THE TRIBUTE

Rt. Hon. David Lloyd George

Not by the valour of Belgium, nor the lightning sabre of France,Not by the thunder of Britain's Fleet, and the Bear's unchecked advance,Not by these fears, Lord Kaiser, tho' they shatter a tyrant's lust,Is your heart most darkly troubled, and your soul brought down to the dust.But by the great affirming of the lands we have knit as one;By the love, by the passionate loyal love, of each separate freeborn son.Canada cries, "We are coming!" and Australasia, "We come!"And you scowl that no Boer is rising at the beat of your German drum.And the sons of Ind bear witness—"We have grumbled, but now no more;We have shared your plentiful righteous Peace, we will share your righteous War.Trust us to guard your Honour, one with yours is our breath;You have dealt us an even justice, we are yours to the gates of Death."Here in these rain-swept islands where we fought for the things of peace,Where we quarrelled and stormed in factions, at a stroke all factions cease;And there in the vast dominions, more free than your Prussian lords,The women are shouting for England and the men are drawing their swords.Harold BegbieBy permission of the Author

Not by the valour of Belgium, nor the lightning sabre of France,

Not by the thunder of Britain's Fleet, and the Bear's unchecked advance,

Not by these fears, Lord Kaiser, tho' they shatter a tyrant's lust,

Is your heart most darkly troubled, and your soul brought down to the dust.

But by the great affirming of the lands we have knit as one;By the love, by the passionate loyal love, of each separate freeborn son.Canada cries, "We are coming!" and Australasia, "We come!"And you scowl that no Boer is rising at the beat of your German drum.

But by the great affirming of the lands we have knit as one;

By the love, by the passionate loyal love, of each separate freeborn son.

Canada cries, "We are coming!" and Australasia, "We come!"

And you scowl that no Boer is rising at the beat of your German drum.

And the sons of Ind bear witness—"We have grumbled, but now no more;We have shared your plentiful righteous Peace, we will share your righteous War.Trust us to guard your Honour, one with yours is our breath;You have dealt us an even justice, we are yours to the gates of Death."

And the sons of Ind bear witness—"We have grumbled, but now no more;

We have shared your plentiful righteous Peace, we will share your righteous War.

Trust us to guard your Honour, one with yours is our breath;

You have dealt us an even justice, we are yours to the gates of Death."

Here in these rain-swept islands where we fought for the things of peace,Where we quarrelled and stormed in factions, at a stroke all factions cease;And there in the vast dominions, more free than your Prussian lords,The women are shouting for England and the men are drawing their swords.

Here in these rain-swept islands where we fought for the things of peace,

Where we quarrelled and stormed in factions, at a stroke all factions cease;

And there in the vast dominions, more free than your Prussian lords,

The women are shouting for England and the men are drawing their swords.

Harold Begbie

By permission of the Author

(November 9, 1914)

The British Empire is now fighting for its existence. I want every citizen to understand this cardinal fact, for only from a clear conception of the vast importance of the issue at stake can come the great national, moral impulse without which Governments, War Ministers, and even Navies and Armies can do but little. We have enormous advantages in our resources of men and material, and in that wonderful spirit of ours which has never understood the meaning of defeat. All these are great assets, but they must be used judiciously and effectively.

I have no complaint whatever to make about the response to my appeals for men—and I may mention that the progress in the military training of those who have already enlisted is most remarkable; the countrymay well be proud of them—but I shall want more men, and still more, till the enemy is crushed. Armies cannot be called together as with a magician's wand, and in the process of formation there may have been discomfort and inconveniences and, in some cases, even downright suffering. I cannot promise that these conditions will wholly cease, but I can give you every assurance that they have already greatly diminished, and that everything which administrative energy can do to bring them to an end will assuredly be done. The men who come forward must remember that they are enduring for their country's sake just as their comrades are in the shell-torn trenches.

. . . . . . . . . .

Although, of course, our thoughts are constantly directed toward the troops at the front and the great task they have in hand, it is well to remember that the enemy will have to reckon with the force of the great Dominion, the vanguard of which we have already welcomed in the very fine body of men forming the contingents from Canada and Newfoundland; while from Australia, New Zealand, and other parts, are coming in quick succession soldiers to fight for the Imperial cause. And besides all these, there are training in this country over a million and a quarter of men eagerly waiting for the call to bear their part in the great struggle, and as each and every soldier takes his place in the field, he will stand forward to do his duty, and in doing that duty will sustain the credit of the British Army, which, I submit, has never stood higher than it does to-day.

"I am the Lord of War", he said, and baredHis blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone."East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared,His battle lines were thrown.Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep,Roaring their challenge forth across the sea,And France's voice was heard in thunders deep,Calling on Liberty.And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe,And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands,And the great bear of Russia, growling low,Turned from his northern lands.Far over land and sea the summons swept,And Canada, among her fields of grain,Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt,Shouting, across the main.Australia, hasting from the southward, came;Africa, India, sprang into the fight."Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim;Now God shall show the right."Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and sawThat ring of steel and fire about his throne,And knew himself at last, with trembling awe,The Lord of Death alone.Norah Holland

"I am the Lord of War", he said, and baredHis blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone."East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared,His battle lines were thrown.

"I am the Lord of War", he said, and bared

His blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone."

East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared,

His battle lines were thrown.

Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep,Roaring their challenge forth across the sea,And France's voice was heard in thunders deep,Calling on Liberty.

Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep,

Roaring their challenge forth across the sea,

And France's voice was heard in thunders deep,

Calling on Liberty.

And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe,And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands,And the great bear of Russia, growling low,Turned from his northern lands.

And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe,

And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands,

And the great bear of Russia, growling low,

Turned from his northern lands.

Far over land and sea the summons swept,And Canada, among her fields of grain,Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt,Shouting, across the main.

Far over land and sea the summons swept,

And Canada, among her fields of grain,

Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt,

Shouting, across the main.

Australia, hasting from the southward, came;Africa, India, sprang into the fight."Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim;Now God shall show the right."

Australia, hasting from the southward, came;

Africa, India, sprang into the fight.

"Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim;

Now God shall show the right."

Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and sawThat ring of steel and fire about his throne,And knew himself at last, with trembling awe,The Lord of Death alone.

Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw

That ring of steel and fire about his throne,

And knew himself at last, with trembling awe,

The Lord of Death alone.

Norah Holland

From "Spun-yarn and Spindrift"—By permission of the Author and J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Toronto

(British House of Commons, November 11, 1914)

The Empire is on its trial. The experience of these three months not only encourages us to believe, but inspires us with the confident hope that the longer the trial lasts, and the more severe it becomes, the more clearly shall we emerge from it the champions of a just cause, and we shall have achieved, not only for ourselves—for our direct and selfish interests are small—but for Europe and for civilization, and for the great principle of small nationalities, and for liberty and for justice, one of their most enduring victories.

Rt. Hon. H. H. Asquith

I never saw the cliffs of snow,The Channel billows tipped with cream,The restless, eddying tides that flowAbout the Island of my dream.I never saw the English downsUpon an April day,The quiet, old Cathedral towns,The hedgerows white with may.And still the name of England,Which tyrants laugh to scorn,Can thrill my soul. It is to meA very bugle-horn.A thousand leagues from Plymouth shore,In broader lands I saw the light.I never heard the cannon roar,Or saw a mark of England's might;Save that my people lived in peace,Bronzed in the harvest sun,And thought that tyranny would cease,That battle-days were done.And still the flag of EnglandStreamed on a friendly breeze,And twice two hundred ships of warWent surging through the seas.I heard Polonius declaimAbout the new, the golden age,When Force would be the mark of shame,And men would curb their murderous rage."Beat out your swords to pruning-hooks",He shouted to the folk.But I—I read my history books,And marvelled as he spoke.For it was glorious England,The mother of the Free,Who loosed that foolish tongue, but sentHer Admirals to sea.And liberty and love were ours,Home, and a brood of lusty sons,The long, North sunlight and the flow'rs,How could we think about the guns,The searchlights on a wintry cloud,The seamen stern and bold,Since we were hurrying with the crowdTo rake the hills for gold?But it was glorious EnglandWho scanned the threatening morn.To me the very name of herIs like a bugle-horn.J. E. Middleton

I never saw the cliffs of snow,

The Channel billows tipped with cream,

The restless, eddying tides that flow

About the Island of my dream.

I never saw the English downs

Upon an April day,

The quiet, old Cathedral towns,

The hedgerows white with may.

And still the name of England,Which tyrants laugh to scorn,Can thrill my soul. It is to meA very bugle-horn.

And still the name of England,

Which tyrants laugh to scorn,

Can thrill my soul. It is to me

A very bugle-horn.

A thousand leagues from Plymouth shore,In broader lands I saw the light.I never heard the cannon roar,Or saw a mark of England's might;Save that my people lived in peace,Bronzed in the harvest sun,And thought that tyranny would cease,That battle-days were done.

A thousand leagues from Plymouth shore,

In broader lands I saw the light.

I never heard the cannon roar,

Or saw a mark of England's might;

Save that my people lived in peace,

Bronzed in the harvest sun,

And thought that tyranny would cease,

That battle-days were done.

And still the flag of EnglandStreamed on a friendly breeze,And twice two hundred ships of warWent surging through the seas.

And still the flag of England

Streamed on a friendly breeze,

And twice two hundred ships of war

Went surging through the seas.

I heard Polonius declaimAbout the new, the golden age,When Force would be the mark of shame,And men would curb their murderous rage."Beat out your swords to pruning-hooks",He shouted to the folk.But I—I read my history books,And marvelled as he spoke.

I heard Polonius declaim

About the new, the golden age,

When Force would be the mark of shame,

And men would curb their murderous rage.

"Beat out your swords to pruning-hooks",

He shouted to the folk.

But I—I read my history books,

And marvelled as he spoke.

For it was glorious England,The mother of the Free,Who loosed that foolish tongue, but sentHer Admirals to sea.

For it was glorious England,

The mother of the Free,

Who loosed that foolish tongue, but sent

Her Admirals to sea.

And liberty and love were ours,Home, and a brood of lusty sons,The long, North sunlight and the flow'rs,How could we think about the guns,The searchlights on a wintry cloud,The seamen stern and bold,Since we were hurrying with the crowdTo rake the hills for gold?

And liberty and love were ours,

Home, and a brood of lusty sons,

The long, North sunlight and the flow'rs,

How could we think about the guns,

The searchlights on a wintry cloud,

The seamen stern and bold,

Since we were hurrying with the crowd

To rake the hills for gold?

But it was glorious EnglandWho scanned the threatening morn.To me the very name of herIs like a bugle-horn.

But it was glorious England

Who scanned the threatening morn.

To me the very name of her

Is like a bugle-horn.

J. E. Middleton

From "Sea Dogs and Men at Arms"—G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. By permission of the Author

(May 19, 1915)

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears,Weeping your beauty marred and torn,Your children tossed upon the spears,Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn,Where Spring has no renewing spell,And Love no language save a long Farewell!Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl,Whose price—for so in God we trustWho saw them fall in that blind swirlOf ravening flame and reeking dust—The spoiler with his life shall pay,When Justice at the last demands her Day.O tried and proved, whose record standsLettered in blood too deep to fade,Take courage! Never in our handsShall the avenging sword be stayedTill you are healed of all your pain,And come with Honour to your own again.Sir Owen SeamanReprinted by permission of London "Punch"

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears,

Weeping your beauty marred and torn,

Your children tossed upon the spears,

Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn,

Where Spring has no renewing spell,

And Love no language save a long Farewell!

Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl,Whose price—for so in God we trustWho saw them fall in that blind swirlOf ravening flame and reeking dust—The spoiler with his life shall pay,When Justice at the last demands her Day.

Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl,

Whose price—for so in God we trust

Who saw them fall in that blind swirl

Of ravening flame and reeking dust—

The spoiler with his life shall pay,

When Justice at the last demands her Day.

O tried and proved, whose record standsLettered in blood too deep to fade,Take courage! Never in our handsShall the avenging sword be stayedTill you are healed of all your pain,And come with Honour to your own again.

O tried and proved, whose record stands

Lettered in blood too deep to fade,

Take courage! Never in our hands

Shall the avenging sword be stayed

Till you are healed of all your pain,

And come with Honour to your own again.

Sir Owen Seaman

Reprinted by permission of London "Punch"

(This "Chant of Love", by a distinguished American poet, is a reply to Ernst Lissauer's notorious "Chant of Hate for England".)

A song of hate is a song of Hell;Some there be that sing it well.Let them sing it loud and long,We lift our hearts in a loftier song:We lift our hearts to Heaven above,Singing the glory of her we love,—England!Glory of thought and glory of deed,Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;Glory of ships that sought far goals,Glory of swords and glory of souls!Glory of songs mounting as birds,Glory immortal of magical words;Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;Glory transcendent that perishes not,—Hers is the story, hers be the glory,England!Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;The spirit of England none can slay!Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's—Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?Pry the stone from the chancel floor,—Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?Where is the giant shot that killsWordsworth walking the old green hills?Trample the red rose on the ground,—Keats is beauty while earth spins round!Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,Cast her ashes into the sea,—She shall escape, she shall aspire,She shall arise to make men free:She shall arise in a sacred scorn,Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,ENGLAND!Helen Gray Cone

A song of hate is a song of Hell;

Some there be that sing it well.

Let them sing it loud and long,

We lift our hearts in a loftier song:

We lift our hearts to Heaven above,

Singing the glory of her we love,—

England!

Glory of thought and glory of deed,Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;Glory of ships that sought far goals,Glory of swords and glory of souls!Glory of songs mounting as birds,Glory immortal of magical words;Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;Glory transcendent that perishes not,—Hers is the story, hers be the glory,England!

Glory of thought and glory of deed,

Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;

Glory of ships that sought far goals,

Glory of swords and glory of souls!

Glory of songs mounting as birds,

Glory immortal of magical words;

Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,

Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;

Glory transcendent that perishes not,—

Hers is the story, hers be the glory,

England!

Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;The spirit of England none can slay!Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's—Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?Pry the stone from the chancel floor,—Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?Where is the giant shot that killsWordsworth walking the old green hills?Trample the red rose on the ground,—Keats is beauty while earth spins round!Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,Cast her ashes into the sea,—She shall escape, she shall aspire,She shall arise to make men free:She shall arise in a sacred scorn,Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,ENGLAND!

Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;

The spirit of England none can slay!

Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's—

Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?

Pry the stone from the chancel floor,—

Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?

Where is the giant shot that kills

Wordsworth walking the old green hills?

Trample the red rose on the ground,—

Keats is beauty while earth spins round!

Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,

Cast her ashes into the sea,—

She shall escape, she shall aspire,

She shall arise to make men free:

She shall arise in a sacred scorn,

Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;

Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,

ENGLAND!

Helen Gray Cone

From "A Chant of Love for England, and Other Poems"—By permission of the Author and J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Toronto

(April 22, 1915)

The night of April twenty-second was probably the most momentous time of the six days and nights of fighting. Then the Germans concentrated on the Yser Canal, over which there was but one bridge, a murderous barrage fire which would have effectively hindered the bringing up of reinforcements or guns, even had we had any in reserve.

During the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded to a considerable degree in turning the Canadian left wing. There was a large open gap at this point, where the French Colonial troops had stood until the gas came over. Toward this sector the Germans rushed rank after rank of infantry, backed by guns and heavy artillery. To the far distant left were our British comrades. They were completely blocked by the German advance. They were like rats in a trap and could not move.

At the start of the battle, the Canadian lines ran from the village of Langemarck over to St. Julien, a distance of approximately three to four miles. From St. Julien to the sector where the Imperial British had joined the Turcos was a distance of probably two miles.

These two miles had to be covered, and covered quickly. We had to save the British extreme right wing, and we had to close the gap. There was no question about it. It was our job. On the night of April the twenty-second we commenced to put this into effect. We were still holding our original position with the handful of men who were in reserves, all of whom had been included in the original grand total of twelve thousand. We had to spread out across the gap of two miles and link up the British right wing. Doing this was no easy task. Our company was out first and we were told to get into field-skirmishing order. We lined up in the pitchy darkness at five paces apart, but no sooner had we reached this than a whispered order passed from man to man: "Another pace, lads,just another pace". This order came again and yet again. Before we were through and ready for the command to advance, we were at least twice five paces each man from his nearest comrade.

Then it was that our Captain told us bluntly that we were obviously outnumbered by the Germans, ten to one. Then he told us that, practically speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, but that a bluff might succeed. He told us to "swing the lead over them". This we did by yelling, hooting, shouting, clamouring, until it seemed, and the enemy believed, that we were ten to their one.

The ruse succeeded. At daybreak, when we rested, we found that we had driven the enemy back almost to his original position. All night long we had been fighting with our backs to our comrades who were in the front trenches. The enemy had got behind us and we had had to face about in what served for trenches. By dawn we had him back again in his original position, and we were facing in the old direction. By dawn we had almost, though not quite, forced a junction with the British right.

The night of April the twenty-second is one that I can never forget. It was frightful, yes. Yet there was a grandeur in the appalling intensity of living, in the appalling intensity of death as it surrounded us.

The German shells rose and burst behind us. They made the Yser Canal a stream of molten glory. Shells fell in the city, and split the darkness of the heavens in the early night hours. Later, the moon rose in the splendour of springtime. Straight behind the towerof the great cathedral it rose and shone down on a bloody earth.

Suddenly the grand old Cloth Hall burst into flames. The spikes of fire rose and fell and rose again. Showers of sparks went upward. A pall of smoke would form and cloud the moon, waver, break, and pass. There was the mutter and rumble and roar of great guns. . . .

It was glorious. It was terrible. It was inspiring. Through an inferno of destruction and death . . . we lived because we must.

Perhaps our greatest reward came when on April twenty-sixth the English troops reached us. We had been completely cut off by the enemy barrage from all communication with other sectors of the line. Still, through the wounded gone back, word of our stand had drifted out. The English boys fought and force-marched and fought again their terrible way through the barrage to our aid, and when they arrived, weary and worn and torn, cutting their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves hoarse; cheered as they marched along, cheered and gripped our hands as they got within touch of us. Yell after yell went upward, and stirring words woke the echoes. The boys of the Old Country paid their greatest tribute to us of the New as they cried:

"Canadians—Canadians—that's all!"

Harold R. Peat

From "Private Peat"—Copyright, 1917. Used by special permission of the Publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company

Oh, to have died that day at Langemarck!To have perished nobly in a noble cause!. . . . . . . . . .For in the years to come it shall be toldHow these laid down their lives, not for their homes,Their orchards, fields and cities: "They were drivenTo slaughter by no tyrant's lust for power;Of their free manhood's choice they crossed the seaTo save a stricken people from its foe.They died for Justice—Justice owes them this:That what they died for be not overthrown."[A]Bernard Freeman Trotter

Oh, to have died that day at Langemarck!

To have perished nobly in a noble cause!

. . . . . . . . . .

For in the years to come it shall be told

How these laid down their lives, not for their homes,

Their orchards, fields and cities: "They were driven

To slaughter by no tyrant's lust for power;

Of their free manhood's choice they crossed the sea

To save a stricken people from its foe.

They died for Justice—Justice owes them this:

That what they died for be not overthrown."

[A]Bernard Freeman Trotter

From "A Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and Peace"—By permission of McClelland & Stewart, Ltd., Publishers, Toronto

We were men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade;Men of the plain and the forest, children of commerce and trade;Men of the day and the distance; men of the mothering earth;Laying the lines of a nation nurturing fair from the birth.Taking our freedom for granted, we, who had ever been free;Speaking the tongue of our fathers, confident, composite, we;Welcoming all in our borders, laying our wealth at their feet,Querying not of their motives, holding their honour complete.Little thought we of the war-cloud, little of drilling and drill;We were for peace with our neighbours—peace (and a pocket to fill);Only one neighbour we counted, only one neighbour we knew;Him—though we watched him—we trusted; trusted, and felt he was true.Proud of our flag and traditions; proud, but not boastfully so;Dreaming our dreams and our visions, planning the way we would go;Saying, "This task for to-morrow; life shall be clay in our hands;We shall be first of the nations, fattest and fairest of lands".Then in the quivering heaven gathered the threatening wrath;We looked—and went on with our labours; heard, and replied with a laugh;Surely the world was for business; (list to the hammer and spade);Leave the war-lords to their lusting—on with our traffic and trade!Then, in a flash, it was on us; blazed, and it dazzled our eyes;Then for a moment we faltered, suddenly sick with surprise;Next, by the blood that was in us, and a manhood not wholly undone,We were stripping the cloth for the khaki and dropping the spade for the gun.What of the men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade,Men without heart for the soldier, loathing his life and his trade?What? Let the enemy answer; he scoffed at our fighters, and thenThe flower of his finest battalions went down to our peace-loving men.Well may the world read a lesson, well may it learn, and be wise;Not to the strong is the battle; not to the swift is the prize;Loud is the boast of the despot, clanking his nation in arms;But beware of a peace-loving people when they sweep from their forests and farms!Robert J. C. Stead

We were men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade;

Men of the plain and the forest, children of commerce and trade;

Men of the day and the distance; men of the mothering earth;

Laying the lines of a nation nurturing fair from the birth.

Taking our freedom for granted, we, who had ever been free;Speaking the tongue of our fathers, confident, composite, we;Welcoming all in our borders, laying our wealth at their feet,Querying not of their motives, holding their honour complete.

Taking our freedom for granted, we, who had ever been free;

Speaking the tongue of our fathers, confident, composite, we;

Welcoming all in our borders, laying our wealth at their feet,

Querying not of their motives, holding their honour complete.

Little thought we of the war-cloud, little of drilling and drill;We were for peace with our neighbours—peace (and a pocket to fill);Only one neighbour we counted, only one neighbour we knew;Him—though we watched him—we trusted; trusted, and felt he was true.

Little thought we of the war-cloud, little of drilling and drill;

We were for peace with our neighbours—peace (and a pocket to fill);

Only one neighbour we counted, only one neighbour we knew;

Him—though we watched him—we trusted; trusted, and felt he was true.

Proud of our flag and traditions; proud, but not boastfully so;Dreaming our dreams and our visions, planning the way we would go;Saying, "This task for to-morrow; life shall be clay in our hands;We shall be first of the nations, fattest and fairest of lands".

Proud of our flag and traditions; proud, but not boastfully so;

Dreaming our dreams and our visions, planning the way we would go;

Saying, "This task for to-morrow; life shall be clay in our hands;

We shall be first of the nations, fattest and fairest of lands".

Then in the quivering heaven gathered the threatening wrath;We looked—and went on with our labours; heard, and replied with a laugh;Surely the world was for business; (list to the hammer and spade);Leave the war-lords to their lusting—on with our traffic and trade!

Then in the quivering heaven gathered the threatening wrath;

We looked—and went on with our labours; heard, and replied with a laugh;

Surely the world was for business; (list to the hammer and spade);

Leave the war-lords to their lusting—on with our traffic and trade!

Then, in a flash, it was on us; blazed, and it dazzled our eyes;Then for a moment we faltered, suddenly sick with surprise;Next, by the blood that was in us, and a manhood not wholly undone,We were stripping the cloth for the khaki and dropping the spade for the gun.

Then, in a flash, it was on us; blazed, and it dazzled our eyes;

Then for a moment we faltered, suddenly sick with surprise;

Next, by the blood that was in us, and a manhood not wholly undone,

We were stripping the cloth for the khaki and dropping the spade for the gun.

What of the men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade,Men without heart for the soldier, loathing his life and his trade?What? Let the enemy answer; he scoffed at our fighters, and thenThe flower of his finest battalions went down to our peace-loving men.

What of the men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade,

Men without heart for the soldier, loathing his life and his trade?

What? Let the enemy answer; he scoffed at our fighters, and then

The flower of his finest battalions went down to our peace-loving men.

Well may the world read a lesson, well may it learn, and be wise;Not to the strong is the battle; not to the swift is the prize;Loud is the boast of the despot, clanking his nation in arms;But beware of a peace-loving people when they sweep from their forests and farms!

Well may the world read a lesson, well may it learn, and be wise;

Not to the strong is the battle; not to the swift is the prize;

Loud is the boast of the despot, clanking his nation in arms;

But beware of a peace-loving people when they sweep from their forests and farms!

Robert J. C. Stead

From "Kitchener and Other Poems"—By permission of The Musson Book Company, Limited, Toronto

From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglowWith kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow;And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day,And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay;For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore,The lithe men and long men,The brown men and strong men,The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of oldWith cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold;They sped away with dauntless Drake to traffic on the Main,To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train;For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar,The strong men, the free men,The bold men, the seamen,The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grayAre strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day;So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloomAnd summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom;For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore,The cool men, the bluff men,The keen men, the tough men,The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!Percy HaseldenReprinted by special permission of London "Punch"

From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow

With kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow;

And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day,

And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay;

For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore,

The lithe men and long men,

The brown men and strong men,

The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of oldWith cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold;They sped away with dauntless Drake to traffic on the Main,To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train;For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar,The strong men, the free men,The bold men, the seamen,The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old

With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold;

They sped away with dauntless Drake to traffic on the Main,

To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train;

For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar,

The strong men, the free men,

The bold men, the seamen,

The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grayAre strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day;So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloomAnd summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom;For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore,The cool men, the bluff men,The keen men, the tough men,The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!

From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle gray

Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day;

So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom

And summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom;

For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore,

The cool men, the bluff men,

The keen men, the tough men,

The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!

Percy Haselden

Reprinted by special permission of London "Punch"

Comes there now a mighty rallyFrom the weald and from the coast,Down from cliff and up from valley,Spirits of an ancient host;Castle gray and village mellow,Coastguard's track and shepherd's fold,Crumbling church and cracked martelloEcho to this chant of old—Chant of knight and chant of bowman:Kent and Sussex feared no foemanIn the valiant days of old!Screaming gull and lark a-singing,Bubbling brook and booming sea,Church and cattle bells a-ringingSwell the ghostly melody;"Chalk and flint, Sirs, lie beneath ye,Mingling with our dust below!Chalk and flint, Sirs, they bequeath yeThis our chant of long ago!"Chant of knight and chant of bowman,Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:Kent and Sussex feared no foemanIn the days of long ago!Hills that heed not Time or weather,Sussex down and Kentish lane,Roads that wind through marsh and heatherFeel the mail-shod feet again;Chalk and flint their dead are giving—Spectres grim and spectres bold—Marching on to cheer the livingWith their battle-chant of old—Chant of knight and chant of bowman,Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:Witness Norman! Witness Roman!Kent and Sussex feared no foemanIn the valiant days of old!Reprinted by special permission of London "Punch"

Comes there now a mighty rally

From the weald and from the coast,

Down from cliff and up from valley,

Spirits of an ancient host;

Castle gray and village mellow,

Coastguard's track and shepherd's fold,

Crumbling church and cracked martello

Echo to this chant of old—

Chant of knight and chant of bowman:

Kent and Sussex feared no foeman

In the valiant days of old!

Screaming gull and lark a-singing,Bubbling brook and booming sea,Church and cattle bells a-ringingSwell the ghostly melody;"Chalk and flint, Sirs, lie beneath ye,Mingling with our dust below!Chalk and flint, Sirs, they bequeath yeThis our chant of long ago!"Chant of knight and chant of bowman,Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:Kent and Sussex feared no foemanIn the days of long ago!

Screaming gull and lark a-singing,

Bubbling brook and booming sea,

Church and cattle bells a-ringing

Swell the ghostly melody;

"Chalk and flint, Sirs, lie beneath ye,

Mingling with our dust below!

Chalk and flint, Sirs, they bequeath ye

This our chant of long ago!"

Chant of knight and chant of bowman,

Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:

Kent and Sussex feared no foeman

In the days of long ago!

Hills that heed not Time or weather,Sussex down and Kentish lane,Roads that wind through marsh and heatherFeel the mail-shod feet again;Chalk and flint their dead are giving—Spectres grim and spectres bold—Marching on to cheer the livingWith their battle-chant of old—Chant of knight and chant of bowman,Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:Witness Norman! Witness Roman!Kent and Sussex feared no foemanIn the valiant days of old!

Hills that heed not Time or weather,

Sussex down and Kentish lane,

Roads that wind through marsh and heather

Feel the mail-shod feet again;

Chalk and flint their dead are giving—

Spectres grim and spectres bold—

Marching on to cheer the living

With their battle-chant of old—

Chant of knight and chant of bowman,

Chant of squire and chant of yeoman:

Witness Norman! Witness Roman!

Kent and Sussex feared no foeman

In the valiant days of old!

Reprinted by special permission of London "Punch"

All night the tall trees overheadAre whispering to the stars;Their roots are wrapped about the deadAnd hide the hideous scars.The tide of war goes rolling by,The legions sweep along;And daily in the summer skyThe birds will sing their song.No place is this for human tears,The time for tears is done;Transfigured in these awful years,The two worlds blend in one.This boy had visions while in lifeOf stars on distant skies;So death came in the midst of strifeA sudden, glad surprise.He found the songs for which he yearned,Hopes that had mocked desire;His heart is resting now which burnedWith such consuming fire.So down the ringing road we pass,And leave him where he fell,The guardian trees, the waving grass,The birds will love him well.Frederick George Scott

All night the tall trees overheadAre whispering to the stars;Their roots are wrapped about the deadAnd hide the hideous scars.

All night the tall trees overhead

Are whispering to the stars;

Their roots are wrapped about the dead

And hide the hideous scars.

The tide of war goes rolling by,The legions sweep along;And daily in the summer skyThe birds will sing their song.

The tide of war goes rolling by,

The legions sweep along;

And daily in the summer sky

The birds will sing their song.

No place is this for human tears,The time for tears is done;Transfigured in these awful years,The two worlds blend in one.

No place is this for human tears,

The time for tears is done;

Transfigured in these awful years,

The two worlds blend in one.

This boy had visions while in lifeOf stars on distant skies;So death came in the midst of strifeA sudden, glad surprise.

This boy had visions while in life

Of stars on distant skies;

So death came in the midst of strife

A sudden, glad surprise.

He found the songs for which he yearned,Hopes that had mocked desire;His heart is resting now which burnedWith such consuming fire.

He found the songs for which he yearned,

Hopes that had mocked desire;

His heart is resting now which burned

With such consuming fire.

So down the ringing road we pass,And leave him where he fell,The guardian trees, the waving grass,The birds will love him well.

So down the ringing road we pass,

And leave him where he fell,

The guardian trees, the waving grass,

The birds will love him well.

Frederick George Scott

From "In the Battle Silences"—By permission of the Author and The Musson Book Company, Limited, Toronto

(May, 1915)

The naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting treesLeans to the sun's gaze glorying,And quivers in the sunny breeze;And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,And a striving evermore for these;And he is dead who will not fight;And who dies fighting has increase.The fighting man shall from the sunTake warmth, and life from the glowing earth;Speed with the light-foot winds to run,And with the trees to newer birth;And find, when fighting shall be done,Great rest, and fulness after dearth.All the bright company of HeavenHold him in their high comradeship,The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,Orion's Belt and sworded hip.The woodland trees that stand together,They stand to him each one a friend;They gently speak in the windy weather;They guide to valley and ridges' end.The kestrel hovering by day,And the little owls that call by night,Bid him be swift and keen as they,As keen of ear, as swift of sight.The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,If this be the last song you shall sing,Sing well, for you may not sing another;Brother, sing".In dreary doubtful waiting hoursBefore the brazen frenzy starts,The horses show him nobler powers;O patient eyes, courageous hearts!And when the burning moment breaks,And all things else are out of mind,And only Joy-of-Battle takesHim by the throat, and makes him blind,Through joy and blindness, he shall know,Not caring much to know, that stillNor lead nor steel shall reach him, soThat it be not the Destined Will:The thundering line of battle stands,And in the air Death moans and sings;But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,And Night shall fold him in soft wings.[B]Julian GrenfellBy permission of Lord Desborough, K.C.V.O.

The naked earth is warm with Spring,

And with green grass and bursting trees

Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,

And quivers in the sunny breeze;

And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,

And a striving evermore for these;

And he is dead who will not fight;

And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sunTake warmth, and life from the glowing earth;Speed with the light-foot winds to run,And with the trees to newer birth;And find, when fighting shall be done,Great rest, and fulness after dearth.

The fighting man shall from the sun

Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;

Speed with the light-foot winds to run,

And with the trees to newer birth;

And find, when fighting shall be done,

Great rest, and fulness after dearth.

All the bright company of HeavenHold him in their high comradeship,The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

All the bright company of Heaven

Hold him in their high comradeship,

The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,

Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together,They stand to him each one a friend;They gently speak in the windy weather;They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The woodland trees that stand together,

They stand to him each one a friend;

They gently speak in the windy weather;

They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The kestrel hovering by day,And the little owls that call by night,Bid him be swift and keen as they,As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The kestrel hovering by day,

And the little owls that call by night,

Bid him be swift and keen as they,

As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,If this be the last song you shall sing,Sing well, for you may not sing another;Brother, sing".

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,

If this be the last song you shall sing,

Sing well, for you may not sing another;

Brother, sing".

In dreary doubtful waiting hoursBefore the brazen frenzy starts,The horses show him nobler powers;O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

In dreary doubtful waiting hours

Before the brazen frenzy starts,

The horses show him nobler powers;

O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,And all things else are out of mind,And only Joy-of-Battle takesHim by the throat, and makes him blind,

And when the burning moment breaks,

And all things else are out of mind,

And only Joy-of-Battle takes

Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness, he shall know,Not caring much to know, that stillNor lead nor steel shall reach him, soThat it be not the Destined Will:

Through joy and blindness, he shall know,

Not caring much to know, that still

Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so

That it be not the Destined Will:

The thundering line of battle stands,And in the air Death moans and sings;But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

The thundering line of battle stands,

And in the air Death moans and sings;

But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,

And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

[B]Julian Grenfell

By permission of Lord Desborough, K.C.V.O.

We had forgotten You, or very nearly—You did not seem to touch us very nearly—Of course we thought about You now and then;Especially in any time of trouble—We knew that You were good in time of trouble—But we are very ordinary men.And there were always other things to think of—There's lots of things a man has got to think of—His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;And so we only thought of You on Sunday—Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—Because there's always lots to fill one's life.And, all the while, in street or lane or byway—In country lane, in city street, or byway—You walked among us, and we did not see.Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—Howdidwe miss Your Footprints on our pavements?—Can there be other folk as blind as we?Nowwe remember; over here in Flanders—(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)—This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.We never thought about You much in England—But now that we are far away from England—We have no doubts, we know that You are here.You helped us pass the jest along the trenches—Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches—You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.You stood beside us in our pain and weakness—We're glad to think You understand our weakness—Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.We think about You kneeling in the Garden—Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden—We know You prayed for us upon the Cross.If anything could make us glad to bear it—'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it—Pain—death—the uttermost of human loss.Though we forgot You—You will not forget us—We feel so sure that You will not forget us—But stay with us until this dream is past.And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon—Especially, I think, we ask for pardon—And that You'll stand beside us to the last.L. W.By permission of "The Spectator"

We had forgotten You, or very nearly—

You did not seem to touch us very nearly—

Of course we thought about You now and then;

Especially in any time of trouble—

We knew that You were good in time of trouble—

But we are very ordinary men.

And there were always other things to think of—There's lots of things a man has got to think of—His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;And so we only thought of You on Sunday—Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—Because there's always lots to fill one's life.

And there were always other things to think of—

There's lots of things a man has got to think of—

His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;

And so we only thought of You on Sunday—

Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—

Because there's always lots to fill one's life.

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway—In country lane, in city street, or byway—You walked among us, and we did not see.Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—Howdidwe miss Your Footprints on our pavements?—Can there be other folk as blind as we?

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway—

In country lane, in city street, or byway—

You walked among us, and we did not see.

Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—

Howdidwe miss Your Footprints on our pavements?—

Can there be other folk as blind as we?

Nowwe remember; over here in Flanders—(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)—This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.We never thought about You much in England—But now that we are far away from England—We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

Nowwe remember; over here in Flanders—

(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)—

This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.

We never thought about You much in England—

But now that we are far away from England—

We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches—Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches—You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.You stood beside us in our pain and weakness—We're glad to think You understand our weakness—Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches—

Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches—

You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.

You stood beside us in our pain and weakness—

We're glad to think You understand our weakness—

Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden—Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden—We know You prayed for us upon the Cross.If anything could make us glad to bear it—'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it—Pain—death—the uttermost of human loss.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden—

Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden—

We know You prayed for us upon the Cross.

If anything could make us glad to bear it—

'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it—

Pain—death—the uttermost of human loss.

Though we forgot You—You will not forget us—We feel so sure that You will not forget us—But stay with us until this dream is past.And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon—Especially, I think, we ask for pardon—And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

Though we forgot You—You will not forget us—

We feel so sure that You will not forget us—

But stay with us until this dream is past.

And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon—

Especially, I think, we ask for pardon—

And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

L. W.

By permission of "The Spectator"

(1915)

"The distant boom of angry gunsNo longer fills my ear.Oh! whither have we fled, my son?Tell me, that I may hear.""Father, we are in England!""No more I hear the stormy windAmid the rigging roar.I feel beneath my tottering feetThe firm ground of the shore.Is this the end of all our woes?Shall we not suffer more?""Father, we are in England!""I hear the sound of kindly speech,But do not understand;I feel I've wandered very far,Far from the fatherland;How comes it that these tones are notThose of an unknown land?""Father, we are in England!""I feel in all the air aroundFreedom's sweet breath respire.I feel celestial fingers creepAlong my quivering lyre;The birds, the trees, the babbling streamsSpeak to me of our home,Why does my grief less bitter growAnd rest so dear become?""Father, we are in England!""Bend down upon thy knees, my son,And take into thy hand,Thy wounded hand, and mine, somewhatOf the earth of this good land,That dreaming of our home, we twoMay kiss the soil of England!"Emile Cammaerts

"The distant boom of angry gunsNo longer fills my ear.Oh! whither have we fled, my son?Tell me, that I may hear.""Father, we are in England!"

"The distant boom of angry guns

No longer fills my ear.

Oh! whither have we fled, my son?

Tell me, that I may hear."

"Father, we are in England!"

"No more I hear the stormy windAmid the rigging roar.I feel beneath my tottering feetThe firm ground of the shore.Is this the end of all our woes?Shall we not suffer more?""Father, we are in England!"

"No more I hear the stormy wind

Amid the rigging roar.

I feel beneath my tottering feet

The firm ground of the shore.

Is this the end of all our woes?

Shall we not suffer more?"

"Father, we are in England!"

"I hear the sound of kindly speech,But do not understand;I feel I've wandered very far,Far from the fatherland;How comes it that these tones are notThose of an unknown land?""Father, we are in England!"

"I hear the sound of kindly speech,

But do not understand;

I feel I've wandered very far,

Far from the fatherland;

How comes it that these tones are not

Those of an unknown land?"

"Father, we are in England!"

"I feel in all the air aroundFreedom's sweet breath respire.I feel celestial fingers creepAlong my quivering lyre;The birds, the trees, the babbling streamsSpeak to me of our home,Why does my grief less bitter growAnd rest so dear become?""Father, we are in England!"

"I feel in all the air around

Freedom's sweet breath respire.

I feel celestial fingers creep

Along my quivering lyre;

The birds, the trees, the babbling streams

Speak to me of our home,

Why does my grief less bitter grow

And rest so dear become?"

"Father, we are in England!"

"Bend down upon thy knees, my son,And take into thy hand,Thy wounded hand, and mine, somewhatOf the earth of this good land,That dreaming of our home, we twoMay kiss the soil of England!"

"Bend down upon thy knees, my son,

And take into thy hand,

Thy wounded hand, and mine, somewhat

Of the earth of this good land,

That dreaming of our home, we two

May kiss the soil of England!"

Emile Cammaerts

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