CORY
We come in arms, we stand ten score,Embattled on the Castle green;We grasp our firelocks tight, for warIs threatening, and we see our Queen.And ‘Will the churls last out till weHave duly hardened bones and thewsFor scouring leagues of swamp and seaOf braggart mobs and corsair crews?’We ask; we fear not scoff or smileAt meek attire of blue and grey,For the proud wrath that thrills our isleGives faith and force to this array.So great a charm is England’s right,That hearts enlarged together flow,And each man rises up a knightTo work the evil-thinker’s woe.And, girt with ancient truth and grace,We do our service and our suit,And each can be, whate’er his race,A Chandos or a Montacute.Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,Bless the real swords that we shall wield,Repeat the call we now obeyIn sunset lands, on some fair field.Thy flag shall make some Huron rockAs dear to us as Windsor’s keep,And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mockThe surgings of th’ Ontarian deep.The stately music of thy Guards,Which times our march beneath thy ken,Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,From heart to heart, when we are men.And when we bleed on alien earth,We’ll call to mind how cheers of oursProclaimed a loud uncourtly mirthAmongst thy glowing orange bowers.And if for England’s sake we fall,So be it, so thy cross be won,Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,And worn in death, for duty done.Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier’s mate,Blending his image with the hopes of youthTo hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fateChills not our fancies with the iron truth.Death from afar we call, and Death is here,To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.William Cory.
We come in arms, we stand ten score,Embattled on the Castle green;We grasp our firelocks tight, for warIs threatening, and we see our Queen.And ‘Will the churls last out till weHave duly hardened bones and thewsFor scouring leagues of swamp and seaOf braggart mobs and corsair crews?’We ask; we fear not scoff or smileAt meek attire of blue and grey,For the proud wrath that thrills our isleGives faith and force to this array.So great a charm is England’s right,That hearts enlarged together flow,And each man rises up a knightTo work the evil-thinker’s woe.And, girt with ancient truth and grace,We do our service and our suit,And each can be, whate’er his race,A Chandos or a Montacute.Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,Bless the real swords that we shall wield,Repeat the call we now obeyIn sunset lands, on some fair field.Thy flag shall make some Huron rockAs dear to us as Windsor’s keep,And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mockThe surgings of th’ Ontarian deep.The stately music of thy Guards,Which times our march beneath thy ken,Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,From heart to heart, when we are men.And when we bleed on alien earth,We’ll call to mind how cheers of oursProclaimed a loud uncourtly mirthAmongst thy glowing orange bowers.And if for England’s sake we fall,So be it, so thy cross be won,Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,And worn in death, for duty done.Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier’s mate,Blending his image with the hopes of youthTo hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fateChills not our fancies with the iron truth.Death from afar we call, and Death is here,To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.William Cory.
We come in arms, we stand ten score,Embattled on the Castle green;We grasp our firelocks tight, for warIs threatening, and we see our Queen.And ‘Will the churls last out till weHave duly hardened bones and thewsFor scouring leagues of swamp and seaOf braggart mobs and corsair crews?’We ask; we fear not scoff or smileAt meek attire of blue and grey,For the proud wrath that thrills our isleGives faith and force to this array.So great a charm is England’s right,That hearts enlarged together flow,And each man rises up a knightTo work the evil-thinker’s woe.And, girt with ancient truth and grace,We do our service and our suit,And each can be, whate’er his race,A Chandos or a Montacute.Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,Bless the real swords that we shall wield,Repeat the call we now obeyIn sunset lands, on some fair field.Thy flag shall make some Huron rockAs dear to us as Windsor’s keep,And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mockThe surgings of th’ Ontarian deep.The stately music of thy Guards,Which times our march beneath thy ken,Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,From heart to heart, when we are men.And when we bleed on alien earth,We’ll call to mind how cheers of oursProclaimed a loud uncourtly mirthAmongst thy glowing orange bowers.And if for England’s sake we fall,So be it, so thy cross be won,Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,And worn in death, for duty done.Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier’s mate,Blending his image with the hopes of youthTo hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fateChills not our fancies with the iron truth.Death from afar we call, and Death is here,To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.
William Cory.