they died;

And broke the silence following the last appalling thud

With "Good old ruddy Kaiser! there's another bloomin' dud!"

There's a story too of Jutland, or perhaps another show,

When the cruisers and destroyers had a meeting with the foe;

And as the range was closing, and they waited for the word,

From a sailor at an after-gun the following was heard:

"It isn'tthatthat turns me up—'e's not the only one"—

But then the roar of ranging guns—the action had begun—

And for twenty awful minutes there was undiluted hell,

With flame and steam and cordite smoke and high-explosive shell.

Then as the bugle-call rang out, the savage fire to check,

The loading numbers wiped their brows and looked around the deck:

"As I was saying," came the voice, "before this row began,

I think 'e should 've married 'er—if 'e'd bin 'alf a man."

We sailed from the sand-isles,In Sea Hawk and Dragon,Over the White Water,War-ready all of us.Soon came the sea-mist,Soft was the wind then,Lay there the long-ships,Lifting and falling.Then cried the Captain:"Cold is the sea-fog,Weary is waiting-time,Wet are the byrnies;Burnish the breastplates,Broadswords and axes!Hand we the horns round,Hail to the Dragon!"OUR gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian IslesKept station where we now patrol so many weary miles:There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then,They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men."And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they sawFrom Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore.We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize,And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes;But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree:It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea,For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold,The sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled.Each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of whiteThe prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight;And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skinWas passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in;Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew,And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you;Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line,We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine.The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum,And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum:"D'y 'ear those blank propellers, Bill—the blinking female dog—That's Tirpitz in the 'Indenburg gone past us in the fog!"

We sailed from the sand-isles,

In Sea Hawk and Dragon,

Over the White Water,

War-ready all of us.

Soon came the sea-mist,

Soft was the wind then,

Lay there the long-ships,

Lifting and falling.

Then cried the Captain:

"Cold is the sea-fog,

Weary is waiting-time,

Wet are the byrnies;

Burnish the breastplates,

Broadswords and axes!

Hand we the horns round,

Hail to the Dragon!"

OUR gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian IslesKept station where we now patrol so many weary miles:There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then,They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men."And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they sawFrom Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore.We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize,And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes;But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree:It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea,For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold,The sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled.Each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of whiteThe prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight;And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skinWas passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in;Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew,And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you;Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line,We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine.The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum,And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum:"D'y 'ear those blank propellers, Bill—the blinking female dog—That's Tirpitz in the 'Indenburg gone past us in the fog!"

OUR gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian Isles

Kept station where we now patrol so many weary miles:

There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then,

They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men."

And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they saw

From Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore.

We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize,

And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes;

But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree:

It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea,

For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold,

The sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled.

Each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of white

The prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight;

And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skin

Was passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in;

Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew,

And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you;

Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line,

We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine.

The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum,

And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum:

"D'y 'ear those blank propellers, Bill—the blinking female dog—

That's Tirpitz in the 'Indenburg gone past us in the fog!"

TWO o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow,But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;And here it comes—she'll be much too late—yes, damn it, she's out of tune—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;Thenrah-rah-rahon a rising note—my oath, they're racing now—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past,And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mastStand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one—Blast—!Look-out, you fool. Hang on!In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew—"I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you,And you'd better be quick and lift again—she won't, she's diving through"—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!The Lord be thanked, it's my relief—Cheer up, old sport, it's clean;No, just enough to wash your face—you could hardly call it green;A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

TWO o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow,

But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!

So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go—

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;And here it comes—she'll be much too late—yes, damn it, she's out of tune—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,

Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;

And here it comes—she'll be much too late—yes, damn it, she's out of tune—

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;Thenrah-rah-rahon a rising note—my oath, they're racing now—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,

And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;

Thenrah-rah-rahon a rising note—my oath, they're racing now—

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past,And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mastStand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one—Blast—!Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past,

And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast

Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one—Blast—!

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew—"I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you,And you'd better be quick and lift again—she won't, she's diving through"—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew—

"I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you,

And you'd better be quick and lift again—she won't, she's diving through"—

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The Lord be thanked, it's my relief—Cheer up, old sport, it's clean;No, just enough to wash your face—you could hardly call it green;A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine—Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

The Lord be thanked, it's my relief—Cheer up, old sport, it's clean;

No, just enough to wash your face—you could hardly call it green;

A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine—

Look-out, you fool. Hang on!

Iwish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea—I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me;There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz,But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits.I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron CrossBy strafing sail and cargo ships—but don't you feel the lossOf the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war,And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar?When you know that it's a case of "May the fish run good and true,"For if they don't it's ten to one it's R.I.P. for you?Although perhaps you can't be blamed—your motives may be pure—You're rather new to submarines—in fact, an amateur;But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done,And leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother Hun.You wouldn't like the job, my lad—the motors turning slow,You wouldn't like the winter-time—storm and wind and snow;You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz—unless your faith is strong—Up and down on the long patrol—How long, O Lord, how long?We don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there,Up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the E-boat's prayer:"Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky,And help our eyes at the periscope as the High Sea Fleet goes by."

Iwish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea—

I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me;

There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz,

But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits.

I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron Cross

By strafing sail and cargo ships—but don't you feel the loss

Of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war,

And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar?

When you know that it's a case of "May the fish run good and true,"

For if they don't it's ten to one it's R.I.P. for you?

Although perhaps you can't be blamed—your motives may be pure—

You're rather new to submarines—in fact, an amateur;

But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done,

And leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother Hun.

You wouldn't like the job, my lad—the motors turning slow,

You wouldn't like the winter-time—storm and wind and snow;

You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz—unless your faith is strong—

Up and down on the long patrol—How long, O Lord, how long?

We don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there,

Up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the E-boat's prayer:

"Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky,

And help our eyes at the periscope as the High Sea Fleet goes by."

LAND of sorrow—war and weeping,Granite rock and falling snow,Where Romance is never sleeping,Where the fires of freedom glow.Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost,Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame;From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the costEre they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name?While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul,The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall—From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North—"Amboglanna has sent for aid,For the heather is bright with targe and bladeAway to the silvery Forth."When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foeThat filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below,When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight—"Shoulder to shoulder around the King,Hear the Claymore whistle and singOur funeral song to-night."The English knew it at Prestonpans—the wall against their backs,When down the slope the clansmen came with the long Lochaber axe,The dew on the grass and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,—Pipers playing on either flank—"Steady the volleys, the leading rank!"The fires were blazing then.And the spark has gone to Flanders, as the Prussian butchers know,For they learnt at Loos and Hulluch from the Caledonian swordThe prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago—"From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord."

LAND of sorrow—war and weeping,Granite rock and falling snow,Where Romance is never sleeping,Where the fires of freedom glow.

LAND of sorrow—war and weeping,

Granite rock and falling snow,

Where Romance is never sleeping,

Where the fires of freedom glow.

Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost,Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame;From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the costEre they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name?

Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost,

Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame;

From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost

Ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name?

While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul,The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall—From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North—"Amboglanna has sent for aid,For the heather is bright with targe and bladeAway to the silvery Forth."

While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul,

The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall—

From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North—

"Amboglanna has sent for aid,

For the heather is bright with targe and blade

Away to the silvery Forth."

When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foeThat filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below,When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight—"Shoulder to shoulder around the King,Hear the Claymore whistle and singOur funeral song to-night."

When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe

That filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below,

When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight—

"Shoulder to shoulder around the King,

Hear the Claymore whistle and sing

Our funeral song to-night."

The English knew it at Prestonpans—the wall against their backs,When down the slope the clansmen came with the long Lochaber axe,The dew on the grass and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,—Pipers playing on either flank—"Steady the volleys, the leading rank!"The fires were blazing then.

The English knew it at Prestonpans—the wall against their backs,

When down the slope the clansmen came with the long Lochaber axe,

The dew on the grass and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,—

Pipers playing on either flank—

"Steady the volleys, the leading rank!"

The fires were blazing then.

And the spark has gone to Flanders, as the Prussian butchers know,For they learnt at Loos and Hulluch from the Caledonian swordThe prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago—"From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord."

And the spark has gone to Flanders, as the Prussian butchers know,

For they learnt at Loos and Hulluch from the Caledonian sword

The prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago—

"From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord."

THEY called across to Peter at the changing of the Guard,At the red-gold Doors that the Angels keep,—"Send us help to the Portal, for they press upon us hard,They are straining at the Gate, many deep."Then Peter rose and went to the wicket by the Wall,Where the Starlight flashed upon the crowd;And he saw a mighty wave from the Greatest Gale of allBreak beneath him with a roar, swelling loud—"Let us in! Let us in! We have left a load of sinOn the battlefield that flashes far below.From the trenches or the sea there's a pass for such as we,For we died with our faces to the foe."We haven't any creed, for we never felt the need,And our morals are as ragged as can be;But we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay,And we're coming to you clean, as you can see."Then Peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips,And he answered, "Ye are fighters, as I knowBy your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships,And the wounds that on your bodies glisten so."And he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim,And his glance was all-embracing—unafraid;And he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him,All a-level as a new-forged blade."Ye are savage men and rough—from the fo'c'sle and the tent;Ye have put High Heaven to alarm;But I see it written clear by the road ye went,That ye held by the Fifteenth Psalm."And they shouted in return, "'Tis a thing we've never read,But you passed our friends insideThat won to the end of the road we treadLong ago when the Mons Men died.""Let us in! Let us in! We have fallen for the Right,And the Crown that we listed to win,That we earned by the Somme or the waters of the Bight;You're a fighting man yourself—Let us in!"Then Peter gave a sign and the Gates flung wideTo the sound of a bugle-call:"Pass the fighting men to the ranks inside,Who came from the earth or the cold grey tide,With their heads held high and a soldiers stride,To a Friend in the Judgment Hall."

THEY called across to Peter at the changing of the Guard,

At the red-gold Doors that the Angels keep,—

"Send us help to the Portal, for they press upon us hard,

They are straining at the Gate, many deep."

Then Peter rose and went to the wicket by the Wall,Where the Starlight flashed upon the crowd;And he saw a mighty wave from the Greatest Gale of allBreak beneath him with a roar, swelling loud—

Then Peter rose and went to the wicket by the Wall,

Where the Starlight flashed upon the crowd;

And he saw a mighty wave from the Greatest Gale of all

Break beneath him with a roar, swelling loud—

"Let us in! Let us in! We have left a load of sinOn the battlefield that flashes far below.From the trenches or the sea there's a pass for such as we,For we died with our faces to the foe.

"Let us in! Let us in! We have left a load of sin

On the battlefield that flashes far below.

From the trenches or the sea there's a pass for such as we,

For we died with our faces to the foe.

"We haven't any creed, for we never felt the need,And our morals are as ragged as can be;But we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay,And we're coming to you clean, as you can see."

"We haven't any creed, for we never felt the need,

And our morals are as ragged as can be;

But we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay,

And we're coming to you clean, as you can see."

Then Peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips,And he answered, "Ye are fighters, as I knowBy your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships,And the wounds that on your bodies glisten so."

Then Peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips,

And he answered, "Ye are fighters, as I know

By your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships,

And the wounds that on your bodies glisten so."

And he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim,And his glance was all-embracing—unafraid;And he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him,All a-level as a new-forged blade.

And he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim,

And his glance was all-embracing—unafraid;

And he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him,

All a-level as a new-forged blade.

"Ye are savage men and rough—from the fo'c'sle and the tent;Ye have put High Heaven to alarm;But I see it written clear by the road ye went,That ye held by the Fifteenth Psalm."

"Ye are savage men and rough—from the fo'c'sle and the tent;

Ye have put High Heaven to alarm;

But I see it written clear by the road ye went,

That ye held by the Fifteenth Psalm."

And they shouted in return, "'Tis a thing we've never read,But you passed our friends insideThat won to the end of the road we treadLong ago when the Mons Men died."

And they shouted in return, "'Tis a thing we've never read,

But you passed our friends inside

That won to the end of the road we tread

Long ago when the Mons Men died."

"Let us in! Let us in! We have fallen for the Right,And the Crown that we listed to win,That we earned by the Somme or the waters of the Bight;You're a fighting man yourself—Let us in!"

"Let us in! Let us in! We have fallen for the Right,

And the Crown that we listed to win,

That we earned by the Somme or the waters of the Bight;

You're a fighting man yourself—Let us in!"

Then Peter gave a sign and the Gates flung wideTo the sound of a bugle-call:"Pass the fighting men to the ranks inside,Who came from the earth or the cold grey tide,With their heads held high and a soldiers stride,To a Friend in the Judgment Hall."

Then Peter gave a sign and the Gates flung wide

To the sound of a bugle-call:

"Pass the fighting men to the ranks inside,

Who came from the earth or the cold grey tide,

With their heads held high and a soldiers stride,

To a Friend in the Judgment Hall."

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