Then glory to His holy name, from whom all When

glories are;

Banners

are

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry Waving

of Navarre!

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

On the Loss of the Royal George

Written when the News Arrived, September, 1782.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;

His work of glory done.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er,

And he and his eight hundred

Must plough the waves no more.

WILLIAM COWPER.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death,

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die;-
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

When Banners

are

Waving

When Banners

are

Waving

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
Those that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade!

Noble six hundred!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

When Banners

are

Waving

Bannockburn

Robert Bruce's Address to his Army. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed

Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,

Freeman stand, or freeman fa',

Let him follow me!