SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND.
His Day, April 23rd.
Saint George he was a fighting man, as all the tales do tell;
He fought a battle long ago, and fought it wondrous well;
With his helmet and his hauberk and his good cross-hilted sword,
Oh, he rode a-slaying Dragons to the glory of the Lord.
And when his time on earth was done he found he could not rest
Where the year is always Summer in the Islands of the Blest,
So back he came to earth again to see what he could do,
And they cradled him in England—
In England, April England—
Oh, they cradled him in England where the golden willows blew!
Saint George he was a fighting man and loved a fighting breed,
And whenever England wants him now he's ready to her need;
From Creçy field to Neuve Chapelle, he's there with hand and sword,
And he sailed with Drake from Devon to the glory of the Lord.
His arm is strong to smite the wrong and break the tyrant's pride;
He was there when Nelson triumphed, he was there when Gordon died;
He sees his Red-Cross ensign float on all the winds that blow,
But ah! his heart's in England—
In England, April England—
His heart it dreams of England where the golden willows grow.
Saint George he was a fighting man; he's here and fighting still,
While any wrong is yet to right or Dragon yet to kill;
And faith! he's finding work this day to suit his war-worn sword,
For he's strafing Huns in Flanders to the glory of the Lord!
Saint George he is a fighting man, but, when the fighting's past,
And dead amid the trampled fields the fiercest and the last
Of all the Dragons earth has known beneath his feet lies low,
Ah, his heart will turn to England—
To England, April England—
He'll come home to rest in England where the golden willows blow.