There's a land that bears a well-known name,Though it is but a little spot;I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame,And who shall aver it is not?Of the deathless ones who shine and liveIn arms, in arts, or song,The brightest the whole wide world can giveTo that little land belong.'Tis the star of the Earth—deny it who can—The Island-home of the Englishman.
There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,No matter when or where;And to treat that flag as aught but the freeIs more than the strongest dare.For the lion spirits that tread the deckHave carried the palm of the brave;And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck,But never float o'er a slave;Its honour is stainless—deny it who can—And this is the flag of the Englishman.
There's a heart that beats with burning glow,The wrong'd and the weak to defend;And strikes as soon for a trampled foeAs it does for a soul-bound friend.It nurtures a deep and honest love,The passions of faith and pride,And yearns with the fondness of a dove,To the light of its own fireside,'Tis a rich rough gem—deny it who can—And this is the heart of an Englishman.
The Briton may traverse the pole or the zoneAnd boldly claim his right,For he calls such a vast domain his ownThat the sun never sets on his might.Let the haughty stranger seek to knowThe place of his home and birth;And a flush will pour from cheek to browWhile he tells of his native earth;For a glorious charter—deny it who can—Is breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman."
Now, glory to our England,She arises, calm and grand,The ancient spirit in her eyes,—The good sword in her hand!Our royal right on battle-groundWas aye to bear the brunt:Ho! brave heart, with one passionate bound,Take the old place in front!Now glory to our England,As she rises, calm and grand,The ancient spirit in her eyes,—The good sword in her hand!
Who would not fight for England?Who would not fling a lifeI' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage,And glory in the strife?Her stem is thorny, but doth burstA glorious Rose a-top!And shall our proud Rose wither? FirstWe'll drain life's dearest drop!Who would not fight for England?Who would not fling a lifeI' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage,And glory in the strife?
To battle goes our England,As gallant and as gayAs lover to the altar, onA merry marriage-day.A weary night she stood to watchThe clouds of dawn up-rolled;And her young heroes strain to matchThe valour of the old.To battle goes our England,As gallant and as gayAs lover to the altar, onA merry marriage-day.
Now, fair befall our England,On her proud and perilous road:And woe and wail to those who makeHer footprints wet with blood.Up with our red-cross banner—rollA thunder-peal of drums!Fight on there, every valiant soulHave courage! England comes!Now, fair befall our England,On her proud and perilous road:And woe and wail to those who makeHer footprints wet with blood!
Now, victory to our England!And where'er she lifts her handIn freedom's fight, to rescue Right,God bless the dear old land!And when the Storm hath passed away,In glory and in calm,May she sit down i' the green o' the day,And sing her peaceful psalm!Now victory to our England!And where'er she lifts her handIn freedom's fight, to rescue Right,God bless the dear old land!
Old if this England beThe Ship at heart is sound,And the fairest she and gallantestThat ever sail'd earth round!And children's children in the yearsFar off will live to seeHer silver wings fly round the world,Free heralds of the free!While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless her as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
They are firm and fine, the masts;And the keel is straight and true;Her ancient cross of gloryRides burning through the blue:—And that red sign o'er all the seasThe nations fear and know,And the strong and stubborn hero-soulsThat underneath it go:—While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless her as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
Prophets of dread and shame,There is no place for you,Weak-kneed and craven-breasted,Among this English crew!Bluff hearts that cannot learn to yield,But as the waves run high,And they can almost touch the night,Behind it see the sky.While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless her as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
As Past in Present hid,As old transfused to new,Through change she lives unchanging,To self and glory true;From Alfred's and from Edward's dayWho still has kept the seas,To him who on his death-morn spokeHer watchword on the breeze!While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless her as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
What blasts from East and NorthWhat storms that swept the landHave borne her from her bearingsSince Cæsar seized the strand!Yet that strong loyal heart through allHas steer'd her sage and free,—Hope's armour'd Ark in glooming years,And whole world's sanctuary!While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless her as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
Old keel, old heart of oak,Though round thee roar and chafeAll storms of life, thy helmsmanShall make the haven safe!Then with Honour at the head, and Faith,And Peace along the wake,Law blazon'd fair on Freedom's flag,Thy stately voyage take:—While now on Him who long has bless'dTo bless Thee as of yore,Once more we cry for England,England once more!
Where Roman eagle never flewThe flag of England flies,The herald of great empires newBeneath yet larger skies;Upon a hundred lands and seas,And over ransomed slavesWho poured to her no idle pleas,The pledge of Freedom waves;Whatever man may well have doneWe have with dauntless might,And England holds what England won,And God defends the right.
Where hardly climb the mountain goats,On stormy cape and crag,The refuge of the wanderer floats—Our hospitable flag;While alien banners only mockWith glory's fleeting wraith,It stands on the eternal rockOf our eternal faith;And handed on from sire and son,It furls not day nor night;So England holds what England won,And God defends the right.
When wrongs cry out for brave redress,Our justice does not lag,And in the name of righteousnessMoves on our stainless flag;The helpless see it proudly shineAnd hail the sheltering robe,That heralds on the thin red lineThat girdles round the globe;A pioneer of truth as noneBefore it scatters light,And England holds what England won,And God defends the right.
Beneath the shadow of its peaceThough riddled to a rag,The down-trod nations gain release,And rally round the flag;We fight the battles of the Lord,And never may we yieldA foot we measure with the sword—On the red harvest-field;And we will not retreat, while oneStout heart remains to fight;Let England hold what England won,And God defend the right.
Conscription? Never! The word belongsTo the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs,And unto them alone.The first and worst of the Tyrant's terms,Barbed to spike at the writhing wormsThat crawl about his throne.Only the mob at a despot's heelsWould juggle a man at Fortune's wheels,Or conjure one with the die that reelsFrom the lip of the dice-cup thrown!The soldier forced to the field of fight,With never a reck of the wrong or right,Wherever a flag may wave—By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown—Fights with a will that is not his own,A victim and a slave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,And Truth is Bravery,And the Right and True are the Ready too,When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blueBy the hand of Knavery.And the Land that fears for its VolunteersIs a Land of Slavery.
Compulsion? Never! The word is deadIn a land of Freedom born and bred,Of old in the years of yore,Where all by the laws of Freedom wroughtMay do as they will, who will as they ought,And none desire for more.Who brooks no spur has need of none,(Who needs a spur is a traitor son,)And all are ready and all are oneWhen Freedom calls to the fore!The soldier forced to the field of warBy the iron hand of a tyrant law,Wherever a flag may wave,And the press'd—at best but a coward's 'hest—Fight with the bitter, sullen zest,And the ardour of a slave!
A hireling? Never! The bought and soldAre ever the prey of the traitor's gold,Wherever the fight may be.Or ever a man will sell his sword,The highest bidder may buy the gaudWith a coward's niggard fee.Who buys and sells to the market goes,And sells his friends as he sells his foes,So he gain in the main by his country's woes,—But the gain is not to the free;—For the soldier bought with a price has noughtBut his fee to 'fend when the fight is fought,Wherever the flag may wave.And he who fights for the loot or pay,Fights for himself, or ever he may—A huckster and a slave!
Or ever a Free land needs a sonTo follow the flag with pike or gunUpon the field of war,There's never a need to seek for oneIn the dice's throw, or the number's run,Or the iron grip of the law;—All are ready, where all are free,With never a spur and never a fee,To fight and 'fend the libertyThat Freemen hold in awe.The Volunteer is a son sincere,And ready, or ever the cause appear,Whole-hearted, free as brave,—Ready at call to sally forthFrom east and west, and south and north,Wherever the flag may wave,—With never a selfish thought to marThe sacrifice of the holy war,And never a self to save.And the flag shall float in the blue on highTill the last of the Volunteers shall die,And Hell shall tear it out of the sky—From Freedom's trampled grave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,And Truth is Bravery,And the Right and True are the Ready too,When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blueBy the hand of Knavery.And the Land that fears for its VolunteersIs a Land of Slavery.
Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!We have heard the Reapers shout,For the Harvest going out,With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;And our message shall be hurledRinging right across the world,There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land.
We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land!For the old ancestral treeStriketh root beneath the sea,And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land!We shall come, too, if you call,We shall fight on if you fall;Shakespere's land shall never be a bought and sold land….
O, a terror to the Tyrant is that bold Land!He remembers how she stood,With her raiment roll'd in blood,When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land;And he looks with darkened face,For he knows the hero raceStrike the Harp of Freedom—draw her sword with bold hand….
When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old LandYou shall see the Tyrant down!You shall see her lifted crownWears another peerless jewel won with bold hand;She shall thresh her foes like corn,They shall eat the bread of scorn;We will sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land.
Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!We have heard the Reapers shoutFor the Harvest going out,Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;And our answer shall be hurledRinging right across the world,—All true hearts are beating for you in the Gold Land.
What is the News to-day, Boys?Have they fired the Signal gun?We answer but one way, Boys;We are ready for the fray, Boys,All ready and all one!
They shall not say we boastedOf deeds that would be done;Or sat at home and toasted:We are marshall'd, drilled, and posted,All ready and all one!
We are not as driven cattleThat would the conflict shun.They have to test our mettleAsVolunteersof Battle,All ready and all one!
The life-streams of the MotherThrough all her youngsters run,And brother stands by brother,To die with one another,All ready and all one!
'Tis glorious, when the thing to doIs at the supreme instant done!We count your first fore-running fewA thousand men for every one!For this true stroke of statesmanship—The best Australian poem yet—Old England gives your hand the grip,And binds you with a coronet,In which the gold o' the Wattle glowsWith Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.
They talked of England growing old,They said she spoke with feeble voice;But hear the virile answer rolledAcross the world! Behold her BoysCome back to her full-statured Men,To make four-square her fighting ranks.She feels her youth renewed again,With heart too full for aught but "Thanks!"And now the gold o' the Wattle glowsWith Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.
"My Boys have come of age to-day,"The proud old mother smiling said."They write a brand-new page to-day,By far-off futures to be read!"Throughout all lands of British blood,This stroke hath kindled such a glow;The Federal links of BrotherhoodAre clasped and welded at a blow.And aye the gold o' the Wattle glowsWith Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.
Wives, mothers, sweethearts sentTheir dearest; waved their own defenders forth;And, fit companions for the bravest, wentThe Boys, to test their manhood, prove their worth.
As Sons of those who bravedAll dangers; to Earth's ends our Flag unfurled,The old pioneers of Ocean, who have pavedOur pathway with their bones around the world!
To-day the City waits,Proudly a-throb with life about to be:She welcomes her young warriors in her gatesOf glory, opened to them by the Sea.
Let no cur bark, or spurtDefilement, trying to tarnish this fair fame;No Alien drag our Banner through the dirtBecause it blazons England's noble name.
Upon the lips of PraiseThey lay their own hands, saying,"We have not wonGreat battles for you, nor Immortal bays,But what your boys were given to do is done!"
When Clouds were closing roundThe Island-home, our Pole-star of the North,Australia fired her Beacons—rose up crownedWith a new dawn upon the ancient earth.
For us they filled a cupMore rare than any we can brim to them!The patriot-passion did so lift men up,They looked as if each wore a diadem!
Best honours we shall give,If to that loftier outlook still we climb;And in our unborn children there shall liveThe larger spirit of this great quickening time.
To-day is the Women's day!With them there's no more need o' the proud disguiseThey wore when their young heroes sailed away;Soft smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes!
And, when to the full breast,O mothers! your re-given ones you take,And in your long embraces they are blest,Give them one hug at heart for England's sake.
The Mother of us all!Dear to us, near to us, though so far apart;For whose defence we are sworn to stand or fallIn the same battle as Brothers one at heart.
All one to bear the brunt,All one we move together in the march,Shoulder to shoulder; to the Foe all front,The wide world round; all heaven one Triumph Arch.
One in the war of MindFor clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers;One for the Federation of mankind,Who will speak one language, and that language ours.
(From Punch's Souvenir. May 3rd, 1900.)
Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!For England has need of her bravest to-day.Sound! and the World Universal will knowWe shall fight to a finish, in front or at bay.Sound the Assembly! They'll hear it, and springTo the saddle, and gallop wherever they're led.Sound! Every city and village will ringWith the shout "To the front!" It shall never be said—
That an Englishman's heart ever failed in its glowFor Queen, or for country, when threatened by foe,For Liberty, stabbed by oppression and woe,So, Sound the Assembly! Blow! Buglemen, blow!Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! You'll see, as of yore,The Service united in heart and in head,When blue-jackets leap from their ships to the shoreTo bring up the guns for their comrades in red!Sound the Assembly! Our Naval BrigadeWill prove they are sailors and soldiers as well;They will pull, they will haul, they will march, they will wade,And dash into furnaces hotter than hell!
A long pull, a strong pull, a cheery "Yo! ho!"Do you see that big mountain? 'Tis Jack who will knowTo be first at the top, when, by gad! he will crow!So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Brave Union Jack!You have floated triumphant on sea and on shore;Old England and Scotland are still back to back,And Ireland, God bless her! is with us once more.Sound the Assembly! Come! Forward! Quick march!What! Feather-bed soldiers? Bah! give them the lie.Divested by war of Society starchThey will shout "'Tis a glorious death to die!"—
What land in the world could produce such a showOf heroes, who face both siroccos and snow,Rush madly to danger, and never lie low?So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Form, citizens, form!From smoke of the city, from country so green,A horse of irregulars sweeps like a stormTo defend with their lives their dear country and Queen!Sound the Assembly! Come! Volunteers, come!Leave oldsters at grinding and tilling the sod!Bold Yoemen, enrolled for defence of their home,Enlist with a cheer for the Empire, thank God!—
To the front! to the front! with their faces aglow,They will march, the dear lads, with a pulse and a go;Wave flags o'er the Workman, the Johnnie, the Beau,So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow!Sound the Assembly!
When you've shouted "Rule Britannia"—when you've sung "God Save theQueen"—When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth—Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourineFor a gentleman in kharki ordered South?He's an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great—But we and Paul must take him as we find him—He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate—And he's left a lot o' little things behind him!
Duke's son—cook's son—son of a hundred kings—(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after theirthings?)Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay—pay—pay!
There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to,For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did.There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due,And it's more than rather likely there's a kid.There are girls he walked with casual, they'll be sorry now he'sgone,For an absent-minded beggar they will find him;But it ain't the time for sermons with the winter coming on—We must help the girl that Tommy's left behind him!
Cook's son—Duke's son—son of a belted Earl—Son of a Lambeth publican—it's all the same to-day!Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after thegirl?)Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak—And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,And they'll live on half o' nothing paid 'em punctual once a week,'Cause the man that earned the wage is ordered out.He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him:He chucked his job and joined it—so the job before us allIs to help the home that Tommy's left behind him!
Duke's job—cook's job—gardener, baronet, groom—Mews or palace or paper-shop—there's someone gone away!Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after theroom?)Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face,And tell him—what he'd very much prefer—That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved his place,And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her.He's an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget it all,But we do not want his kiddies to remind him,That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul,So we'll help the home our Tommy's left behind him!
Cook's home—Duke's home—home of a millionaire.(Fifty'thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)Each of 'em doing his country's work (and what have you got tospare?)Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
It is no more place and party,It is no more begging votes;But the roaring of steam-packets,And a rushing of bluejacketsAnd a rally of redcoats;For the Empire's will is hearty,Thundered by united throats.
We are sick of talk and treason,There is duty to be done;By the veteran in danger,And the lad who is a strangerUnto strife and shrinks from none;In the power of right and reason,Now all classes are but one.
We have suffered and have yielded,Till we felt the burning shame;And long outrage and enduranceAre our glory of assuranceTo begin the bloody game;By our honour are we shielded,In the might of England's name.
It is no more fume of faction,It is no more weary calls;We are strong in faith and steady,With the sword of Justice readyAnd our iron men and walls;Since the hour has struck for action,And red retribution falls.
We have wrongs, which for redressingCry aloud to God at last;It is woe to him who triflesWhen we speak across our riflesAt the great and final cast;And we seek no other blessingThan the blotting out the past.
We will brook no new denial,We will have no second tale;And we seek no sordid laurels,But here fight the ages' quarrelsAnd for freedom's broadening pale—Lo, an Empire on its trial,Hangs within the awful scale.
O for an hour of Cromwell's mightWho raised an Empire out of dust,And lifted it to noontide lightBy simple and heroic trust;Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust,And clove its way through crowned night.We want old England's iron stock,Hewn of the same eternal rock.
Where is the man of equal part,To rule by right divine of power;With statesman's head and soldier's heart,And all the ages' dreadful dowerBrought to a bright and perfect flower—From whom a nobler course may start?We hear but faction's fume and cry,With England in her agony.
Where is the master mind that readsThe far-off issues of the day,And with a willing nation pleadsThat loves to own a master sway?Where are the landmarks on the way,Set up alone by him who leads?We vainly ask a common creedTo make us one in England's need.
Is there no man with broader reachTo fill a thorny throne of care,And bravely act and bravely teachBecause in all he has a share?No helper who will do and dare,And stand a bulwark in the breach?Have we no lord of England's fate,Though coming from a cottage gate?
O surely somewhere is the handTo grasp and guide this reeling realm,While in the hour-glass sinks the sandAnd faints the pilot at the helm;If billows break to overwhelm,Yet he will conquer and command.England is waiting to be led,If through the dying and the dead.
We do not seek the party fameThat trafficks in a people's fall,But one to shield our burning shameAnd answer just his country's call;To weld us in a solid wall,And kindle with a common flame.Ah, when she finds the fitting man,England will do what England can.
They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed,As witness conquered tides,And many a pasture sown with crimson seed—Our English Ironsides;And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain,They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain.The same grand spirit in the same grim stressArms them with stubborn mail;They see the light of duty's lovelinessAnd over death prevail.They never count the price or weigh the odds,The work is theirs, the victory is God's.
They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock,Where stern the horseman rides,Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock—Our English Ironsides.Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt cragThey bear the honour of the ancient flag.What if they starve, or on red pillows lieBeneath a burning sun?It is enough to live their day, or dieEre it has even begun;They only ask what duty's voice would crave,And march right on to glory or the grave.
Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not.
The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional.
The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group.
Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.
Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two.
As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.
The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party—it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry—three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon.
They met, and fired alternately, by lot—the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire—he did—fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired—the ball passed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note—a challenge, of course—and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay.
Again they met—fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist—the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in themodus operandiand exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month passed—another—and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain.
At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope.
"And what, sir, am I to understand by this?" inquired the aggressor.
"You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you—he is dead."
"Years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was appointed chaplain to H.M.S.Octopus, then on guard at Gibraltar. We had a very nice time of it, for 'Gib.' is a very gay place, and that winter there was plenty of fun somewhere nearly every night, and we were asked to most of the festivities. Now, on board the Octopus was a young midshipman, whom I will call Munro. He was a handsome young fellow, but rather delicate, and he had been sent to Gibraltar for the sake of the climate, in hopes that the sea-air and warm winter might set him up. He was the life of the ship, and wherever he went he was popular; and it is possible he might have outgrown his weakness, for I don't think there was any organic disease at this time, but he got a low fever, and died in a week. This low fever was very prevalent, and at the same time that poor young Munro died, an admiral, one of the leading members of society at 'Gib.,' died of the same disease. As it was considered infectious, the two bodies were placed in their coffins and carried to the mortuary till the funeral. Oddly enough, both funerals were fixed for the same day; Munro's in the morning, and the admiral's in the afternoon. The admiral's was to be a very grand affair, all the troops in the garrison were to follow, as well as the naval officers and sailors on board the guardships; the ceremony was to be performed by the bishop, assisted by some other clergy while as for poor Munro, I was to bury him at ten o'clock in the morning, six men were told off to carry the coffin, and it was left to those who liked to act as mourners.
"Well, the day of the funerals arrived, all the ships were decked with flags half-mast high in honour of the admiral, minute-guns were fired in honour of the admiral, church bells tolled in honour of the admiral, while as for poor Munro (one or two of us excepted), no one thought of him. Ten o'clock came, and I with the doctor and ore of Munro's comrades, another middy, and the six sailors, who, by the way, had all volunteered their services, set out for the mortuary; I had a fancy to follow the poor fellow as far as I could, so I waited while the jack tars went inside and fetched out the coffin covered with the union-jack, and Munro's hat and sword on the top, and then the little procession took its way across the neutral ground to the English cemetery. I followed the coffin, and the other two brought up the rear. The sentries did not salute us as we passed them. At last we reached the cemetery gates. Here I was obliged to relegate my post of chief mourner to the doctor, while I went into the chapel, put on my surplice, and went to the door to meet the body. I then proceeded to bury the poor boy, and when the union-jack was taken off and the coffin lowered into the grave, I leant over to take one last look; the doctor did the same, and as our eyes met the same emotion caused us both to blow our noses violently, and it was in a voice of suppressed emotion that I concluded the service.
"I was so disgusted with the way in which the poor boy had been slighted that I had not intended going to the admiral's funeral; but after burying Munro I felt more charitably disposed, so I got into my uniform and duly attended the admiral's obsequies.
"It was a very grand affair indeed; the streets were thronged with spectators, every window was filled with eager faces as the enormous procession passed by. There were five regiments stationed in Gibraltar at the time, and two men-of-war besides theOctopuslying in the harbour; detachments from every regiment were sent, three military bands followed, a battery of artillery, the marines and all the jack tars in the place, the governor and his staff were there, and every officer, who was not on the sick list, quartered in Gibraltar, was present. A firing party was told off to fire over the grave when all was over, and this brilliant procession was met at the cemetery-gates by the bishop, attended by several clergymen and a surpliced choir. I forgot to say that a string of carriages followed the troops, and the entire procession could not have been much less than a mile long.
"As we crossed the neutral ground this time, the sentry, with arms reversed, saluted us; and the strains of Beethoven's 'Funeral March of a Hero,' must have been heard all over Gibraltar as the three bands—one in front, one in the rear, and one in the centre—all pealed it forth.
"Of course, not one-third of the funeralcortègecould get near the grave; but I managed to get pretty close. The service proceeded, and at length the coffin was uncovered to be lowered into the grave; it was smothered with flowers, but the wreaths were all carefully removed, and the admiral's cocked-hat and sword, and then the union-jack was off, and the bishop, the governor, and all the officers near the grave pressed forward to look at the coffin.
"They looked once, they started; they looked again, they frowned; they rubbed their eyes; they looked again, then they whispered; they sniffed, they snorted, they grumbled; they gave hurried orders to the sextons, who shovelled some earth on to the coffin, and the bishop hurriedly finished the service.
"What do you think they saw when they looked into the grave?
"Why, poor Munro's coffin! I buried the admiral myself in the morning, by mistake. The doctor and I found it out at the grave, but we kept our own counsel."—Young England.
Flushed with fight and red with glory,Conquerors if backward flung,Fresh from triumphs grim and gory,Toward the goal the Army swung;Splendid, but with recent laurelsDimmed by shadow of defeat,Thirsting yet for nobler quarrels—Never dreaming of retreat.
Day by day they grimly struggled,Early on and on till late;Night by night with doom they juggled,Dodging Death and fighting Fate.Not a murmur once was spoken,Stern endurance still unspent,As with spirit all unbrokenOn the bitter march they went.
Still with weary steps that stumbledForward moved that constant tread,Sleepless, silent, and unhumbled,On and on the army sped,Noble sons of noble mothers,Proud of home and kin and kith,Brothers to the aid of brothers,On and on to Ladysmith.
There, through smoke of onset rifted,Soldiers who disdained to yieldHad for weal or woe upliftedEngland's own broad battle-shield.Right across the path of pillageWas that iron rampart thrust,While beneath it town and villageSafely hid in settled trust.
Frail and open seemed that shelterAnd unguarded to the foes,Helpless, as the fiery welterRocked it in volcanic throes;But there was defence to bind itWith the force of Destiny,And an Empire stood behind itArmed in awful majesty.
And no fortress ever mouldedGirt securer chosen space,Than those unseen walls which foldedIn their fear that lonely place.On its Outposts far the scourgesFell with wrath and crimson rain,But the fierce assaulting surgesBeat and beat in thunder vain.
There they kept the old flag flyingDay by day and prayed relief,Weary, wounded, doomed, and dying—Gallant men and noble chiefBy the leaden tempest stricken,Grandly stood or grandly fell—Peril had but power to quickenFaith that owned such holy spell.
Not alone the foe without themMenaced them with fire and shot,Sickness creeping round about them,Fever, dysentery, and rot,Struck the rider and the stallion,Making merry as at feastOn the pick of each battalion—Ruthless, smiting man and beast.
None were spared and nothing holy,For the fever claimed the best,Now the high and now the lowly,Now the baby at the breast,All obeyed its mandate, droopingIn the fulness of their power,Old and young before it stooping,Bud and blossom, fruit and flower.
Hunger blanched their dauntless faces,Furrowed with the lines of lack,But with stern and stubborn pacesStill they drove the spoiler back.Round them drew the iron tetherTighter, but they kept their troth,All for England's sake together—Soldier and civilian both.
Death and ruin knock and enter,Hearts may break and homesteads burn,Yet from that lone faithful centreFlashed red vengeance in return;Guardian guns thence hurled defianceFrom the brave who lightly tookAll their blows in brave reliance,Which no tempest ever shook.
Hand to hand they strove and wrestledStoutly for that pearl of pride,Where mid flame and woe it nestledDown with danger at its side.Yet like boys released from class time,Though the blast destroying blew,There they played and found a pastimeWhile the Flag unconquered flew.
Then, when all seemed lost but gloryWith the lustre which it gave,And Relief an idle storyMurmured by a sealed grave;While with pallid lips they reckonedDarkly the enduring daysFamished, lo! Deliverance beckonedSurely after long delays.
Wave on wave of martial beauty,Dashed upon those deadly rocksAt the simple call of duty,And were broken by the shocks.Yet that chivalry of splendour,Though baptized in blood and fire,Had no thought of mean surrenderNever breathed the word retire.
Still they weighed the dreadful chances,Still they gathered up their strength,By invincible advancesSteeled to win the prize at length.Fate-like their resolve to severThose gaunt bonds of grim despair,And within the breach for everEngland's honour to repair.
Came relief at last, endeavour,Stern, magnificent, and true,Hoping on and fighting ever,Forced its gory passage through.All the rage of pent-up forces,All the passion seeking ventOut of vast and solemn sources,Here renewed their sacrament;
In the rapture of a greetingFor which thousands fought and bled,With the saved and saviours meetingOver our Imperial dead.Witnesses unseen but testedLived again as grander men,And their awful shadow restedWith a benediction then;
One who with his wondrous talentConquered more than even the sword,And among the gay and gallantBy his pen was crownéd lord.There they lie in silence lowlyWhich no battle now can wake,And the ground is ever holyFor our English heroes' sake.
(From the Christmas number of theBombshell, published in Ladysmith during the siege.)
There is a famous hill looks down,Five miles away, on Ladysmith town,With a long flat ridge that meets the skyAlmost a thousand feet on high.And on the ridge there is mounted oneLong-range, terrible six-inch gun.
And down in the street a bugle is blown,When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown,For it's sixty seconds before the roarReverberates o'er, and a second moreTill the shell comes down with a whiz and stunFrom that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
And men and women walk up and downThe long, hot streets of Ladysmith town,And the housewives walk in the usual round,And the children play till the warning sound—Then into their holes they scurry and runFrom the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.
For the shells they weigh a hundred pound,Bursting wherever they strike the ground,While the strong concussion shakes the airAnd shatters the window-panes everywhere.And we may laugh, but there's little of funIn the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.
Oh! 'twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gayAs they cleaned their steeds at break of day,But like a thunderclap there fellIn the midst of the horses and men a shell,And the sight we saw was a fearful oneAfter that shell from the six-inch gun.
Though the foe may beset us on every side,We'll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide;We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shedAnd a thought be given to the gallant dead,Cut off in the midst of their life and funBy the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.
Here's to the Isle of the Shamrock,Here's a good English hurrah,Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt,Erin Mavourneen gobragh.The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,One where the bayonets bristle,One when there's duty to seek.Each has a need of each other,Linked on the shore and the wave,All for the sake of one Mother—Honour the Brave.
Here's to the boys of the Shamrock,Here's to the gallant and gay,Bearing the flag upon donga or crag,Blithely as children at play.The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,One though the bullets may whistle,One in a red grave's repose.Each has a need of his fellows,Sharing the glory or grave,Each the same destiny mellows—Honour the Brave.
Here's to the girls of the shamrock,Here's to the glamour and grace,Laughing on all, in hovel and hall,Ever from Erin's young face!The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,One in the face of a missile,One when the batteries speak.Each of himself is delightedTo succour the serf or the slave,And who can deny them united?—Honour the Brave.
Here's to the wit of the Shamrock,Here's to the favoured and free,Giving us store of that magical loreLearnt but at Nature's own knee!The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,One when fame writes her epistle,One where dread dangers enclose.Each for the others asks only,Ever to succour and save,Each without all must be lonely—Honour the Brave.
Here's to the day of the Shamrock,Here's to the emblem of youth;Wear it we will on our bosoms and stillDeeper in heart and in truth!The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle,The shamrock, the rose, and the leek,One where grim batteries bristle,One when there's pleasure to seek.Each on each other relying,Trusts, nor for better would rave,Each for all, living and dying—Honour the Brave.
Here's to the reign of the shamrock,Here's to the welfare of all,Bearing its light through the feast and the fight,Ever at liberty's call.The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,One where the death-arrows whistle,One where hilarity flows.Each from the bog or the heatherGives all a brother may crave,Ploughland and city together—Honour the Brave.