GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

Where Roman eagle never flew
The flag of England flies,
The herald of great empires new
Beneath yet larger skies;
Upon a hundred lands and seas,
And over ransomed slaves
Who poured to her no idle pleas,
The pledge of Freedom waves;
Whatever man may well have done
We 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 mock
With glory's fleeting wraith,
It stands on the eternal rock
Of 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 righteousness
Moves on our stainless flag;
The helpless see it proudly shine
And hail the sheltering robe,
That heralds on the thin red line
That girdles round the globe;
A pioneer of truth as none
Before it scatters light,
And England holds what England won,
And God defends the right.

Beneath the shadow of its peace
Though 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 yield
A foot we measure with the sword—
On the red harvest-field;
And we will not retreat, while one
Stout heart remains to fight;
Let England hold what England won,
And God defend the right.

THE VOLUNTEER.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Conscription? Never! The word belongs
To 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 worms
That crawl about his throne.
Only the mob at a despot's heels
Would juggle a man at Fortune's wheels,
Or conjure one with the die that reels
From 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 blue
By the hand of Knavery.
And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.

Compulsion? Never! The word is dead
In a land of Freedom born and bred,
Of old in the years of yore,
Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought
May 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 one
When Freedom calls to the fore!
The soldier forced to the field of war
By 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 sold
Are 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 gaud
With 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 nought
But 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 son
To follow the flag with pike or gun
Upon the field of war,
There's never a need to seek for one
In 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 liberty
That 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 forth
From east and west, and south and north,
Wherever the flag may wave,—
With never a selfish thought to mar
The sacrifice of the holy war,
And never a self to save.
And the flag shall float in the blue on high
Till the last of the Volunteers shall die,
And Hell shall tear it out of the sky—
From Freedom's trampled grave!