To Arms! (II)
Now let the cry, ``To Arms! To Arms!''
Go ringing round the world;
And swift a wave-wide Empire swarms
Round Battleflag unfurled!
Wherever glitters Britain's might,
Or Britain's banner flies,
Leap up mailed myriads with the light
Of manhood in their eyes;
Calling from farmstead, mart, and strand,
``We come! And we! And we!
That British steel may hold the land,
And British keels the sea!''
From English hamlet, Irish hill,
Welsh hearths, and Scottish byres,
They throng to show that they are still
Sons worthy of their sires:
That what these did, we still can do,
That what they were, we are,
Whose fathers fought at Waterloo,
And died at Trafalgar!
Shoulder to shoulder see them stand,
Wherever menace be,
To guard the lordship of the land
And the Trident of the sea.
Nor in the parent Isle alone
Spring squadrons from the ground;
Canadian shore and Austral zone
With kindred cry resound:
``From shimmering plain and snow-fed stream,
Across the deep we come,
Seeing the British bayonets gleam,
Hearing the British drum.
Foot in the stirrup, hilt in hand,
Free men, to keep men free,
All, all will help to hold the land
While England guards the sea!''
Comrades in arms, from every shore
Where thundereth the main,
On to the front they press and pour
To face the rifles' rain;
To force the foe from covert crag,
And chase them till they fall,
Then plant for ever England's Flag
Upon the rebel wall!
What! Wrench the Sceptre from her hand,
And bid her bow the knee!
Not while her Yeomen guard the land,
And her ironclads the sea!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Related quotes
Crimean War
At the announcement that Britain was to declare War, Kossuth
the Hungarian Patriot and orator, declared in an address in
England, that the British Lion was a sea dog but helpless on land.
When the British Lion offered aid to the turk,
Round many lips a sneer of serious doubt did lurk,
They said he was at home on sea, but when on land
He would be as a ship wrecked upon the strand ;
Or like some huge, ungainly crockadile [sic]
Upon the marshy banks of sluggish Nile,
Who could move gayly on the deep
But on dry land could scarcely creep.
But up the Alma heights he rushed, like grayhounds after hare,
And in a moment by the throat he seized the Russian Bear,
Which begged so hard for mercy, his life he did it spare,
And closely now it is confined within its native lair;
For its strong fortress great Sebastapool,
Was forced to submit to Great Britain's rule.
poem by James McIntyre
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The Flag
See the glorious stars and stripes,
Floating over there;
See how gracefully they wave
In the summer air.
We love to see that starry flag,
Wave in peace with ease,
And its colors, red, white and blue,
Unfurled to the breeze.
God grant that flag may ever wave
O'er our native land,
Where sons of freemen are united
In a happy band,
To celebrate the glorious Fourth,
The day we should adore;
Hail each anniversary day,
Now and evermore.
Our fathers fought beneath that flag
In the days of yore,
To gain their freedom from British laws,
Which they could not endure.
The cry was then for liberty,
On land and on sea;
They gained the glorious victory --
Our country now is free.
The land of Columbia's sons,
To-day is filled with joy;
Every heart should beat as one,
In the blessings we enjoy.
We should love our native land,
Where our fathers died,
We should keep the country free --
The early pilgrim's pride.
See the glorious stars and stripes,
Waving over there,
See the starry emblem, friends,
Floating in the air.
Proud it waves o'er our land,
Where it has waved for years,
May every freeman greet that flag
With three rousing cheers.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Canadian born
We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag--
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Stand Fast!
Stand fast, Great Britain!
Together England, Scotland, Ireland stand
One in the faith that makes a mighty land,
True to the bond you gave and will not break
And fearless in the fight for conscience' sake!
Against the Giant Robber clad in steel,
With blood of trampled Belgium on his heel,
Striding through France to strike you down at last,
Britain, stand fast !
Stand fast, brave land!
The Huns are thundering toward the citadel;
They prate of Culture but their path is Hell;
Their light is darkness, and the bloody sword
They wield and worship is their only Lord.
O land where reason stands secure on right,
O land where freedom is the source of light,
Against the mailed Barbarians' deadly blast,
Britain, stand fast!
Stand fast, dear land!
Thou island mother of a world-wide race,
Whose children speak thy tongue and love thy face,
Their hearts and hopes are with thee in the strife,
Their hands will break the sword that seeks thy life;
Fight on until the Teuton madness cease;
Fight bravely on, until the word of peace
Is spoken in the English tongue at last,
Britain, stand fast!
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Psalm 67
The nation's prosperity, and the church's increase.
Shine, mighty God, on Britain shine,
With beams of heav'nly grace;
Reveal thy power through all our coasts,
And show thy smiling face.
[Amidst our isle, exalted high,
Do thou our glory stand,
And, like a wall of guardian fire,
Surround the fav'rite land.]
When shall thy name, from shore to shore,
Sound all the earth abroad;
And distant nations know and love
Their Savior and their God?
Sing to the Lord, ye distant lands,
Sing loud with solemn voice;
While British tongues exalt his praise,
And British hearts rejoice.
He, the great Lord, the sovereign Judge,
That sits enthroned above,
Wisely commands the worlds he made
In justice and in love.
Earth shall obey her Maker's will,
And yield a full increase;
Our God will crown his chosen isle
With fruitfulness and peace.
God the Redeemer scatters round
His choicest favors here,
While the creation's utmost bound
Shall see, adore, and fear.
poem by Isaac Watts
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England
ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.
England, England, England,
Wherever a true heart beats,
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow,
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow,
Wherever the glories of liberty grow,
'Tis the name that the world repeats.
And ye, who dwell in the shadow
Of the century-sculptured piles,
Where sleep our century-honoured dead,
Whilst the great world thunders overhead,
And far out, miles on miles,
Beyond the smoke of the mighty town,
The blue Thames dimples and smiles;
Not yours alone the glory of old,
Of the splendid thousand years,
Of Britain's might and Britain's right
And the brunt of British spears.
Not yours alone, for the great world round,
Ready to dare and do,
Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane,
Are England's heroes too.
North and south and east and west,
Wherever their triumphs be,
Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle,
Where the heather blooms and the roses smile,
With the green isle under her lee.
And if ever the smoke of an alien gun
Should threaten her iron repose,
Shoulder to shoulder against the world,
Face to face with her foes,
Scot, and Celt and Saxon are one
Where the glory of England goes.
And we of the newer and vaster West,
Where the great war-banners are furled,
And commerce hurries her teeming hosts,
And the cannon are silent along our coasts,
Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim
A part in the glory and pride and aim
Of the Empire that girdles the world.
England, England, England,
Wherever the daring heart
By Arctic floe or torrid strand
Thy heroes play their part;
For as long as conquest holds the earth,
Or commerce sweeps the sea,
By orient jungle or western plain
Will the Saxon spirit be:
And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung,
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done,
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight,
And the war-wolf is dead in his den–
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.
Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world's great cannons rust,
Till the world's great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world's unrest,
In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the East and over the West,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Watching You, Watching Me, Watching You, Watching Everyone
So this is Great Britain
A green and pleasant land?
The home of CCTV Camera’s
To get speeding drivers banned
So this is Great Britain
The welfare state, & NHS
Great British Institutions?
Some think they’re in a mess
So this Is Great Britain
That once ruled the waves
An Empire and a Commonwealth?
Now issues ASBO’s if one misbehaves
So this is Great Britain
The Mother of Democracy?
The House of Commons and Lords
Ensuring justice & liberty?
So this is Great Britain
Where God saves the Queen
A land of hope & glory?
You can vote at age eighteen
So this is Great Britain
Are the pensioners in poverty?
They’ve never had it so good?
They’re all having a nice cup of tea
So this is Great Britain
A class system breeding inequality
Education, Education, Education?
Needing a dose of political honesty
So this is Great Britain
Still the mother of the free?
The police, council, & MI5
Are watching you or watching me
poem by Gordon David
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The British descended
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
from their island
on the other side of the sea
and in thousands
they came to ruin the land.
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
and from the sea they came
and an entire empire
send its soldiers to destroy,
to pillage and scorch the earth,
to rape, and imprison
the women and children
of the Afrikaner nation.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
with Christiaan De Wet, Cronje
and De La Rey
and they fought hard pressed,
to drive the British
and soldiers from all her colonies away.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war
and landed in prisoner of war camps in St. Helena
and although the second Anglo-Boer war was lost
and the Afrikaner nation paid the highest cost
in the destruction of the land,
the death of men
and the murder of innocent women and children,
a time came
that once more we were free.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
but one was from and with the enemy
and a highlander was he
and a more decent man
is still hard to find
and one that hated the English
for the dreadfull things that they did,
at times I see the restored Martini Henri rifles
taken from the British
during that bitter war
and the legacy and great spirit,
of my great grandfathers
still stays with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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To America in 1915
We watch your attitudes with candid eyes:
Plain men are we, not given much to prate,
Bluntly sincere, keenly compassionate
But lions in our wrath at treacheries;
Britons are we though under Austral skies
And of our lineage proud, fearless of Fate
For we have stamped our manhood with the great
Traditions – Britain's glorious legacies.
We've given ample proof we are a friend
Pledged to the truths your Pilgrim Fathers kenned,
The pure ideals of a people free
Which – are you blind? – our British arms defend
From ravages of vandals that would rend
The very vitals of Democracy.
poem by Arthur Bayldon
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Come Away
(g.bowser/j.jupp)
Published by chappell & co., ltd. - capac
As I walk along the lonely streets
I cant talk to the people that I meet
I see them come, and I see them go
I see them smile, and say hello
Come with me and take my hand
Ooh, fly away to another land, oh yes we will
Come with me and take my hand
Well fly away to another land
Come over here little girl
And Ill show you another world
Where we can be free to do as we want
Live our lives as we please, and say what we like, oh
Come with me and take my hand, ooh
Well fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand, oh
And fly away to another land
Theres so many things that remain to be done
And no one has thought of a way to begin
So follow me into my life
Come with me and take my hand (and take...)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (ooh)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (take my hand)
Fly away to another land (oh yes we will)
Come with me and take my hand (and take my hand, take my hand)
Fly away to another land (yeah)
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As far as your Rifles Cover
Do you think, you slaves of a thousand years to poverty, wealth and pride,
You can crush the spirit that has been free in a land that's new and wide?
When you've scattered the last of the farmer bands, and the war for a while is over,
You will hold the land – ay, you'll hold the land – the land that your rifles cover.
Till your gold has levelled each mountain range where a wounded man can hide,
Till your gold has lighted the moonless night on the plains where the rebels ride;
Till the future is proved, and the past is bribed from the son of the land's dead lover –
You may hold the land – you may hold the land just as far as your rifles cover.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Capture of Havana
'Twas in the year 1762 that France and Spain
Resolved, allied together, to crush Britain;
But the British Army sailed from England in May,
And arrived off Havana without any delay.
And the British Army resolved to operate on land,
And the appearance of the British troops were really grand;
And by the Earl of Albemarle the British troops were commanded,
All eager for to fight as soon as they were landed.
Arduous and trying was the work the British had to do,
Yet with a hearty goodwill they to it flew;
While the tropical sun on them blazed down,
But the poor soldiers wrought hard and didn't frown.
The bombardment was opened on the 30th of June,
And from the British battleships a fierce cannonade did boom;
And continued from six in the morning till two o'clock in the afternoon,
And with grief the French and Spaniards sullenly did gloom.
And by the 26th of July the guns of Fort Moro were destroyed,
And the French and Spaniards were greatly annoyed;
Because the British troops entered the Fort without dismay,
And drove them from it at the bayonet charge without delay.
But for the safety of the city the Governor organised a night attack,
Thinking to repulse the British and drive them back;
And with fifteen hundred militia he did the British attack,
But the British trench guards soon drove them back.
Then the Spandiards were charged and driven down the hill,
At the point of the bayonet sore against their will;
And they rushed to their boats, the only refuge they could find,
Leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind.
Then Lieutenant Forbes, at the head of his men,
Swept round the ramparts driving all before them;
And with levelled bayonets they drove them to and fro,
Then the British flag was hoisted over the bastions of Moro.
Then the Governor of the castle fell fighting sword in hand,
While rallying his men around the flagstaff the scene was grand;
And the Spaniards fought hard to save their ships of war,
But the British destroyed their ships and scattered them afar.
And every man in the Moro Fort was bayonet or shot,
Which in Spanish history will never be forgot;
And on the 10th of August Lord Albemarle sent a flag of truce,
And summoned the Governor to surrender, but he seemed to refuse.
Then from the batteries the British opened a terrific fire,
And the Spaniards from their guns were forced to retire,
Because no longer could they the city defend;
Then the firing ceased and hostilities were at an end.
Then the city of Havana surrendered unconditionally,
And terms were settled, and the harbour, forts, and city,
With a district of one hundred miles to the westward,
And loads of gold and silver were the British troops' reward.
And all other valuable property was brought to London,
The spoils that the British Army had won;
And it was conveyed in grand procession to the Tower of London,
And the Londoners applauded the British for the honours they had won.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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To A New England Poet
Though skilled in Latin and in Greek,
And earning fifty cents a week,
Such knowledge, and the income, too,
Should teach you better what to do:
The meanest drudges, kept in pay,
Can pocket fifty cents a day.
Why stay in such a tasteless land,
Where all must on a level stand,
(Excepting people, at their ease,
Who choose the level where they please:)
See Irving gone to Britain's court
To people of another sort,
He will return, with wealth and fame,
While Yankees hardly know your name.
Lo! he has kissed a Monarch's--hand!
Before a prince I see him stand,
And with the glittering nobles mix,
Forgetting times of seventy-six,
While you with terror meet the frown
Of Bank Directors of the town,
The home-made nobles of our times,
Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.
Why pause?--like Irving, haste away,
To England your addresses pay;
And England will reward you well,
Of British feats, and British arms,
The maids of honor, and their charms.
Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint,
In England what you write and print,
Republished here in shop, or stall,
Will perfectly enchant us all:
It will assume a different face,
And post your name at every place,
From splendid domes of first degree
Where ladies meet, to sip their tea;
From marble halls, where lawyers plead,
Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed,
To huts, where evening clubs appear,
And 'squires resort--to guzzle Beer.
poem by Philip Freneau
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The Old Land And The Young Land
The Young Land said, ``I have borne it long,
But can suffer it now no more;
I must end this endless inhuman wrong
Within hail of my own free shore.
So fling out the war-flag's folds, and let the righteous cannons roar!''
'Twas a quick, rash word, for the strong Young Land
Is a Land whose ways are peace;
It weareth no mail, and its keels are manned
With cotton, and corn, and fleece,
While lands there are that live cased in steel, and whose war-hammers never cease.
And these, when they saw the Young Land gird
Its loins to redress the wrong,
Whispered one to the other, ``Its heart is stirred,
But its hosts are an undrilled throng,
And its bolts yet to forge, so quick let us strike before that it grows too strong.''
And they said to the Old Land, ``Surely you
Will help us to foil its claim?
It waxeth in strength, as striplings do,
And it girds at its parent's name.
Take heed lest its overweening growth overshadow your fading fame.''
Then the Old Land said, ``Youth is strong and quick,
And Wisdom is strong but mild;
And blood than water is yet more thick,
And this Young Land is my child.
I am proud, not jealous, to watch it grow.''
Thus the Old Land spake and smiled.
``And look you,'' it said, ``at the strong Young Land
Strike for Freedom and Freedom's growth;
Which makes 'twixt us twain, though unsigned by hand,
A bond strong as lovers' troth.
So 'ware what you do, for, if you strike, you will strike not one, but both.''
Then they fretted and chafed; for, though shod in steel,
Their war-tread stops at the shore,
While the Old Land's breath is the breath of the gale,
And its music the wave-wind's roar.
Then they hated the Young Land's youth and strength, but they hated the Old Land more.
Now the Old Land, in turn, for Freedom's Cause
Speeds her sons to the Southern zone,
They snarl, ``Let us clip the Lion's claws,
The Lion that stands alone;
And harry her lair, and spear her cubs, and sit on the Lion's throne.''
And the Young Land laughs: ``With her foamsteeds fleet,
I guess she's a match for you all.
She hath saddled the sea, and more firm her seat
Than yours, that would ride for a fall,
If you put all your fighting force afield, and charged at her watery wall.
``But if ever, hemmed in by a world of foes,
Her sinews were sorely tried,
By the self-same blood in our veins that flows,
You would find me at her side,
So long as she strikes for the Cause for which her sons and my sons have died.''
And thus let it be until wrong shall end,
This bond strong as lovers' troth,
'Twixt Old Land and Young Land, to defend
Man's freedom and freedom's growth,
So if any should band against either now, they must meet, not one, but both!
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Bards, To The Soldiers Of Caractacus
VALIANT sons of freedom's land,
Ardent, firm, devoted band,
Rise, at honor's thrilling call:
Warriors, arm! shall Britain fall?
Rush, battle-steed,
Bleed, soldiers! bleed,
For Britain's throne, for glory's meed!
Heroes! to the combat fly,
Proud to struggle, blest to die;
Go! should death your efforts crown,
Mount the pinions of renown;
Go! tell our sires,
Their daring fires,
Glow in our lofty souls, till life expires!
Tell them, ne'er shall Britain yield,
Whilst a hand the sword can wield!
Tell them, we the strife maintain,
Tell them, we defy the chain!
In heart the same,
In patriot-flame
We emulate their brightest fame!
Shades of sainted chiefs! be near,
Frown on Albion's lifted spear!
Point the falchion, guide the car,
Flaming through the ranks of war!
Rise on the field,
With sword and shield,
To British eyes in forms of light reveal'd!
Spark of freedom, blaze on high!
Wilt thou quiver? shalt thou die?
Never, never! holy fire!
Mount, irradiate! beam, aspire!
Our foes consume,
Our swords illume,
And chase the dark horizon's gloom!
Shall the Roman arms invade
Mona's dark and hallow'd shade?
By the dread, mysterious wand,
Waving in the Druid's hand;
By ev'ry rite,
Of Mona's night,
Arm, warriors! arm, in sacred cause unite!
Honor! while thy bands disdain,
Slav'ry's dark, debasing chain;
Britain! while thy sons are free,
Dauntless, faithful, firm, for thee;
Mona! while at thy command,
Ardent, bold, sublime, they stand;
Proud foes in vain,
Prepare the chain,
For Albion unsubdu'd shall reign!
Lo! we see a flame divine
Blaze o'er Mona's awful shrine;
Lo! we hear a voice proclaim,
'Albion, thine, immortal fame!'
Arise, ye brave,
To bleed, to save,
Tho' proud in pomp, yon Roman eagles wave!
Cæsar, come! in ten-fold mail,
Will thine arms like ours avail?
Cæsar! let thy falchions blaze,
Will they dim fair Freedom's rays?
Cæsar! boast thy wide control,
Canst thou chain th' aspiring soul?
What steel can bind,
The soaring mind,
Free as the light, the wave, the wind?
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Twenty-Second Of December
Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New-England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
Our fathers, trod the desert land.
They little thought how pure a light,
With years, should gather round that day;
How love should keep their memories bright,
How wide a realm their sons should sway.
Green are their bays; but greener still
Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed,
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
With reverence when their names are breathed.
Till where the sun, with softer fires,
Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,
The children of the pilgrim sires
This hallowed day like us shall keep.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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An Australian Paean—1876
The English air is fresh and fair,
The Irish fields are green;
The bright light gleams o’er Scotland’s streams,
And glows her hills between.
The hawthorn is in blossom,
And birds from every bough
Make musical the dewy spring
In April England now.
Our April bears no blossoms,
No promises of spring;
Her gifts are rain and storm and stain,
And surges lash and swing.
No budded wreath doth she bequeath,
Her tempests toss the trees;
No balmy gales—but shivered sails,
And desolated seas.
Yet still we love our April,
For it aids us to bequeath
A gift more fair than blossoms rare,
More sweet than budded wreath.
Our children’s tend’rest memories
Round Austral April grow;
’Twas the month we won their freedom, boys,
Just twenty years ago.
Though Scotland has her forests,
Though Erin has her vales,
Though plentiful her harvests,
In England’s sunny dales;
Yet foul amidst the fairness,
The factory chimneys smoke,
And the murmurs of the many
In their burdened bosoms choke.
We hear the children’s voices
’Mid the rattle of its looms,
Crying, “Wherefore shut God’s heaven
All our golden afternoons?”
Though here the English April
Nor song nor sun imparts,
Its Spring is on our children’s lips,
Its summer in their hearts!
We’ve left the land that bore us,
Its castles and its shrines;
We’ve changed the cornfields and the rye
For the olives and the vines.
Yet still we have our castles,
Yet still we bow the knee;
We each enshrine a saint divine,
And her name is Liberty.
Liberty! name of warning!
Did’st thou feel our pulses beat
As we marching, moved this morning
All adown the cheering street?
In our federated freedom,
In our manliness allied,
While the badges of our labour
Were the banners of our pride.
Did our fancies speak prophetic
Of a larger league than this—
With higher aims and nobler claims
To grasp the good we miss;
When in freer federation
In a future yet to be,
Australia stands a nation
From the centre to the sea.
Cheer for Australia, comrades,
And cheer for Britain, too;
Who loves them both will not be loth
To give each land its due.
So cheer for Britain, comrades;
Our fathers loved the soil,
And the grandeur of her greatness
Is the measure of their toil.
But never let our sons forget,
Till mem’ry’s self be dead,
If Britain gave us birth, my lads,
Australia gave us bread!
Then cheer for young Australia,
The empire of the Free,
Where yet a Greater Britain
The Southern Cross shall see!
poem by Marcus Clarke
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Ulster
("Their webs shall not become garments, neither shall they
cover themselves with their works: their works are works
of inquity and the act of violence is in their hands." --
Isaiah lix. 6.)
The dark eleventh hour
Draws on and sees us sold
To every evil power
We fought against of old.
Rebellion, rapine hate
Oppression, wrong and greed
Are loosed to rule our fate,
By England's act and deed.
The Faith in which we stand,
The laws we made and guard,
Our honour, lives, and land
Are given for reward
To Murder done by night,
To Treason taught by day,
To folly, sloth, and spite,
And we are thrust away.
The blood our fathers spilt,
Our love, our toils, our pains,
Are counted us for guilt,
And only bind our chains.
Before an Empire's eyes
The traitor claims his price.
What need of further lies?
We are the sacrifice.
We asked no more than leave
To reap where we had sown,
Through good and ill to cleave
To our own flag and throne.
Now England's shot and steel
Beneath that flag must show
How loyal hearts should kneel
To England's oldest foe.
We know the war prepared
On every peaceful home,
We know the hells declared
For such as serve not Rome --
The terror, threats, and dread
In market, hearth, and field --
We know, when all is said,
We perish if we yield.
Believe, we dare not boast,
Believe, we do not fear --
We stand to pay the cost
In all that men hold dear.
What answer from the North?
One Law, one Land, one Throne.
If England drive us forth
We shall not fall alone!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Homes Of England
The stately homes of England
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their green sward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silv'ry brook,
And round the hamlet-fanes;
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall.
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flow'ry sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Tribal Ways (Enemies of Match)
Every man with an opinion
Equal in valour and in strength equal
At the advent of the British
Who were carrying the flag
Of the queen with intentions
To conquer the lions and wolves
The British from India
Offered to make a few nabobs
The reply was that we are all nabobs
Can you make all nabobs
In retreat then a titular representation
In treaty like with sovereigns
With each tribe the British
Gave respect to the traditions
Commanded respect
Enemies of match
They laid arms
To each other
And the rest would follow
Between lovers of freedom
On the land they said theirs
And many more claimants
For the soil and souls
For the minds and ferocity
20/4/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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