PATRIOTIC SONG

PATRIOTIC SONG

A Book of English Verse

BEING AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE PATRIOTIC POETRY OF THE
BRITISH EMPIRE, FROM THE DEFEAT OF THE SPANISH
ARMADA TILL THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY
ARTHUR STANLEY

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
THE RIGHT REVEREND J. E. C. WELLDON
Lord Bishop of Calcutta; late Head-Master of Harrow School

TORONTO
WILLIAM BRIGGS
1901

THIS BOOK
IS
Sacred to the Memory
OF
THAT GLORIOUS COMPANY OF MEN
WOMEN AND CHILDREN
WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES
FOR ENGLAND’S SAKE

EDITOR’S PREFACE

This book is intended to be a representative collection of the patriotic poetry of the British Empire. I have taken a wide view of the term “patriotic”—wide enough, indeed, to include the Jacobite Songs of Scotland and the National Songs of Ireland.

Many of my numbers breathe the spirit of war; for the national instinct is most deeply stirred in times of great national emotion. But I have aimed at making this volume something more than a book of war-songs, holding that a man may prove his patriotism as well at home in the pursuit of his daily business as on the battlefield in the presence of his country’s enemies. Love of country is the root of the matter; and, after all, it is harder to live for one’s country than to die for it.

I gratefully acknowledge the debt I owe to authors and owners of copyright poems. I am equally grateful to all who, whether at home or in the Colonies, have given me encouragement, assistance, or advice. My obligations to Professor Dowden, Mr. W. E. Henley, and Mr. A. T. Quiller-Couch are very great.

My scheme, as originally conceived, provided for the inclusion of a section representing the patriotism of America; but, on reconsideration, I have decided not to go beyond the limits of the British Empire.

A. S.

INTRODUCTION

The present collection of patriotic songs will, I think, accord with the imperial spirit of the day; for they are representative of the whole British Empire.

It is needless to dwell upon the inspiring energy of song. Since the age of Tyrtæus it has everywhere been recognised as a powerful incentive to valour. A nation can scarcely exist without a national anthem. How characteristic are the anthems of the nations! It may almost be said that the difference of the English and the French nations is expressed by the contrast between God Save the King and the Marseillaise. What an influence songs have exercised upon the life of nations! The debt of Scotland to Burns, the debt of Ireland to Moore, is greater than words can tell. Fletcher of Saltoun was perhaps not wrong in his estimate of the songs, as compared with the laws, of a nation.

I am not responsible for the present collection; perhaps, if I had made it, I should have left out some few songs which find a place in it, and should have inserted some few others which do not, but the purpose of it I heartily approve. To consolidate the Empire, and to animate it as a whole with noble ideas, is one of the greatest needs and duties of the present day; and an empire, like an individual, lives not by bread alone, but by its sentiments, its ambitions, its ideals.

J. E. C. CALCUTTA.

October 1901.

ERRATUM

Page xii, line 6, for ‘an admiral’ read ‘an individual.’

CONTENTS

I
ENGLAND

ANONYMOUS

I
SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Where English slew and hurt
All their French foemen?
With their pikes and bills brown,
How the French were beat down,
Shot by our Bowmen!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Never to be forgot,
Or known to no men?
Where English cloth-yard arrows
Killed the French like tame sparrows,
Slain by our Bowmen!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
English of every sort,
High men and low men,
Fought that day wondrous well,
All our old stories tell,
Thanks to our Bowmen!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Where our fifth Harry taught
Frenchmen to know men:
And, when the day was done,
Thousands there fell to one
Good English Bowman!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Dear was the vict’ry bought
By fifty yeomen.
Ask any English wench,
They were worth all the French:
Rare English Bowmen!

Anonymous.

PEELE

II
FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS

Have done with care, my hearts! aboard amain,
With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves:
Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home:
Bid all the lovely British dames adieu!
To arms, my fellow-soldiers! Sea and land
Lie open to the voyage you intend.
To arms, to arms, to honourable arms!
Hoist sails; weigh anchors up; plough up the seas
With flying keels; plough up the land with swords!
You follow them whose swords successful are:
You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain,
The dreadful dragon, terror to your foes,
Victorious in his return from Inde,
In all his high attempts unvanquishèd;
You follow noble Norris whose renown,
Won in the fertile fields of Belgia,
Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts
Of Christian kings and heathen potentates.
You fight for Christ and England’s peerless Queen,
Elizabeth, the wonder of the world,
Over whose throne the enemies of God
Have thunder’d erst their vain successless braves,
O ten-times-treble happy men, that fight
Under the cross of Christ and England’s Queen,
And follow such as Drake and Norris are!
All honours do this cause accompany;
All glory on these endless honours waits;
These honours and this glory shall He send,
Whose honour and Whose glory you defend.

George Peele.

DRAYTON

III
BALLAD OF AGINCOURT

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt
In happy hour,
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way
Where the French gen’ral lay
With all his power:

Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
’Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazèd.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisèd.’

‘And for myself,’ quoth he,
‘This my full rest shall be:
England ne’er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me;
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.’

‘Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies.’

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen;
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there:
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the single aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went;
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding
As to o’erwhelm it,
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruisèd his helmet.

Glo’ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another!

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin’s Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay,
To England to carry.
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Michael Drayton.

IV
THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE

You brave heroic minds
Worthy your country’s name,
That honour still pursue;
Go and subdue!
Whilst loitering hinds
Lurk here at home with shame.

Britons, you stay too long:
Quickly aboard bestow you,
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretch’d sail
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer
West and by south forth keep,
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals
When Æolus scowls
You need not fear,
So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea
Success you shall entice
To get the pearl and gold,
And ours to hold
Virginia
Earth’s only paradise.

Where nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish,
And the fruitfull’st soil
Without your toil
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine
And useful sassafras.

To whom the golden age
Still nature’s laws doth give,
Nor other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter’s rage,
That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land
Above the seas that flows
The clear wind throws
Your hearts to swell
Approaching the dear strand.

In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first given)
O you the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let cannons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far,
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came;
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our north.

And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,—
Apollo’s sacred tree,—
You it may see
A poet’s brows
To crown that may sing there.

Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hackluit
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after times thy wit.

Michael Drayton.

SHAKESPEARE

V
A PICTURE OF ENGLAND

This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.

William Shakespeare.

VI
ENGLAND INVINCIBLE

This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.

William Shakespeare.

VII
ENGLAND AT WAR

THE PREPARATION

Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man:
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,
Following the mirror of all Christian kings,
With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries.
For now sits Expectation in the air,
And hides a sword from hilts unto the point
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,
Promised to Harry and his followers.
The French, advised by good intelligence
Of this most dreadful preparation,
Shake in their fear and with pale policy
Seek to divert the English purposes.
O England! model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart,
What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural!

AT SEA

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies
In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier
Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet
With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:
Play with your fancies, and in them behold
Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give
To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think
You stand upon the rivage and behold
A city on the inconstant billows dancing;
For so appears this fleet majestical,
Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,
And leave your England, as dead midnight still,
Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,
Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;
For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d
With one appearing hair, that will not follow
These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS
(At the Siege of Harfleur)

‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’er hang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot;
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’

THE EVE OF BATTLE

Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp through the foul womb of night
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umbered face;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation:
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin’d band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile
And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night,
But freshly looks and over-bears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largess universal like the sun
His liberal eye doth give to everyone,
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all
Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battle fly.

KING HARRY’S PRAYER

‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;
Possess them not with fear; take from them now
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,
O, not to-day, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown!
I Richard’s body have interred new;
And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears
Than from it issued forced drops of blood:
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;
Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.’

St. Crispin’s Day at Agincourt
(King Harry to his Soldiers)

‘This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
And gentlemen in England now abed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’

THE WELCOME HOME

Now we bear the king
Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen,
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach
Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,
Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,
Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king
Seems to prepare his way: so let him land,
And solemnly see him set on to London.
So swift a pace hath thought that even now
You may imagine him upon Blackheath,
Where that his lords desire him to have borne
His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword
Before him through the city: he forbids it,
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,
Giving full trophy, signal and ostent
Quite from himself to God. But now behold,
In the quick forge and working-house of thought,
How London doth pour out her citizens!
The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,
Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.

William Shakespeare.

VIII
WOLSEY TO CROMWELL

‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,
Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And,—Prithee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.’

William Shakespeare.

ANONYMOUS

IX
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY

The fifteenth day of July,
With glistering spear and shield,
A famous fight in Flanders
Was foughten in the field:
The most conspicuous officers
Were English captains three,
But the bravest man in battel
Was brave Lord Willoughby.

The next was Captain Norris,
A valiant man was he:
The other, Captain Turner,
From field would never flee.
With fifteen hundred fighting men,
Alas! there were no more,
They fought with forty thousand then
Upon the bloody shore.

‘Stand to it, noble pikemen,
And look you round about:
And shoot you right, you bowmen,
And we will keep them out:
You musket and cailìver men,
Do you prove true to me,
I’ll be the bravest man in fight,’
Says brave Lord Willoughby.

And then the bloody enemy
They fiercely did assail,
And fought it out most valiantly
Not doubting to prevail:
The wounded men on both sides fell
Most piteous for to see,
Yet nothing could the courage quell
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

For seven hours to all men’s view
This fight endurèd sore,
Until our men so feeble grew
That they could fight no more;
And then upon dead horses
Full savourly they eat,
And drank the puddle water,
They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely,
They kneelèd on the ground,
And praisèd God devoutly
For the favour they had found;
And bearing up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And cutting tow’rds the Spaniard,
Five thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows
And bullets thick did fly,
Then did our valiant soldiers
Charge on most furiously:
Which made the Spaniards waver,
They thought it best to flee:
They feared the stout behaviour
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Then quoth the Spanish general,
‘Come let us march away,
I fear we shall be spoilèd all
If that we longer stay:
For yonder comes Lord Willoughby
With courage fierce and fell,
He will not give one inch of ground
For all the devils in hell.’

And when the fearful enemy
Was quickly put to flight,
Our men pursued courageously
To rout his forces quite;
And at last they gave a shout
Which echoed through the sky:
‘God and Saint George for England!’
The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England
With all the speed might be,
And soon our gracious Queen was told
Of this same victory.
‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby
My love that ever won:
Of all the lords of honour
’Tis he great deeds hath done!’

To the soldiers that were maimèd,
And wounded in the fray,
The Queen allowed a pension
Of eighteen pence a day,
And from all costs and charges
She quit and set them free;
And this she did all for the sake
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Then courage, noble Englishmen,
And never be dismayed!
If that we be but one to ten,
We will not be afraid
To fight with foreign enemies,
And set our country free,
And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Anonymous.

X
THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL

Attend you, and give ear awhile,
And you shall understand
Of a battle fought upon the seas
By a ship of brave command.
The fight it was so glorious
Men’s hearts it did fulfil,
And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea,
With the Angel Gabriel!’

This lusty ship of Bristol,
Sailed out adventurously
Against the foes of England,
Her strength with them to try;
Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was,
With good provision still,
Which made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea,
With the Angel Gabriel!’

The Captain, famous Netherway
(That was his noble name);
The Master—he was called John Mines—
A mariner of fame:
The Gunner, Thomas Watson,
A man of perfect skill:
With many another valiant heart
In the Angel Gabriel.

They waving up and down the seas
Upon the ocean main,
‘It is not long ago,’ quoth they,
‘That England fought with Spain:
O would the Spaniard we might meet
Our stomachs to fulfil!
We would play him fair a noble bout
With our Angel Gabriel!’

They had no sooner spoken
But straight appeared in sight
Three lusty Spanish vessels
Of warlike trim and might;
With bloody resolution
They thought our men to spill,
And vowed that they would make a prize
Of our Angel Gabriel.

Our gallant ship had in her
Full forty fighting men;
With twenty piece of ordnance
We played about them then,
With powder, shot, and bullets
Right well we worked our will,
And hot and bloody grew the fight
With our Angel Gabriel.

Our Captain to our Master said,
‘Take courage, Master bold!’
Our Master to the seamen said,
‘Stand fast, my hearts of gold!’
Our Gunner unto all the rest,
‘Brave hearts, be valiant still!
Fight on, fight on in the defence
Of our Angel Gabriel!’

We gave them such a broadside
It smote their mast asunder,
And tore the bowsprit off their ship,
Which made the Spaniards wonder,
And causèd them in fear to cry,
With voices loud and shrill,
‘Help, help, or sunken we shall be
By the Angel Gabriel!’

So desperately they boarded us
For all our valiant shot,
Threescore of their best fighting men
Upon our decks were got;
And lo! at their first entrances
Full thirty did we kill,
And thus with speed we cleared the deck
Of our Angel Gabriel.

With that their three ships boarded us
Again with might and main,
But still our noble Englishmen
Cried out ‘A fig for Spain!’
Though seven times they boarded us
At last we showed our skill,
And made them feel what men we were
On the Angel Gabriel.

Seven hours this fight continued:
So many men lay dead,
With Spanish blood for fathoms round
The sea was coloured red.
Five hundred of their fighting men
We there outright did kill,
And many more were hurt and maimed
By our Angel Gabriel.

Then seeing of these bloody spoils,
The rest made haste away:
For why, they said, it was no boot
The longer there to stay.
Then they fled into Calès,
Where lie they must and will
For fear lest they should meet again
With our Angel Gabriel.

We had within our English ship
But only three men slain,
And five men hurt, the which I hope
Will soon be well again.
At Bristol we were landed,
And let us praise God still,
That thus hath blest our lusty hearts
And our Angel Gabriel.

Anonymous.

MILTON

XI
TO THE LORD GENERAL

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud
Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued,
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

John Milton.

XII
DELIVERANCE

O how comely it is, and how reviving
To the spirits of just men long oppress’d!
When God into the hands of their deliverer
Puts invincible might
To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor,
The brute and boisterous force of violent men,
Hardy and industrious to support
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue
The righteous and all such as honour truth;
He all their ammunition
And feats of war defeats,
With plain heroic magnitude of mind
And celestial vigour arm’d;
Their armouries and magazines contemns,
Renders them useless; while
With winged expedition,
Swift as the lightning glance, he executes
His errand on the wicked, who, surprised,
Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.

John Milton.

MARVELL

XIII
HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND

The forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

’Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusèd armour’s rust,
Removing from the wall
The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:

And, like the three-fork’d lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:

For ’tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such to inclose
Is more than to oppose;

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar’s head at last
Did through his laurels blast.

’Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven’s flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain—
(But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak),

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook’s narrow case,

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forcèd power:
So, when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That doth both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic’s hand
(How fit he is to sway,
That can so well obey!),

He to the Commons’ feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents,
And (what he may) forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the Public’s skirt
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-coloured mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid.

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on,
And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell.

XIV
SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA

Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the Ocean’s bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this song.
‘What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage:
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand
From Lebanon He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
O let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault,
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!’
Thus sang they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell.

PARKER

XV
THE KING’S EXILE

Let rogues and cheats prognosticate
Concerning kings’ or kingdoms’ fate,
I think myself to be as wise
As he that gazeth on the skies,
Whose sight goes beyond
The depth of a pond
Or rivers in the greatest rain;
For I can tell
All will be well,
When the King enjoys his own again!

Though for a time we see Whitehall
With cobwebs hanging on the wall,
Instead of gold and silver brave,
Which formerly ’twas wont to have,
With rich perfume
In every room,
Delightful to that princely train,—
Yet the old again shall be
When the happy time you see
That the King enjoys his own again.

Full forty years this royal crown
Hath been his father’s and his own;
And is there any one but he
That in the same should sharer be?
For who better may
The sceptre sway
Than he that hath such right to reign?
Then let’s hope for a peace,
For the wars will not cease
Till the King enjoys his own again.

Martin Parker.

ANONYMOUS

XVI
HERE’S A HEALTH

Here’s a health unto His Majesty,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!
Confusion to his enemies,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!
And he that will not drink his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!

Anonymous.

DRYDEN

XVII
A SONG OF KING ARTHUR

Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound;
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound:
We come, we come, we come, we come,
Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum.

Now they charge on amain,
Now they rally again:
The gods from above the mad labour behold,
And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground,
Their trumpets languish in the sound:
They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly;
Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory’s won,
To the plunder we run:
We return to our lasses like fortunate traders,
Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish’d invaders.

John Dryden.

XVIII
LONDON IN 1666

Methinks already from this chymic flame
I see a city of more precious mould,
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With silver paved, and all divine with gold.

Already, labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow,
And seems to have renewed her charter’s date
Which Heaven will to the death of time allow.

More great than human now and more august,
New deified she from her fires does rise:
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.

Before, she like some shepherdess did show
Who sate to bathe her by a river’s side,
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.

Now like a maiden queen she will behold
From her high turrets hourly suitors come;
The East with incense and the West with gold
Will stand like suppliants to receive her dome.

The silver Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train,
And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again.

The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier Rhine
The glory of their towns no more shall boast,
The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost.

The venturous merchant, who designed more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charmed with the splendour of this northern star
Shall here unlade him and depart no more.

Our powerful navy shall no longer meet
The wealth of France or Holland to invade;
The beauty of this town without a fleet
From all the world shall vindicate her trade.

And while this famed emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast,
That those who now disdain our trade to share
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.

Already we have conquered half the war,
And the less dangerous part is left behind;
Our trouble now is but to make them dare
And not so great to vanquish as to find.

Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
And now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more!
A constant trade-wind will securely blow
And gently lay us on the spicy shore.

John Dryden.

THOMSON

XIX
RULE BRITANNIA

When Britain first at Heaven’s command
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of her land,
And guardian angels sang the strain:
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free—
The dread and envy of them all!

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the last blast which tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown’d,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:—
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves!

James Thomson.

DYER

XX
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN

Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace,
To faction an end, to wealth increase!
Come, let’s drink it while we have breath,
For there’s no drinking after death;—
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men—
Down among the dead men—
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!

John Dyer.

ANONYMOUS

XXI
GOD SAVE THE KING

God save our lord, the King,
Long live our noble King,—
God save the King!
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,—
God save the King!

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter his enemies,
And make them fall!
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks!
On Thee our hopes we fix,—
God save us all!

Thy choicest gifts in store
On him be pleased to pour,—
Long may he reign!
May he defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice
God save the King!

Anonymous.

GARRICK

XXII
HEARTS OF OAK

Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year,
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away;
If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore,
For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,
Her standard be justice, her watchword ‘Be free’;
Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

David Garrick.

COLLINS

XXIII
THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE

How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

William Collins.

COWPER

XXIV
BOADICEA

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien
Counsel of her country’s gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief:

‘Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
’Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

‘Rome shall perish,—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

‘Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

‘Other Romans shall arise
Heedless of a soldier’s name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

‘Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

‘Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.’

Such the bard’s prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She with all a monarch’s pride
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rushed to battle, fought, and died,
Dying, hurled them at the foe:

‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you!’

William Cowper.

XXV
THE ROYAL GEORGE