Langemarck At Ypres
This is the ballad of Langemarck,
A story of glory and might;
Of the vast Hun horde, and Canada’s part
In the great grim fight.
It was April fair on the Flanders Fields,
But the dreadest April then
That ever the years, in their fateful flight,
Had brought to this world of men.
North and east, a monster wall,
The mighty Hun ranks lay,
With fort on fort, and iron-ringed trench,
Menacing, grim and gray.
And south and west, like a serpent of fire,
Serried the British lines,
And in between, the dying and dead,
And the stench of blood, and the trampled mud,
On the fair, sweet Belgian vines.
And far to the eastward, harnessed and taut,
Like a scimitar, shining and keen,
Gleaming out of that ominous gloom,
Old France’s hosts were seen.
When out of the grim Hun lines one night,
There rolled a sinister smoke;—
A strange, weird cloud, like a pale, green shroud,
And death lurked in its cloak.
On a fiend-like wind it curled along
Over the brave French ranks,
Like a monster tree its vapours spread,
In hideous, burning banks
Of poisonous fumes that scorched the night
With their sulphurous demon danks.
And men went mad with horror, and fled
From that terrible, strangling death,
That seemed to sear both body and soul
With its baleful, flaming breath.
Till even the little dark men of the south,
Who feared neither God nor man,
Those fierce, wild fighters of Afric’s steppes,
Broke their battalions and ran:—
Ran as they never had run before,
Gasping, and fainting for breath;
For they knew ’t was no human foe that slew;
And that hideous smoke meant death.
Then red in the reek of that evil cloud,
The Hun swept over the plain;
And the murderer’s dirk did its monster work,
’Mid the scythe-like shrapnel rain;
Till it seemed that at last the brute Hun hordes
Had broken that wall of steel;
And that soon, through this breach in the freeman’s dyke,
His trampling hosts would wheel;—
And sweep to the south in ravaging might,
And Europe’s peoples again
Be trodden under the tyrant’s heel,
Like herds, in the Prussian pen.
But in that line on the British right,
There massed a corps amain,
Of men who hailed from a far west land
Of mountain and forest and plain;
Men new to war and its dreadest deeds,
But noble and staunch and true;
Men of the open, East and West,
Brew of old Britain’s brew.
These were the men out there that night,
When Hell loomed close ahead;
Who saw that pitiful, hideous rout,
And breathed those gases dread;
While some went under and some went mad;
But never a man there fled.
For the word was “Canada,” theirs to fight,
And keep on fighting still;—
Britain said, fight, and fight they would,
Though the Devil himself in sulphurous mood
Came over that hideous hill.
Yea, stubborn, they stood, that hero band,
Where no soul hoped to live;
For five, ’gainst eighty thousand men,
Were hopeless odds to give.
Yea, fought they on! ’T was Friday eve,
When that demon gas drove down;
’T was Saturday eve that saw them still
Grimly holding their own;
Sunday, Monday, saw them yet,
A steadily lessening band,
With “no surrender” in their hearts,
But the dream of a far-off land,
Where mother and sister and love would weep
For the hushed heart lying still;—
But never a thought but to do their part,
And work the Empire’s will.
Ringed round, hemmed in, and back to back,
They fought there under the dark,
And won for Empire, God and Right,
At grim, red Langemarck.
Wonderful battles have shaken this world,
Since the Dawn-God overthrew Dis;
Wonderful struggles of right against wrong,
Sung in the rhymes of the world’s great song,
But never a greater than this.
Bannockburn, Inkerman, Balaclava,
Marathon’s godlike stand;
But never a more heroic deed,
And never a greater warrior breed,
In any war-man’s land.
This is the ballad of Langemarck,
A story of glory and might;
Of the vast Hun horde, and Canada’s part
In the great, grim fight
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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The Unsung Heroes
A song for the unsung heroes who rose in the country's need,
When the life of the land was threatened by the slaver's cruel greed,
For the men who came from the cornfield, who came from the plough and the flail,
Who rallied round when they heard the sound of the mighty man of the rail.
They laid them down in the valleys, they laid them down in the wood,
And the world looked on at the work they did, and whispered, 'It is good.'
They fought their way on the hillside, they fought their way in the glen,
And God looked down on their sinews brown, and said, 'I have made them men.'
They went to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in,
And the men who saw their muskets' fire thought not of their dusky skin.
The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers,
And they said, ''T is true, they have force to do, these old slave boys of ours.'
Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood,
That poured on a nation's altar, a sacrificial flood.
Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air,
And the old free fires of their savage sires again were kindled there.
They laid them down where the rivers the greening valleys gem.
And the song of the thund'rous cannon was their sole requiem,
And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud,
Was the flag that furled o'er a saddened world, and the sheet that made their shroud.
Oh, Mighty God of the Battles Who held them in Thy hand,
Who gave them strength through the whole day's length, to fight for their native land,
They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain,
And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain.
Give, Thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might,
The men who feared the master's whip, but did not fear the fight;
That he may tell of their virtues as minstrels did of old,
Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold.
A song for the unsung heroes who stood the awful test,
When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the best;
A song for the unsung heroes who fell on the bloody sod,
Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At the Long Sault: May, 1660
Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth
In the working earth,
And the wonderful moon shines bright
Through the soft spring night,
The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing
Far and away
With the sound and the perfume of May,
And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging,
The waters glitter and leap and play
While the grey hawk soars.
But far in an open glade of the forest set
Where the rapid plunges and roars,
Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,--
A shelterless pen
With its broken palisade,
Behind it, musket in hand,
Beyond message or aid
In this savage heart of the wild,
Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men,
Grim and alert and arrayed,
The comrades of Daulac stand.
Ever before them, night and day,
The rush and skulk and cry
Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey;
Behind them the sleepless dream
Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream,
Of maiden and matron and child,
With ruin and murder impending, and none but they
To beat back the gathering horror
Deal death while they may,
And then die.
Day and night they have watched while the little plain
Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host
Broke ever and melted away, with no boast
But to number their slain;
And now as the days renew
Hunger and thirst and care
Were they never so stout, so true,
Press at their hearts; but none
Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word,
Though each setting sun
Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde,
And only to them despair.
Silent, white-faced, again and again
Charged and hemmed round by furious hands,
Each for a moment faces them all and stands
In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose
Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack,
Have chased all night, all day
Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose;
And he turns at last in his track
Against a wall of rock and stands at bay;
Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel
They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel,
Hither and thither over the trampled snow,
He tosses them bleeding and torn;
Till, driven, and ever to and fro
Harried, wounded, and weary grown,
His mighty strength gives way
And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down.
So Daulac turned him anew
With a ringing cry to his men
In the little raging forest glen,
And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew.
And all his comrades stood
With their backs to the pales, and fought
Till their strength was done;
The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke
Each struck his last wild stroke,
And they fell one by one,
And the world that had seemed so good
Passed like a dream and was naught.
And then the great night came
With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame
Of the camp-fires.
Out of the dark the soft wind woke,
The song of the rapid rose alway
And came to the spot where the comrades lay,
Beyond help or care,
With none but the red men round them
To gnash their teeth and stare.
All night by the foot of the mountain
The little town lieth at rest,
The sentries are peacefully pacing;
And neither from East nor from West
Is there rumour of death or of danger;
None dreameth tonight in his bed
That ruin was near and the heroes
That met it and stemmed it are dead.
But afar in the ring of the forest,
Where the air is so tender with May
And the waters are wild in the moonlight,
They lie in their silence of clay.
The numberless stars out of heaven
Look down with a pitiful glance;
And the lilies asleep in the forest
Are closed like the lilies of France.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fighting Hard
Rolling out to fight for England, singing songs across the sea;
Rolling North to fight for England, and to fight for you and me.
Fighting hard for France and England, where the storms of Death are hurled;
Fighting hard for Australasia and the honour of the World!
Fighting hard.
Fighting hard for Sunny Queensland—fighting for Bananaland,
Fighting hard for West Australia, and the mulga and the sand;
Fighting hard for Plain and Wool-Track, and the haze of western heat—
Fighting hard for South Australia and the bronze of Farrar’s Wheat!
Fighting hard.
Fighting hard for fair Victoria, and the mountain and the glen;
(And the Memory of Eureka—there were other tyrants then),
For the glorious Gippsland forests and the World’s great Singing Star—
For the irrigation channels where the cabbage gardens are—
Fighting hard.
Fighting hard for gale and earthquake, and the wind-swept ports between;
For the wild flax and manuka and the terraced hills of green.
Fighting hard for wooden homesteads, where the mighty kauris stand—
Fighting hard for fern and tussock!—Fighting hard for Maoriland!
Fighting hard.
Fighting hard for little Tassy, where the apple orchards grow;
(And the Northern Territory just to give the place a show),
Fighting hard for Home and Empire, while the Commonwealth prevails—
And, in spite of all her blunders, dying hard for New South Wales.
Dying hard.
Fighting for the Pride of Old Folk, and the people that you know;
And the girl you left behind you—(ah! the time is passing slow).
For the proud tears of a sister! come you back, or never come!
And the weary Elder Brother, looking after things at home—
Fighting Hard!
You Lucky Devils
!
Fighting hard.
poem by Henry Lawson
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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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Song of the Wheat
We have sung the song of the droving days,
Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive
Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive
To sing the song of the Wheat!
It's west by south of the Great Divide
The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock-masters lived and died
In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word—
And the master-word was Wheat.
Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine—
’Twas axe and fire for all;
They scarce could tarry to blaze the line
Or wait for the trees to fall,
Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide,
And the dust of the horses’ feet
Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide
The wonderful march of Wheat.
Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold,
The soil is turned on the plain;
Better than silver and better than gold
Is the surface-mine of the grain;
Better than cattle and better than sheep
In the fight with drought and heat;
For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep,
Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.
When the stock is swept by the hand of fate,
Deep down in his bed of clay
The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait
For the resurrection day:
Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead;
But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet,
Will over the steaming paddocks spread
The first green flush of the Wheat.
Green and amber and gold it grows
When the sun sinks late in the West;
And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows
Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star,
There’s never a sight can beat—
Away to the sky-line stretching far—
A sea of the ripening Wheat.
When the burning harvest sun sinks low,
And the shadows stretch on the plain,
The roaring strippers come and go
Like ships on a sea of grain;
Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear
Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world’s great work he has done his share
Who has gathered a crop of wheat.
Princes and Potentates and Czars,
They travel in regal state,
But old King Wheat has a thousand cars
For his trip to the water-gate;
And his thousand steamships breast the tide
And plough thro’ the wind and sleet
To the lands where the teeming millions bide
That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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4. Blow me down
The North wind blew on Monday
As the East wind got the flu
The West wind blew on Tuesday
As the South wind never knew
The North East wind had Wednesday
As the South West wasn’t chuffed
The North West blew on Thursday
As the South East hardly puffed
The East and West blew Friday
As the others had a rest
The North and South blew Saturday
As the weekends were the best
The lot of them had Sunday
As the winds turned into storm
The whole of them had Monday off
As the week got back to norm
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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In The Years Of Sarsfield
I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains,
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen;
I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield,
Tramping the rough roads with him and his men.
I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island,
Watching the camp that the Williamites made;
I wish that my good gun was pressed to my shoulder
And that my caubeen held the white cockade.
I wish I were out with 'galloping Hogan,'
Happy a guide for my hero to be,
Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain,
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee.
I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen
In the dark night when the battle began;
I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising
'Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man.'
I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick,
Holding the breach there and glad in the fight;
Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange,
With his troops defeated ready for flight.
Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, there
Flinging the plank and beam into the wave,
Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood
Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave.
I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon
With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or drown,
Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell,
Into the deep had that traitor gone down.
I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim
By the black bog on the side of the hill,
Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude,
Failing with Sarsfield meant living still.
I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across the sea,
Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe;
Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my heart,
Knowing from his brave blood heroes would grow.
Ah, had I sailed to far France out of Galway,
There on the deck the spy Maxwell to see,
Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me from
'Tossing the Scotsman right into the sea.'
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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With French to Kimberley
The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.
They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall,
They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!'
And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day,
For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack
Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back;
But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley,
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs,
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall
Rode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!'
Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay,
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
His column was five thousand strong - all mounted men - and guns:
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons;
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space,
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows,
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows;
And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent:
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo.
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array,
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.
The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs;
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns!
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died;
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride.
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford.
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared.
A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side;
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried,
For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone:
But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!'
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew;
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw;
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray,
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun:
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame:
Around the town the foemen camped - they knew not that we came;
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread;
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled;
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain,
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein,
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer,
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!'
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With French to Kimberley
The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good --
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.
They built them forts with bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall,
They flashed a message to the south, "Help! or the town must fall!"
Then down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day,
And French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack
Upon those Magersfontein heights that held the Seaforths back;
But eastward over pathless plains, by open veldt and vley.
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs,
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall
Rode back in haste: "He marches East! He threatens Jacobsdal!"
Then north he wheeled as wheels a hawk, and showed to their dismay
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns:
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons;
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space,
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows,
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows --
And in front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent:
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo.
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.
The long, dry grass was all ablaze (and fierce the veldt fire runs);
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns!
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died;
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride.
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford.
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannon roared.
A narrow pass ran through the hills, with guns on either side;
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried,
For, if the first attack should fail, then every hope was gone:
Bur French looked once, and only once, and then he siad, "Push on!"
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew;
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw;
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray,
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun:
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame:
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came;
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread;
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled --
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain,
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein,
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer,
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say "Relief is here!"
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Fredericksburg—Dec. 13, 1862
GOD send us peace, and keep red strife away;
But should it come, God send us men and steel!
The land is dead that dare not face the day
When foreign danger threats the common weal.
Defenders strong are they that homes defend;
From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.
Well blest the country that has sons to lend
From trades of peace to learn the trade of war.
Thrice blest the nation that has every son
A soldier, ready for the warning sound;
Who marches homeward when the fight is done,
To swing the hammer and to till the ground.
Call back that morning, with its lurid light,
When through our land the awful war-bell tolled;
When lips were mute, and women's faces white
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.
Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb,
As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum,
And men streamed in to meet the coming strife,
They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom.
The plow left rusting in the prairie farm;
They saw but ' Union' in the gathering gloom;
The tearless women helped the men to arm;
Brigades from towns—each village sent its band:
German and Irish—every race and faith;
There was no question then of native land,
But—love the Flag and follow it to death.
No need to tell their tale: through every age
The splendid story shall be sung and said;
But let me draw one picture from the page—
For words of song embalm the hero dead.
The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,
Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;
The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,
And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.
The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;
The work must be done by a desperate few;
The black-mouthed guns on the height give them greeting—
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them
Are Georgia militia—an Irish brigade—
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them
Of all the brave record their country has made.
The stormers go forward—the Federals cheer them;
They breast the smooth hillside—the black mouths are dumb;
The riflemen lie in the works till they near them,
And cover the stormers as upward they come.
Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn?
At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined;
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column,
That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind.
The armies are hushed—there is no cause for cheering:
The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain.
Again come the stormers! and as they are nearing
The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again.
And so till full noon come the Federal masses—
Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave;
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes,
No wavering rank till it steps on the grave.
Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted,
The green of the hillside no longer is seen;
The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted,
The earthworks still held by the badges of green.
Have they quailed? is the word. No: again they are forming—
Again comes a column to death and defeat!
What is it in these who shall now do the storming
That makes every Georgian spring to his feet?
' O God! what a pity!' they cry in their cover,
As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight;
''Tis Meagher and his fellows! their caps have green clover;
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight!'
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them,
With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill!
Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them;
But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.
Out rings the fierce word, ' Let them have it! ' the rifles
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe:
It is gueen against green, but a principle stifles
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow.
The column has reeled, but it is not defeated;
In front of the guns they re-form and attack;
Six times they have done it, and six times retreated;
Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back.
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story;
The wild day is closed in the night's solemn shroud;
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory
That calls not for tears—the Green Badges are proud!
Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless,
Who charged for their fl:ig to the grim cannon's mouth;
And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,—
Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South.
The quarrel is done—God avert such another;
The lesson it brought we should evermore heed:
Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,
No matter what birth or what race or what creed.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Trafalgar Day
He leads: we hear our Seaman's call
In the roll of battles won;
For he is Britain's Admiral
Till setting of her sun.
When Britain's life was in her ships,
He kept the sea as his own right;
And saved us from more fell eclipse
Than drops on day from blackest night.
Again his battle spat the flame!
Again his victory flag men saw!
At sound of Nelson's chieftain name,
A deeper breath did Freedom draw.
Each trusty captain knew his part:
They served as men, not marshalled kine:
The pulses they of his great heart,
With heads to work his main design.
Their Nelson's word, to beat the foe,
And spare the fall'n, before them shone.
Good was the hour of blow for blow,
And clear their course while they fought on.
Behold the Envied vanward sweep! -
A day in mourning weeds adored!
Then Victory was wrought to weep;
Then sorrow crowned with laurel soared.
A breezeless flag above a shroud
All Britain was when wind and wave,
To make her, passing human, proud,
Brought his last gift from o'er the grave!
Uprose the soul of him a star
On that brave day of Ocean days:
It rolled the smoke from Trafalger
To darken Austerlitz ablaze.
Are we the men of old, its light
Will point us under every sky
The path he took; and must we fight,
Our Nelson be our battle-cry!
He leads: we hear our Seaman's call
In the roll of battles won;
For he is Britain's Admiral
Till setting of her sun.
poem by George Meredith
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The Two Armies
Once over the ocean in distant lands,
In an age long past, were two hostile bands-
Two armies of men, both brave, both strong,
And their hearts beat high as they marched along
To fight the battle of right and wrong.
Never, I think, did the Eye of heaven
Look down on two armies so nearly even
In well-trained soldiers, in strength and might.
But one was the
Wrong
, and one was the
Right
,
And the last was the stronger in heaven's sight.
And these hostile armies drew near, one night,
And pitched their tents on two hill-sides green,
With only the brow of a hill between.
With the first red beams of the morning light
Both knew would open the awful fight,
And one of the armies lay hushed and still,
And slept in the tents on the green side-hill.
Heart beat with heart: and they all were as one
In the thought of the battle to be begun
With the first bright glance of the morning sun.
Their aim was ignoble, their cause was wrong,
But they were
united
, and so they were strong.
Not so the army just over the hill:
While the ranks of the foe were hushed and still,
The ranks of the
Right
were torn with strife,
And with noise and confusion the air was rife.
Disputes and quarrels, dissensions and jars,
And the sound of fighting, and civil wars;
And, ere the morning, brother and brother,
Instead of the enemy, fought with each other.
Over the hill, the foe, in glee,
Listened and laughed. 'Ho ho!' quoth he.
'There is strife in the enemy's ranks, I see,
And the bright red beams of the rising sun
Will see a victory easily won.
It matters little how strong the foe,
This is a truth we all do know:
There is no success without unity,
However noble the cause may be.
The day is ours before it's begun.
Ho! for the triumph so easily won.'
And on the morrow, the ranks of the Right
Were routed and beaten, and put to flight,
And the Wrong was the victor, and gained the fight.
There are two armies abroad to-day,
As in the age that has passed away.
The makers, and venders, and patrons, and all
Who aid in the traffic of Alcohol,
These are the warriors, bold and strong,
Who swell the ranks of the army of Wrong.
And we are the soldiers, true and brave,
Who are striving with heart and hand to save
The youths of our land from the deep, dark grave
That the foe is digging by day and by night.
Only
one thing
can defeat the Right.
There is nothing but triumph for us, unless
Dissension
, that crafty foe to success,
Creeps into our ranks. Oh! let us
unite
!
Let heart beat with heart as we enter the fight;
Let the whole mighty army be
one
for the time,
And sweep on the foe in a column sublime
In its unity, earnestness, oneness, and might,
Till the foe stands aghast at the wonderful sight,
Till the enemy cowers and shivers, afraid
Of the awful approach of the grand cavalcade.
Close up the ranks, brothers! sisters, draw near,
We are fighting one fight, we are all kinsmen here.
Closer, still closer! in nearness lies might.
Love is our watchword-on to the fight!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Round The Compass Twice With The Wind
The wind’s in a whirl
In a cyclonic spin,
A mischievous girl
With intentions to sin.
With sharp cloven hoofs,
This she-devil conspires
To tear from our roofs
All the chimneys and tiles.
The wind’s in the north,
A philosopher’s stone,
For all that it’s worth,
Turning water to bone.
It’s longing to tell
Bedtime stories at night
To earth, in its spell,
Tucked in blankets of white.
The wind’s in the south,
Bringing soothing, warm balm
Breathed out from its mouth,
An oasis of calm,
Negating the strife
Of the winter’s harsh fling
And bringing new life
To the meadows in spring.
The wind’s in the east
As it tears through the sky,
A mythical beast
That’s inclined to be dry.
It fanned all the flames
To devour London town
By banks of the Thames,
Eaten down to the bone.
The wind’s in the west
Bringing drink after drought,
Salvation, so blest,
For each thirsty, green shoot.
High up, on the hills,
With a gardener’s hand,
It fills lakes and rills
From its watering can.
The wind, it is still
So, without it, the fog
Can flourish so chill
And develop as smog,
Whose dark, dismal gloom
Hangs about like a shroud
Of petrol-blue fume
In a thick, choking cloud.
The wind’s in a whirl
As it rises again
And longs to unfurl
All its might and its main
To break and destroy
Every tree in its path,
An imp of a boy
With a hideous laugh.
The wind’s in the north
And all nature’s in thrall
But yearns to break forth
From the ice-prison’s wall
But, under the gaze
Of a gaoler so grim,
There can be no ways
Of escaping from him.
The wind’s in the south:
Flames shoot out of the length
Of dragon-like mouth
Enervating our strength.
We accept defeat:
Shelter cannot supply
Escape from its heat
As we swelter and fry.
The wind’s in the east
And it bears, in its blast,
Hard hail’s sharp white teeth
On our gardens to cast.
Its bitterness blows,
In its underhand way,
Like thorns of sweet rose
Or a needle in hay.
The wind’s in the west,
A purveyor of rain,
From cloud treasure-chest,
From Atlantic’s domain,
With rich rainbow jewels,
He entices the girls
With deep, diamond pools
Filled with pure, raindropp pearls.
The wind, it is still;
It has run out of breath.
Each valley and hill
Is as silent as death.
The vertical smoke
Rises straight as a rod
As tall chimneys spoke
Sooty prayers to God.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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The Quintet of Revelations
Part 1: The Mystic Man
In the beginning
The world was a dark colorless wasteland
Lightning littered the sky in dark clouds
A mystical being creates life surrounded by shroud
The Mystic Man makes light
The Mystic Man makes night
The Mystic Man makes wrong
The Mystic Man makes right
The world is now surrounded by light and night
Lightning strikes fertile soil creating plants
Green is the first color created by the Mystic Man
Drawing a bone from his ribs he makes man
The world is growing surrounded by light and night
The Mystic Man commands the man
Showing him how to use the land
Which was made by the Mystic Man
The Mystic Man lets the man understand
How to use his holy land
Finally the man understands
And is granted a woman by the Mystic Man
A woman to help him take care of the land
The land that was shaped by the Mystic Man
Together the woman and the man
Take care of the Mystic Man’s holy land
In peace and prosperity they use the land
To make a great family
The beginning of man
For two hundred years
They farmed that land
The land formed by the Mystic Man
They found the first civilization of man
Part 2: The Man of Darkness
Ten thousand years
After the first woman and man
And the making of the land by the Mystic Man
A Man of Darkness rises from the depths
To spread terror and fear to mortal man
This Man of Darkness has no mercy
This Man of Darkness has no love
This Man of Darkness has no heart
This Man of Darkness did not come from above
Coming forth in devilish black armor
That was covered in spikes he is a marderer
With elongated blade that has two sides
All together he was black, as black as night
To many he is a demon
A burning devil from the flames of Hell
He’ll fight until you break the spell
Break the spell of Hell itself
With red burning eyes
And acid breath
His pointed yellow teeth will ensure death
And when you die he’ll show no regret
A spawn of Satan is what he appears to be
He’ll kill everyone, even in his own country
Made of pure evil
This Man of Darkness is a great mystery
Bearing his sword of certain death
With burning red eyes
Looking over his lands
He watches people pass
Waiting to spread his wrath
Soon that time will come to pass
Part 3: The Battle
A sickly death passes o’er the mountainside
The moon rises darkly o’er the valley of shadow
A chilling scream fills the gaunt air
See the shadowed evil rising where
The chilling scream filled the gaunt air
Dark hellish beasts stand by this evil man
Following his lead and killing all with claw and hand
Together they spread his malice and evil across the land
Making sure no living man will stand
Ruthlessly killing, slaying, murdering
Destroying, marring, and scarring
Bringing all of his foes to their untimely death
This Man of Darkness does not know the meaning of rest
Screams of death shower the valley like rain
Bodies litter the ground and stain
The once holy land has been brought to shame
The shadowed man of evil laughs
He laughs a laugh— an evil laugh
A laugh of dementia
A laugh of hate
A laugh that makes the demons rise again
Overcome the good men fight
This evil shadowed man that hides no might
Swinging his sword of death he kills
All who stand before him, they shrill
They fill the gaunt airs with their shrills
As they are killed
Blood and guts spray the plains
All good life folds to the evil that slays
The evil shadowed man has finally won
He treads across the land looking for more blood
Part 4: The Hero of Man
As the battle took place
And the Man of Darkness killed
The Hero of Man stood on a hill
Looking o’er the battle
He readies his sword
Spewing over the hills
His holy might pours over the land
Cleansing the battle grounds of the evil ones that surround
The good men that are fighting now
The evil ones can’t stand
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
Yet the Man of Darkness stands
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
As forces of the Hero of Man
And the Man of Darkness stand and—
Fight for the land of the Hero of Man
Tainted by human and inhuman hand
The Hero of Man rallies his men
To fight the evil ones once again
Brandishing his golden sword that shines like the blazing sun
Garbed in his blood red armor
And wearing his spiked dragon helm
He charges valiantly through the ranks
Of the dark beasts from Hell
With the hero’s great might
The forces of good overcome the forces of night
They are filled with renewed hope and delight
The forces of evil fall
Against the forces of good and all
The Hero of Man who is so tall
Now the battle is done, won for all
Yet the Man of Darkness still stands
To fight the Hero of Man
To the very bitter end
Part 5: The Final Battle
Staring deep into his opponents eyes
The Man of Darkness stares with burning red eyes
He readies his blade
And gets into his stance
To end this battle once and for all
And slay the Hero of Man
Fearlessly he stands, the Hero of Man
Standing tall and proud looking at this evil man
Holding his golden glowing sword
He readies to strike down this man
Ready to kill the man who tainted
The Mystic Man’s holy land
The Man of Darkness strikes
Moving quickly like a breeze
His cold malice would offset any man
But not the Hero you see
The Hero repels with a might strike
The Man of Darkness evades into the night
Abandoning this world
And going into the next
The Man of Darkness fades away
His journey is at an end
The good men cheer for the Hero of Man
As his holy might reshapes the land
And cleanses the tainted land
Back to the way it was
When it was made by the Mystic Man
poem by Alex Fischer
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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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In the Storm that is to come
By our place in the midst of the furthest seas we were fated to stand alone -
When the nations fly at each other's throats let Australia look to her own;
Let her spend her gold on the barren west, let her keep her men at home;
For the South must look to the South for strength in the storm that is to come.
Now who shall gallop from cape to cape, and who shall defend our shores -
The crowd that stand on the kerb agape and glares at the cricket scores?
And who will hold the invader back when the shells tear up the ground -
The weeds that yelp by the cycling track while a nigger scorches round?
There may be many to man the forts in the big towns beside the sea -
But the East will call to the West for scouts in the storm that is to be:
The West cries out to the East in drought, but the coastal towns are dumb;
And the East must look to the West for food in the war that is to come.
The rain comes down on the Western land and the rivers run to waste,
When the city folk rush for the special tram in their childless, senseless haste,
And never a pile of a lock we drive - but a few mean tanks we scratch -
For the fate of a nation is nought compared with the turn of a cricket match!
There's a gutter of mud where there spread a flood from the land-long western creeks,
There is dust and drought on the plains far out where the water lay for weeks,
There's a pitiful dam where a dyke should stretch and a tank where a lake should be,
And the rain goes down through the silt and sand and the floods waste into the seas.
We'll fight for Britain or for Japan, we will fling the land's wealth out;
While every penny and every man should be used to fight the drought.
God helps the nation that helps itself, and the water brings the rain,
And a deadlier foe than the world could send is loose on the western plain.
I saw a vision in days gone by and would dream that dream again
Of the days when the Darling shall not back her billabongs up in vain.
There were reservoirs and grand canals where the Dry Country had been,
And a glorious network of aqueducts, and the fields were always green.
I have seen so long in the land I love what the land I love might be,
Where the Darling rises from Queensland rains and the floods run into the sea.
And it is our fate that we'll wake to late to the truth that we were blind,
With a foreign foe at our harbour gate and a blazing drought behind!
poem by Henry Lawson
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In The Days When The World Was Wide
The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
And tired of all is the spirit that sings
of the days when the world was wide.
When the North was hale in the march of Time,
and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change,
and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.
Then a man could fight if his heart were bold,
and win if his faith were true --
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
in the days when the world was wide.
They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main,
When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed
as 'twill never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared --
let Fate or the winds decide --
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared
in the days when the world was wide.
They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe;
They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
and old eyes glistened with pride --
When barbarous cities were paved with gold
in the days when the world was wide.
'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world round.
The gods could envy a leader then when `Follow me, lads!' he cried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea;
'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat,
With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,
`Where bound?' and `What ship's that?' --
The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side --
Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!
from the days when the world was wide.
South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought
Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought?
And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
with the days when the world was wide?
We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard;
Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
the sneer of a sneak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes!
Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?'
The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!
No matter who fell it were better to fight
as they did when the world was wide.
Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly --
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
were traced since the days gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van
to fight for it side by side --
There was beating-room for the heart of a man
in the days when the world was wide.
. . . . .
With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour
the dreary year drags round:
Is this the result of Old England's power?
-- the bourne of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide?
The heart of the rebel makes answer `No!
We'll fight till the world grows wide!'
The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Skaal
While they struggle on exhausted,
While they plough through bog and flood,
While they drag their sick and wounded
Where the tracks are drenched with blood;
While the Fates seemed joined to crush her
And her bravest hearts lie low,
I might sing one song for Russia,
Even though she be our foe.
Still be generous to foemen,
And have charity for all—
Right or wrong, fill up the wine cup;
‘Skaal!’ unto all brave men—‘Skaal!’
While they suffer, cold and hungry,
All the heart-break of defeat,
And the twice heroic rearguard
Grimly holds the grim retreat;
While they fight the last alive on
Fields where countless corpses are,
We might drop one tear for Ivan,
Dead for Russia and the Czar!
Sullen grief of boorish brother,
Sister’s scalding tears that flow,
Choking grief of grey-haired mother,
Father’s stony face bent low:
Hopeless stare of wife or daughter,
And the sweetheart dumb and white,
And the far-off fields of slaughter
Where their Ivan lies to-night.
Even England feared disaster,
With all Europe in despair,
In the days when Europe’s master
Baited Bruin in his lair.
Greater nations made submission,
And a tyrant’s yoke they earned;
But The Man with curbed ambition
Staggered back while Moscow burned,—
Burned to save the world from ruin
That dark winter long ago;
Ah! the gaunt and hunted Bruin
Hugged the tyrant in the snow!
We can cry the crimes of Russia,
Who know naught of Russia’s work—
We who died to conquer freemen,
We who fought to save the Turk.
Ah! we well may cant and cackle,
In the streets and in the clubs,
While the Russia that we know not
Licks her wounds and feeds her cubs.
But the Fates for ever beckon—
Every nation has its debt,
And her foes may have to reckon,
Reckon with ‘der Russland’ yet.
Through long ages slept the Dragon,
We have roused the ugly beast—
Russia still may stand the vanguard
Of the West against the East.
And though Ivan sees no farther
Than to-night through lurid gloom
Every hour he holds Port Arthur
May postpone the White Man’s doom.
Right or wrong—whate’er in future
May this blundering world befall,
Human kindness will survive it—
Brothers! ‘Skaal!’ to brave men, ‘Skaal!’
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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