And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung.
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight
And the war-wolf is dead in his den,
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.
Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world’s great cannons rust,
Till the world’s great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world’s unrest,
In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the east and over the west,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.
William Wilfred Campbell.
CXCVIII
THE WORLD-MOTHER
By crag and lonely moor she stands,
This mother of half a world’s great men,
And kens them far by sea-wracked lands,
Or orient jungle or western fen.
And far out ’mid the mad turmoil,
Or where the desert places keep
Their lonely hush, her children toil,
Or wrapt in wide-world honour sleep.
By Egypt’s sands or western wave,
She kens her latest heroes rest,
With Scotland’s honour o’er each grave,
And Britain’s flag above each breast.
And some at home.—Her mother love
Keeps crooning wind-songs o’er their graves,
Where Arthur’s castle looms above,
Or Strathy storms or Solway raves.
Or Lomond unto Nevis bends
In olden love of clouds and dew;
Where Trossach unto Stirling sends
Greetings that build the years anew.