Part 4
When from my love to part I first weigh’d anchor, And she was sniv’ling seed on the beach below, I’d like to cotch’d my eyes sniv’ling too, d’ye see, to thank her, But I brought my sorrows up with a ‘Yo heave ho!’ For sailors, though they have their jokes, And love and feel like other folks, Their duty to neglect must not come for to go; So I seized the capstern bar, Like a true honest tar, And, in spite of tears and sighs, sang out ‘Yo heave ho!’
But the worst on’t was that time when the little ones were sickly, And if they’d live or die the doctor did not know; The word was gov’d to weigh so sudden and so quickly, I thought my heart would break as I sung ‘Yo heave ho!’ For Poll’s so like her mother, And as for Jack, her brother, The boy, when he grows up will nobly fight the foe; But in Providence I trust, For you see what must be must, So my sighs I gave the winds and sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’
And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, For I’ve only lost an eye, and got a timber toe; But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission, Nor again the anchor weigh with ‘Yo heave ho!’ So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,-- For my boy shall well revenge my wrongs, And my girl shall breed young sailors, nobly for to face the foe;-- Then to Country and King, Fate no danger can bring, While the tars of Old England sing out ‘Yo heave ho!’
_Charles Dibdin._
ANONYMOUS
XXIX
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, But of all the world’s great heroes, there’s none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!
Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies’ ears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry, ‘Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! ‘Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!’ Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!
_Anonymous._
ANONYMOUS
XXX
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME
I’m lonesome since I cross’d the hill, And o’er the moor and valley; Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, Since parting with my Sally. I seek no more the fine or gay, For each does but remind me How swift the hours did pass away, With the girl I’ve left behind me.
Oh, ne’er shall I forget the night, The stars were bright above me, And gently lent their silv’ry light When first she vowed to love me. But now I’m bound to Brighton camp, Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl I’ve left behind me.
My mind her form shall still retain, In sleeping, or in waking, Until I see my love again, For whom my heart is breaking. If ever I return that way, And she should not decline me, I evermore will live and stay With the girl I’ve left behind me.
_Anonymous._
HOARE
XXXI
THE _ARETHUSA_
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold, Huzza for the _Arethusa_! She is a frigate tight and brave, As ever stemmed the dashing wave; Her men are staunch To their fav’rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire On board of the _Arethusa_.
’Twas with the spring fleet she went out The English Channel to cruise about, When four French sail, in show so stout Bore down on the _Arethusa_. The famed _Belle Poule_ straight ahead did lie, The _Arethusa_ seemed to fly, Not a sheet, or a tack, Or a brace, did she slack; Though the Frenchmen laughed and thought it stuff, But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, On board of the _Arethusa_.
On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the _Arethusa_. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, ‘Ho!’ The Frenchman then cried out ‘Hallo!’ ‘Bear down, d’ye see, To our admiral’s lee!’ ‘No, no,’ says the Frenchman, ‘that can’t be!’ ‘Then I must lug you along with me,’ Says the saucy _Arethusa_.
The fight was off the Frenchman’s land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand Of the gallant _Arethusa_. And now we’ve driven the foe ashore Never to fight with the Britons more, Let each fill his glass To his fav’rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the _Arethusa_.
_Prince Hoare._
BLAKE
XXXII
JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND
England, awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, And close her from thy ancient walls?
Thy hills and valleys felt her feet Gently upon their bosoms move: Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways; Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult; and London’s towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England’s green and pleasant bowers.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountain green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green and pleasant land.
_William Blake._
WORDSWORTH
XXXIII
ON LANDING IN ENGLAND
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;-- All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My Country! and ’tis joy enough and pride For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear Companion at my side.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXIV
DESTINY
It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood!’ Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever--In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXV
THE MOTHERLAND
When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men: And I, by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
_William Wordsworth._
XXXVI
TO THE MEN OF KENT
(_October, 1803_)
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, Ye children of a soil that doth advance Her haughty bow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent! They from their fields can see the countenance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; Confirmed the charters that were yours before;-- No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; We all are with you now from shore to shore;-- Ye men of Kent, ’tis victory or death!
_William Wordsworth._
XXXVII
THE HAPPY WARRIOR
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: --Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: --He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- ’Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXVIII
AFTER WATERLOO
Who to the murmurs of an earthly string Of Britain’s acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tell Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell: Of One that, ’mid the failing, never failed-- Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity; Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, All martial duties to fulfill; Firm as a rock in stationary fight; In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam; Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream-- Woe, woe to all that face her in the field! Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield.
_William Wordsworth._
XXXIX
MERRY ENGLAND
They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time, A happy people won for thee that name With envy heard in many a distant clime, And, spite of change, for me thou keep’st the same Endearing title, a responsive chime To the heart’s fond belief: though some there are Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare For inattentive Fancy, like the lime Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, This face of rural beauty be a mask For discontent, and poverty, and crime; These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? Forbid it, Heaven!--and MERRY ENGLAND still Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!
_William Wordsworth._
XL
HOPE
Despond who will--_I_ heard a voice exclaim, ‘Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defence, It cannot be that Britain’s social frame, The glorious work of time and providence, Before a flying season’s rash pretence, Should fall; that She, whose virtue put to shame, When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror’s aim, Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense The cloud is; but brings that a day of doom To Liberty? Her sun is up the while, That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone: Then laugh, ye innocent Vales! ye Streams, sweep on, Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume.’
_William Wordsworth._
SCOTT
XLI
IN MEMORIAM
(NELSON: PITT: FOX)
To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But O my Country’s wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise; The mind that thought for Britain’s weal, The hand that grasped the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where glory weeps o’er NELSON’S shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallowed tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where’er his country’s foes were found Was heard the fated thunder’s sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Rolled, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launched that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britain’s weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain’s sins, an early grave! His worth, who in his mightiest hour A bauble held the pride of power, Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, from the frantic crowd amain Strained at subjection’s bursting rein, O’er their wild mood full conquest gained, The pride he would not crush restrained, Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propped the tottering throne: Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpet’s silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill!
O think, how to his latest day, When death, just hovering, claimed his prey, With Palinure’s unaltered mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Till in his fall with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way! Then, while on Britain’s thousand plains One unpolluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound, But still, upon the hallowed day, Convoke the swains to praise and pray; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear,-- He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy _requiescat_ dumb, Lest it be said o’er FOX’S tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employed, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,-- They sleep with him who sleeps below: And, if thou mourn’st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be ever harsher thought suppressed, And sacred be the long last rest. _Here_, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke and sung; _Here_, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, ‘All peace on earth, good-will to men’; If ever from an English heart, O, _here_ let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record, that FOX a Briton died! When Europe crouched to France’s yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian’s purpose brave Was bartered by a timorous slave, Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned, The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country’s glory fast, And nailed her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honoured grave, And ne’er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust. With more than mortal powers endowed, How high they soared above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled Gods, their mighty war Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Looked up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and FOX alone. Spells of such force no wizard grave E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tombed beneath the stone, Where--taming thought to human pride!-- The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon FOX’S grave the tear, ’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier; O’er PITT’S the mournful requiem sound, And FOX’S shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry,-- ‘Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?’
_Sir Walter Scott._
DIBDIN
XLII
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND
Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say, ‘If ever I live upon dry land, The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!’ Says Freedom, ‘Why that’s my own island!’ O, it’s a snug little island! A right little, tight little island, Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, Came by water,--he couldn’t come _by_ land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on, And all for the sake of our island. O, what a snug little island! They’d all have a touch at the island! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some staid to live on the island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried ‘D--n it, I never liked my land; It would be much more handy to leave this Nor_man_dy, And live on yon beautiful island.’ Says he, ‘’Tis a snug little island: Sha’n’t us go visit the island?’ Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick’d up a dust in the island.
But party-deceit help’d the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed to buy land, By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d, Had they stuck to the King of their island. Poor Harold, the King of the island! He lost both his life and his island. That’s very true; what more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his island!
The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a, Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land, They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing in the island. O, the poor Queen of the island! The Dons came to plunder the island; But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive, And buz was the word in the island.
Those proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the island. Huzza for the lads of the island! The good wooden walls of the island; Devil or Don, let ’em come on; But how would they come _off_ at the island?
Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, ‘This shall be my land’; Should the ‘Army of England,’ or all they could bring, land, We’d show ’em some play for the island. We’ll fight for our right to the island; We’ll give them enough of the island; Invaders should just--bite at the dust, But not a bit more of the island!
_Thomas Dibdin._
XLIII
THE MERRY SOLDIER
‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud: Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly; ‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd, ‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’ My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid: He’d march, fight--left, right, Front flank--centre rank, Storm the trenches--court the wenches, Loved the rattle of a battle, Died with glory--lives in story! And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill: Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly; ‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’ For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly. My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back, Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack. In sword and sash cut a dash, Spurr’d and booted, next recruited Hob and Clod--awkward squad, Then began my rattan, When boys unwilling came to drilling; Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff, Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.