Chapter 16
Let no cur bark, or spurt Defilement, trying to tarnish this fair fame; No Alien drag our Banner through the dirt Because it blazons England's noble name.
Upon the lips of Praise They lay their own hands, saying, _"We have not won Great battles for you, nor Immortal bays, But what your boys were given to do is done!"_
When Clouds were closing round The Island-home, our Pole-star of the North, Australia fired her Beacons--rose up crowned With a new dawn upon the ancient earth.
For us they filled a cup More rare than any we can brim to them! The patriot-passion did so lift men up, They looked as if each wore a diadem!
Best honours we shall give, If to that loftier outlook still we climb; And in our unborn children there shall live The larger spirit of this great quickening time.
To-day is the Women's day! With them there's no more need o' the proud disguise They wore when their young heroes sailed away; Soft smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes!
And, when to the full breast, O mothers! your re-given ones you take, And in your long embraces they are blest, Give them one hug at heart for England's sake.
The Mother of us all! Dear to us, near to us, though so far apart; For whose defence we are sworn to stand or fall In the same battle as Brothers one at heart.
All one to bear the brunt, All one we move together in the march, Shoulder to shoulder; to the Foe all front, The wide world round; all heaven one Triumph Arch.
One in the war of Mind For clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers; One for the Federation of mankind, Who will speak one language, and that language ours.
"SOUND THE ASSEMBLY!"
BY CLEMENT SCOTT.
_(From Punch's Souvenir. May 3rd, 1900.)_
Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! For England has need of her bravest to-day. Sound! and the World Universal will know We shall fight to a finish, in front or at bay. Sound the Assembly! They'll hear it, and spring To the saddle, and gallop wherever they're led. Sound! Every city and village will ring With the shout "To the front!" It shall never be said--
That an Englishman's heart ever failed in its glow For Queen, or for country, when threatened by foe, For Liberty, stabbed by oppression and woe, So, Sound the Assembly! Blow! Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! You'll see, as of yore, The Service united in heart and in head, When blue-jackets leap from their ships to the shore To bring up the guns for their comrades in red! Sound the Assembly! Our Naval Brigade Will prove they are sailors and soldiers as well; They will pull, they will haul, they will march, they will wade, And dash into furnaces hotter than hell!
A long pull, a strong pull, a cheery "Yo! ho!" Do you see that big mountain? 'Tis Jack who will know To be first at the top, when, by gad! he will crow! So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Brave Union Jack! You have floated triumphant on sea and on shore; Old England and Scotland are still back to back, And Ireland, God bless her! is with us once more. Sound the Assembly! Come! Forward! Quick march! What! Feather-bed soldiers? Bah! give them the lie. Divested by war of Society starch They will shout "'Tis a glorious death to die!"--
What land in the world could produce such a show Of heroes, who face both siroccos and snow, Rush madly to danger, and never lie low? So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly!
Sound the Assembly! Form, citizens, form! From smoke of the city, from country so green, A horse of irregulars sweeps like a storm To defend with their lives their dear country and Queen! Sound the Assembly! Come! Volunteers, come! Leave oldsters at grinding and tilling the sod! Bold Yoemen, enrolled for defence of their home, Enlist with a cheer for the Empire, thank God!--
To the front! to the front! with their faces aglow, They will march, the dear lads, with a pulse and a go; Wave flags o'er the Workman, the Johnnie, the Beau, So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly!
THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR.
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
When you've shouted "Rule Britannia"--when you've sung "God Save the Queen"-- When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth-- Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine For a gentleman in kharki ordered South? He's an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great-- But we and Paul must take him as we find him-- He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate-- And he's left a lot o' little things behind him!
Duke's son--cook's son--son of a hundred kings-- (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after their things?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay--pay--pay!
There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to, For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did. There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due, And it's more than rather likely there's a kid. There are girls he walked with casual, they'll be sorry now he's gone, For an absent-minded beggar they will find him; But it ain't the time for sermons with the winter coming on-- We must help the girl that Tommy's left behind him!
Cook's son--Duke's son--son of a belted Earl-- Son of a Lambeth publican--it's all the same to-day! Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the girl?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak-- And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout, And they'll live on half o' nothing paid 'em punctual once a week, 'Cause the man that earned the wage is ordered out. He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call, And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him: He chucked his job and joined it--so the job before us all Is to help the home that Tommy's left behind him!
Duke's job--cook's job--gardener, baronet, groom-- Mews or palace or paper-shop--there's someone gone away! Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the room?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face, And tell him--what he'd very much prefer-- That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved his place, And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her. He's an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget it all, But we do not want his kiddies to remind him, That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul, So we'll help the home our Tommy's left behind him!
Cook's home--Duke's home--home of a millionaire. (Fifty'thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) Each of 'em doing his country's work (and what have you got to spare?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay!
FOR THE EMPIRE.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
It is no more place and party, It is no more begging votes; But the roaring of steam-packets, And a rushing of bluejackets And a rally of redcoats; For the Empire's will is hearty, Thundered by united throats.
We are sick of talk and treason, There is duty to be done; By the veteran in danger, And the lad who is a stranger Unto strife and shrinks from none; In the power of right and reason, Now all classes are but one.
We have suffered and have yielded, Till we felt the burning shame; And long outrage and endurance Are our glory of assurance To begin the bloody game; By our honour are we shielded, In the might of England's name.
It is no more fume of faction, It is no more weary calls; We are strong in faith and steady, With the sword of Justice ready And our iron men and walls; Since the hour has struck for action, And red retribution falls.
We have wrongs, which for redressing Cry aloud to God at last; It is woe to him who trifles When we speak across our rifles At the great and final cast; And we seek no other blessing Than the blotting out the past.
We will brook no new denial, We will have no second tale; And we seek no sordid laurels, But here fight the ages' quarrels And for freedom's broadening pale-- Lo, an Empire on its trial, Hangs within the awful scale.
WANTED--A CROMWELL.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
O for an hour of Cromwell's might Who raised an Empire out of dust, And lifted it to noontide light By simple and heroic trust; Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust, And clove its way through crowned night. We want old England's iron stock, Hewn of the same eternal rock.
Where is the man of equal part, To rule by right divine of power; With statesman's head and soldier's heart, And all the ages' dreadful dower Brought to a bright and perfect flower-- From whom a nobler course may start? We hear but faction's fume and cry, With England in her agony.
Where is the master mind that reads The far-off issues of the day, And with a willing nation pleads That loves to own a master sway? Where are the landmarks on the way, Set up alone by him who leads? We vainly ask a common creed To make us one in England's need.
Is there no man with broader reach To fill a thorny throne of care, And bravely act and bravely teach Because in all he has a share? No helper who will do and dare, And stand a bulwark in the breach? Have we no lord of England's fate, Though coming from a cottage gate?
O surely somewhere is the hand To grasp and guide this reeling realm, While in the hour-glass sinks the sand And faints the pilot at the helm; If billows break to overwhelm, Yet he will conquer and command. England is waiting to be led, If through the dying and the dead.
We do not seek the party fame That trafficks in a people's fall, But one to shield our burning shame And answer just his country's call; To weld us in a solid wall, And kindle with a common flame. Ah, when she finds the fitting man, England will do what England can.
ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed, As witness conquered tides, And many a pasture sown with crimson seed-- Our English Ironsides; And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain, They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain. The same grand spirit in the same grim stress Arms them with stubborn mail; They see the light of duty's loveliness And over death prevail. They never count the price or weigh the odds, The work is theirs, the victory is God's.
They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock, Where stern the horseman rides, Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock-- Our English Ironsides. Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag They bear the honour of the ancient flag. What if they starve, or on red pillows lie Beneath a burning sun? It is enough to live their day, or die Ere it has even begun; They only ask what duty's voice would crave, And march right on to glory or the grave.
THE THREE CHERRY-STONES.
ANONYMOUS.
Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not.
The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional.
The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group.
Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.
Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two.
As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.
The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party--it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry--three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon.
They met, and fired alternately, by lot--the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire--he did--fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired--the ball passed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note--a challenge, of course--and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay.
Again they met--fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist--the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the _modus operandi_ and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month passed--another--and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain.
At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope.
"And what, sir, am I to understand by this?" inquired the aggressor.
"You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you--he is dead."
THE MIDSHIPMAN'S FUNERAL.
BY BARLEY DALE.
"Years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was appointed chaplain to H.M.S. _Octopus_, then on guard at Gibraltar. We had a very nice time of it, for 'Gib.' is a very gay place, and that winter there was plenty of fun somewhere nearly every night, and we were asked to most of the festivities. Now, on board the Octopus was a young midshipman, whom I will call Munro. He was a handsome young fellow, but rather delicate, and he had been sent to Gibraltar for the sake of the climate, in hopes that the sea-air and warm winter might set him up. He was the life of the ship, and wherever he went he was popular; and it is possible he might have outgrown his weakness, for I don't think there was any organic disease at this time, but he got a low fever, and died in a week. This low fever was very prevalent, and at the same time that poor young Munro died, an admiral, one of the leading members of society at 'Gib.,' died of the same disease. As it was considered infectious, the two bodies were placed in their coffins and carried to the mortuary till the funeral. Oddly enough, both funerals were fixed for the same day; Munro's in the morning, and the admiral's in the afternoon. The admiral's was to be a very grand affair, all the troops in the garrison were to follow, as well as the naval officers and sailors on board the guardships; the ceremony was to be performed by the bishop, assisted by some other clergy while as for poor Munro, I was to bury him at ten o'clock in the morning, six men were told off to carry the coffin, and it was left to those who liked to act as mourners.
"Well, the day of the funerals arrived, all the ships were decked with flags half-mast high in honour of the admiral, minute-guns were fired in honour of the admiral, church bells tolled in honour of the admiral, while as for poor Munro (one or two of us excepted), no one thought of him. Ten o'clock came, and I with the doctor and ore of Munro's comrades, another middy, and the six sailors, who, by the way, had all volunteered their services, set out for the mortuary; I had a fancy to follow the poor fellow as far as I could, so I waited while the jack tars went inside and fetched out the coffin covered with the union-jack, and Munro's hat and sword on the top, and then the little procession took its way across the neutral ground to the English cemetery. I followed the coffin, and the other two brought up the rear. The sentries did not salute us as we passed them. At last we reached the cemetery gates. Here I was obliged to relegate my post of chief mourner to the doctor, while I went into the chapel, put on my surplice, and went to the door to meet the body. I then proceeded to bury the poor boy, and when the union-jack was taken off and the coffin lowered into the grave, I leant over to take one last look; the doctor did the same, and as our eyes met the same emotion caused us both to blow our noses violently, and it was in a voice of suppressed emotion that I concluded the service.
"I was so disgusted with the way in which the poor boy had been slighted that I had not intended going to the admiral's funeral; but after burying Munro I felt more charitably disposed, so I got into my uniform and duly attended the admiral's obsequies.
"It was a very grand affair indeed; the streets were thronged with spectators, every window was filled with eager faces as the enormous procession passed by. There were five regiments stationed in Gibraltar at the time, and two men-of-war besides the _Octopus_ lying in the harbour; detachments from every regiment were sent, three military bands followed, a battery of artillery, the marines and all the jack tars in the place, the governor and his staff were there, and every officer, who was not on the sick list, quartered in Gibraltar, was present. A firing party was told off to fire over the grave when all was over, and this brilliant procession was met at the cemetery-gates by the bishop, attended by several clergymen and a surpliced choir. I forgot to say that a string of carriages followed the troops, and the entire procession could not have been much less than a mile long.
"As we crossed the neutral ground this time, the sentry, with arms reversed, saluted us; and the strains of Beethoven's 'Funeral March of a Hero,' must have been heard all over Gibraltar as the three bands--one in front, one in the rear, and one in the centre--all pealed it forth.
"Of course, not one-third of the funeral _cortège_ could get near the grave; but I managed to get pretty close. The service proceeded, and at length the coffin was uncovered to be lowered into the grave; it was smothered with flowers, but the wreaths were all carefully removed, and the admiral's cocked-hat and sword, and then the union-jack was off, and the bishop, the governor, and all the officers near the grave pressed forward to look at the coffin.
"They looked once, they started; they looked again, they frowned; they rubbed their eyes; they looked again, then they whispered; they sniffed, they snorted, they grumbled; they gave hurried orders to the sextons, who shovelled some earth on to the coffin, and the bishop hurriedly finished the service.
"What do you think they saw when they looked into the grave?
"Why, poor Munro's coffin! I buried the admiral myself in the morning, by mistake. The doctor and I found it out at the grave, but we kept our own counsel."--_Young England_.
LADYSMITH.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
I.--LADYSMITH OCCUPIED.
Flushed with fight and red with glory, Conquerors if backward flung, Fresh from triumphs grim and gory, Toward the goal the Army swung; Splendid, but with recent laurels Dimmed by shadow of defeat, Thirsting yet for nobler quarrels-- Never dreaming of retreat.
Day by day they grimly struggled, Early on and on till late; Night by night with doom they juggled, Dodging Death and fighting Fate. Not a murmur once was spoken, Stern endurance still unspent, As with spirit all unbroken On the bitter march they went.
Still with weary steps that stumbled Forward moved that constant tread, Sleepless, silent, and unhumbled, On and on the army sped, Noble sons of noble mothers, Proud of home and kin and kith, Brothers to the aid of brothers, On and on to Ladysmith.