Part 10

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay With the galleons fair in sight; Howard at last must give him his way, And the word was passed to fight. Never was schoolboy gayer than he, Since holidays first began: He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, And under the guns he ran.

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, Their cities he put to the sack; He singed His Catholic Majesty’s beard, And harried his ships to wrack. He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls When the great Armada came; But he said, ‘They must wait their turn, good souls,’ And he stooped and finished the game.

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, Duncan he had but two; But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, And his colours aloft he flew. ‘I’ve taken the depth to a fathom,’ he cried, ‘And I’ll sink with a right good will: For I know when we’re all of us under the tide My flag will be fluttering still.’

Splinters were flying above, below, When Nelson sailed the Sound: ‘Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,’ Said he, ‘for a thousand pound!’ The Admiral’s signal bade him fly, But he wickedly wagged his head: He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, And ‘I’m damned if I see it!’ he said.

Admirals all, they said their say (The echoes are ringing still). Admirals all, they went their way To the haven under the hill. But they left us a kingdom none can take-- The realm of the circling sea-- To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, And the Rodneys yet to be.

_Admirals all, for England’s sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson’s peerless name!_

_Henry Newbolt._

CXIII

DRAKE’S DRUM

Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe, An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’, He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an’ rüled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), Rovin’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. ‘Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low; If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven, An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.’

Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’, They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago!

_Henry Newbolt._

CXIV

A TOAST

Drake’s luck to all that sail with Drake For promised lands of gold! Brave lads, whatever storms may break, We’ve weathered worse of old! To-night the loving-cup we’ll drain, To-morrow for the Spanish Main!

_Henry Newbolt._

KIPLING

CXV

THE FLAG OF ENGLAND

Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro-- And what should they know of England who only England know?-- The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag.

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt? We may not speak of England? her Flag’s to sell or share. What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!

The North Wind blew:--‘From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’

The South Wind sighed:--‘From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon Their endless ocean legends to the lazy locked lagoon.

Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze-- Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.

I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it North, to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.

My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’

The East Wind roared:--‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!

The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.

Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake-- Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.

The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!’

The West Wind called:--‘In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, And I loose my neck from their service and whelm them all in my wrath.

I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll: For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.

But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’

_Rudyard Kipling._

CXVI

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

_Rudyard Kipling._

WATT

CXVII

THE GREY MOTHER

Lo, how they come to me, Long through the night I call them, Ah, how they turn to me!

East and South my children scatter, North and West the world they wander,

Yet they come back to me, Come with their brave hearts beating, Longing to die for me,

Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, Throned amid the northern waters,

Where they have died for me, Died with their songs around me, Girding my shores for me.

Narrow was my dwelling for them, Homes they builded o’er the ocean,

Yet they leave all for me, Hearing their Mother calling, Bringing their lives for me.

Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, Out from under stars I know not,

Come they to fight for me, Sons of the sons I nurtured, God keep them safe for me!

Long ago their fathers saved me, Died for me among the heather,

Now they come back to me, Come, in their children’s children ... Brave of the brave for me.

In the wilds and waves they slumber, Deep they slumber in the deserts,

Rise they from graves for me, Graves where they lay forgotten, Shades of the brave for me.

Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, For I see them fall and perish,

Strewing the hills for me, Claiming the world in dying, Bought with their blood for me.

Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, Blessing now her dying children,--

God keep you safe for me, Christ watch you in your sleeping, Where ye have died for me!

And when God’s own slogan soundeth, All the dead world’s dust awaking,

Ah, will ye look for me? Bravely we’ll stand together I and my sons with me.

_Lauchlan MacLean Watt._

BOWLES

CXVIII

THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES[A]

Listen! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, Hearken! my brothers of over the seas, Say! do your class-rooms seem dingy and narrow? List to the sound of the sea-scented breeze. Now for a moment if dreary your lot is, Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, List to the tale and the song of the snotties, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea.

_The song of the snotties (The poor little snotties), Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, The dirk and the patches, The bruises and scratches, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea!_

Early we left you and late are returning Back to the land of our story and birth, Back to the land of our glory and yearning, Back from the uttermost ends of the earth. Hear you the bucket and clang of the brasses Working together by perfect decree? That is the tale of the glory which passes-- That is the song of the snotties at sea!

Often at noon when the gale’s at its strongest, Sadly we think of the days that are gone; Often at night when the watches are longest Have your remembrances heartened us on. And in the mazes of dim recollection, Still we’ll remember the days that are past, Till, on the hopes of a schoolboy affection, Death and his angels shall trample at last.

What though the enemy taunt and deride us! Have we forgotten the triumphs of yore? What if the oceans may seem to divide us! Brothers, remember the friendship we bore. Lo! it is finished--the day of probations. Up! and we stand for the England to be. Then, as the Head and the Front of the Nations, Brothers, your health!--from the snotties at sea!

_‘Stand well,’ say the snotties (‘Good luck,’ say the snotties), ‘And wisely and firmly and great shall we be; For monarchies tremble, And empires dissemble, But Britain shall stand’--say the snotties at sea!_

_George Frederic Stewart Bowles._

[A] From _A Gun-Room Ditty Box_ (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission of author and publishers.

II

WALES

GRAY

CXIX

THE BARD

‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears.’ Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance; ‘To arms!’ cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master’s hand and prophet’s fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: ‘Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.

‘Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue That hushed the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie, Smeared with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries!-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

‘Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward’s race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkeley’s roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

‘Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o’er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.

‘Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame, And spare the meek usurper’s holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

‘Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun); Half of thy heart we consecrate (The web is wove; the work is done). Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia’s issue, hail!

‘Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.

‘The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy diction drest. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine.’ He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

_Thomas Gray._

HUNT

CXX

BODRYDDAN

O land of Druid and of Bard, Worthy of bearded Time’s regard, Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, Proud with mountains, rich with vales, And of such valour that in thee Was born a third of chivalry (And is to come again, they say, Blowing its trumpets into day, With sudden earthquake from the ground, And in the midst, great Arthur crown’d), I used to think of thee and thine As one of an old faded line Living in his hills apart, Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:-- But now that I have seen thy face, Thy fields, and ever youthful race, And women’s lips of rosiest word (So rich they open), and have heard The harp still leaping in thy halls, Quenchless as the waterfalls, I know thee full of pulse as strong As the sea’s more ancient song And of a sympathy as wide; And all this truth, and more beside, I should have known, had I but seen, O Flint, thy little shore; and been Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand, Bodryddan’s living Fairyland.

_James Henry Leigh Hunt._

HEMANS

CXXI

THE HARP OF WALES

Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirla’s horn was crown’d, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!

Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-- Ring out; thou harp! he could not silence thee.

Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, His banners floated on Eryri’s gales; But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! _Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.

Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall-- Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord! Call back that spirit to the days of peace, Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!

_Felicia Hemans._

CXXII

PRINCE MADOG’S FAREWELL

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer whose way Lies far o’er the measureless paths of the deep. Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!

Why rise in my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? Be hush’d! be forgotten! for ne’er shall the land Of the minstrel with melody greet my return. No, no! let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas!

’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars I resign; But my soul’s quenchless fire, oh, my country, is thine!

_Felicia Hemans._

JONES

CXXIII

THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH

Glyndwr, see thy comet flaming! Hear a heav’nly voice declaiming, To the world below proclaiming ‘Cambria shall be free!’ While thy star on high is beaming, Soldiers from the mountain teeming, With their spears and lances gleaming, Come to follow thee. Hear the trumpet sounding, While the steeds are bounding! On the gale from hill and dale The war-cry is resounding.

Warriors famed in song and story, Coming from the mountains hoary, Rushing to the field of glory, Eager for the fray,-- To the valley wending, Hearths and homes defending With their proud and valiant Prince From ancient kings descending,-- See the mighty host advancing, Sunbeams on their helmets dancing! On his gallant charger prancing Glyndwr leads the way.

Now to battle they are going, Every heart with courage glowing, Pride and passion overflowing, In the furious strife; Lo, the din of war enrages, Vengeance crowns the hate of ages, Sternly foe with foe engages, Feeding Death with Life! Hear the trumpets braying, And the horses neighing! Hot the strife while fiery foes Are one another slaying!

Arrows fly as swift as lightning, Shout on shout the tumult height’ning, Conquest’s ruddy wing is bright’ning Helmet, sword and shield; With their lances flashing, Warriors wild are crashing Through the tyrant’s serried ranks, Whilst onwards they are dashing! Now the enemy is flying, Trampling on the dead and dying; Victory aloft is crying ‘Cambria wins the field!’

_John Jones._

MORRIS

CXXIV

LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD