SKRINE
We come from tower and grange,Where the grey woodlands range,Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease;From Erin’s rain-wet rocks,Or where the ocean-shocksThunder between the glimmering Hebrides;And many-spired cities grave,With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave.Taught in proud England’s school,Her honour’s knightly rule,To do and dare and bear and not to lie,With priest’s or scholar’s loreOr statesman’s subtle storeOf garnered wisdom, proved in councils high,We serve her bidding here, or farShepherd the imperial flock under an alien star.Leechcraft of heaven or earthWe bear to scanted hearthAnd lightless doorway and dim beds of pain:With master-craft we steerDusk labour’s march, and cheerHis blind innumerable-handed train;Or in the cannon-shaken airFrankly the gentle die that simple men may dare.The Asian moonbeams fallO’er our boys’ graves, and allThe o’er-watching hills are names of their young glory:Sleep the blithe swordsman handsBeside red Ethiop sands,Or drear uprise of wintry promontory:The headstone of a hero slainCharms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her reign.O for the blood that fellSo gladly given and well,O for all spirits that lived for England’s honour,Ere folly ruin or fearHer whom these held so dear,Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her,Rise, brothers of her knightly roll,Close fast our order’s ranks and guard great England whole!John Huntley Skrine.
We come from tower and grange,Where the grey woodlands range,Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease;From Erin’s rain-wet rocks,Or where the ocean-shocksThunder between the glimmering Hebrides;And many-spired cities grave,With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave.Taught in proud England’s school,Her honour’s knightly rule,To do and dare and bear and not to lie,With priest’s or scholar’s loreOr statesman’s subtle storeOf garnered wisdom, proved in councils high,We serve her bidding here, or farShepherd the imperial flock under an alien star.Leechcraft of heaven or earthWe bear to scanted hearthAnd lightless doorway and dim beds of pain:With master-craft we steerDusk labour’s march, and cheerHis blind innumerable-handed train;Or in the cannon-shaken airFrankly the gentle die that simple men may dare.The Asian moonbeams fallO’er our boys’ graves, and allThe o’er-watching hills are names of their young glory:Sleep the blithe swordsman handsBeside red Ethiop sands,Or drear uprise of wintry promontory:The headstone of a hero slainCharms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her reign.O for the blood that fellSo gladly given and well,O for all spirits that lived for England’s honour,Ere folly ruin or fearHer whom these held so dear,Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her,Rise, brothers of her knightly roll,Close fast our order’s ranks and guard great England whole!John Huntley Skrine.
We come from tower and grange,Where the grey woodlands range,Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease;From Erin’s rain-wet rocks,Or where the ocean-shocksThunder between the glimmering Hebrides;And many-spired cities grave,With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave.
Taught in proud England’s school,Her honour’s knightly rule,To do and dare and bear and not to lie,With priest’s or scholar’s loreOr statesman’s subtle storeOf garnered wisdom, proved in councils high,We serve her bidding here, or farShepherd the imperial flock under an alien star.
Leechcraft of heaven or earthWe bear to scanted hearthAnd lightless doorway and dim beds of pain:With master-craft we steerDusk labour’s march, and cheerHis blind innumerable-handed train;Or in the cannon-shaken airFrankly the gentle die that simple men may dare.
The Asian moonbeams fallO’er our boys’ graves, and allThe o’er-watching hills are names of their young glory:Sleep the blithe swordsman handsBeside red Ethiop sands,Or drear uprise of wintry promontory:The headstone of a hero slainCharms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her reign.
O for the blood that fellSo gladly given and well,O for all spirits that lived for England’s honour,Ere folly ruin or fearHer whom these held so dear,Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her,Rise, brothers of her knightly roll,Close fast our order’s ranks and guard great England whole!
John Huntley Skrine.
Sons in my gates of the West,Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine,And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line,And wide as the air are the meadows of kine,What cheer from my gates of the West?‘Peace in thy gates of the West,England our mother, and rest,In our sounding channels and headlands froreThe hot Norse blood of the northern hoarIs lord of the wave as the lords of yore,Guarding thy gates of the West.But thou, O mother, be strongIn thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’Sons in my gates of the morn,That steward the measureless harvest goldAnd temples and towers of the Orient oldFrom the seas of the palm to Himálya cold,What cheer in my gates of the morn?‘Fair as our India’s mornThy peace, as a sunrise, is born.Where thy banner is broad in the Orient lightThere is law from the seas to Himálya’s height,For the banner of might is the banner of right.Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.’From the Isles of the South what word?True South! long ago, when I called not, it came,And ‘England’s are ours’ ran the war-word aflame,‘And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have shame!’From my sons of the South what word?‘Mother, what need of a wordFor the love that outspake with the sword?In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers,When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours,They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’We bring thee a deed for a word.But thou, O mother, be strong,In thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’John Huntley Skrine.
Sons in my gates of the West,Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine,And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line,And wide as the air are the meadows of kine,What cheer from my gates of the West?‘Peace in thy gates of the West,England our mother, and rest,In our sounding channels and headlands froreThe hot Norse blood of the northern hoarIs lord of the wave as the lords of yore,Guarding thy gates of the West.But thou, O mother, be strongIn thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’Sons in my gates of the morn,That steward the measureless harvest goldAnd temples and towers of the Orient oldFrom the seas of the palm to Himálya cold,What cheer in my gates of the morn?‘Fair as our India’s mornThy peace, as a sunrise, is born.Where thy banner is broad in the Orient lightThere is law from the seas to Himálya’s height,For the banner of might is the banner of right.Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.’From the Isles of the South what word?True South! long ago, when I called not, it came,And ‘England’s are ours’ ran the war-word aflame,‘And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have shame!’From my sons of the South what word?‘Mother, what need of a wordFor the love that outspake with the sword?In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers,When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours,They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’We bring thee a deed for a word.But thou, O mother, be strong,In thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’John Huntley Skrine.
Sons in my gates of the West,Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine,And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line,And wide as the air are the meadows of kine,What cheer from my gates of the West?
‘Peace in thy gates of the West,England our mother, and rest,In our sounding channels and headlands froreThe hot Norse blood of the northern hoarIs lord of the wave as the lords of yore,Guarding thy gates of the West.
But thou, O mother, be strongIn thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’
Sons in my gates of the morn,That steward the measureless harvest goldAnd temples and towers of the Orient oldFrom the seas of the palm to Himálya cold,What cheer in my gates of the morn?
‘Fair as our India’s mornThy peace, as a sunrise, is born.Where thy banner is broad in the Orient lightThere is law from the seas to Himálya’s height,For the banner of might is the banner of right.Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.’
From the Isles of the South what word?True South! long ago, when I called not, it came,And ‘England’s are ours’ ran the war-word aflame,‘And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have shame!’From my sons of the South what word?
‘Mother, what need of a wordFor the love that outspake with the sword?In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers,When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours,They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’We bring thee a deed for a word.
But thou, O mother, be strong,In thy seas for a girdle of towers,Holding thine own from wrong,Thine own that is ours.Till the sons that are bone of thy bone,Till the brood of the lion upgrownIn a day not long,Shall war for our England’s own,For the pride of the ocean throne,Be strong, O mother, be strong!’
John Huntley Skrine.