Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maidBecause on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wildass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!' The West Wind called :- In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, And I loose my neck from their service and whelm them all in my wrath. I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted shipbells toll: For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it-the frozen dews have kissed- The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!' Rudyard Kipling. CXVI RECESSIONAL GOD of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies- An humble and a contrite heart. Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law- For heathen heart that puts her trust And guarding calls not Thee to guard— Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Rudyard Kipling. CXVII THE GREY MOTHER Lo, how they come to me, Long through the night I call them, Ah, how they turn to me! East and South my children scatter, North and West the world they wander, Yet they come back to me, Come with their brave hearts beating, Longing to die for me, Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, Where they have died for me, Died with their songs around me, Narrow was my dwelling for them, Yet they leave all for me, Hearing their Mother calling, Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, Come they to fight for me, Sons of the sons I nurtured, Long ago their fathers saved me, Now they come back to me, Come, in their children's children. Brave of the brave for me. In the wilds and waves they slumber, Rise they from graves for me, Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, Strewing the hills for me, Claiming the world in dying, Bought with their blood for me. Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, God keep you safe for me, Christ watch you in your sleeping, Where ye have died for me! And when God's own slogan soundeth, Ah, will ye look for me ? Bravely we'll stand together I and my sons with me. Lauchlan MacLean Watt. CXVIII THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES* LISTEN! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, Hearken! my brothers of over the seas, Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, The song of the snotties Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, The bruises and scratches, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea! Early we left you and late are returning Often at noon when the gale's at its strongest, Still we'll remember the days that are past, Death and his angels shall trample at last. ? From A Gun-Room Ditty Box (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission of author and publishers, |