Strike—for your altars and your fires;
Strike—for the green graves of your sires;
God, and your native land!
I find it easy to believe and read between the lines of the grim official record which told us that outside Portsmouth "white-haired men smiled over the graves of their sons, and armed youths were heard singing triumphant chants while burying their fathers."
Meantime, simple folk in the southern country lanes of Dorset and of Hampshire (Tarn Regis yokels among them, no doubt) heard the dull, rumbling thunder of great guns at sea, and the talk ran on naval warfare.
XV
"SINGLE HEART AND SINGLE SWORD"
Yea, though we sinned—and our rulers went from righteousness—
Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garment's hem.
Hold ye the Faith—the Faith our fathers sealed us;
Whoring not with visions—overwise and overstale.
Except ye pay the Lord
Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage shall he ask them treble-tale!
Rudyard Kipling.