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 manychambered 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.

William Wilfred Campbell.

CXCVIII

THE WORLD-MOTHER

By crag and lonely moor she stands,
This mother of half a world's great men,
And kens them far by sea-wracked lands,
Or orient jungle or western fen.

And far out 'mid the mad turmoil,
Or where the desert places keep
Their lonely hush, her children toil,
Or wrapt in wide-world honour sleep.
By Egypt's sands or western wave,
She kens her latest heroes rest,
With Scotland's honour o'er each grave,
And Britain's flag above each breast.

And some at home.-Her mother love
Keeps crooning wind-songs o'er their graves,
Where Arthur's castle looms above,

Or Strathy storms or Solway raves.

Or Lomond unto Nevis bends

In olden love of clouds and dew;
Where Trossach unto Stirling sends
Greetings that build the years anew.
Out where her miles of heather sweep,
Her dust of legend in his breast,
'Neath agèd Dryburgh's aisle and keep,
Her Wizard Walter takes his rest.

And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr,
More loved than any singer loved

By heart of man amidst those rare,

High souls the world hath tried and proved;

Whose songs are first to heart and tongue,
Wherever Scotsmen greet together,

And, far-out alien scenes among,

Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather.

And he her latest wayward child,
Her Louis of the magic pen,
Who sleeps by tropic crater piled,
Far, far, alas! from misted glen;

Who loved her, knew her, drew her so,
Beyond all common poet's whim ;—
In dreams the whaups are calling low,
In sooth her heart is woe for him.

And they, her warriors, greater none
E'er drew the blade of daring forth,
Her Colin under Indian sun,

Her Donald of the fighting North.

Or he, her greatest hero, he

Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus' sands,
Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free,
Great captains of her fighting bands.

Yea, these and myriad myriads more,
Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main,
To free the wave or win the shore,

She calls in vain, she calls in vain.

Brave sons of her, far severed wide

By purpling peak or reeling foam; From western ridge or orient side,

She calls them home, she calls them home.

And far, from east to western sea,

The answering word comes back to her :'Our hands were slack, our hopes were free, We answered to the blood astir;

The life by Kelpie loch was dull,

The homeward slothful work was done,

We followed where the world was full,
To dree the weird our fates had spun.

We built the brig, we reared the town,

We spanned the earth with lightning gleam, We ploughed, we fought, 'mid smile and frown, Where all the world's four corners team.

But under all the surge of life,

The mad race-fight for mastery,

Though foremost in the surgent strife,
Our hearts went back, went back to thee.'

For the Scotsman's speech is wise and slow,
And the Scotsman's thought it is hard to ken,
But through all the yearnings of men that go,
His heart is the heart of the northern glen.

His song is the song of the windy moor,

And the humming pipes of the squirling din; And his love is the love of the shieling door, And the smell of the smoking peat within.

And nohap how much of the alien blood

Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast, 'Mid the world's great ill and the world's great good, He yearns to the Mother of men at last.

For there's something strong and something true
In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown;
And something great in the blood so blue,
That makes him stand like a man alone.

Yea, give him the road and loose him free,
He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast,
For there's never a toil in a far countrie,
But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast.

He builds their commerce, he sings their songs,
He weaves their creeds with an iron twist,
And making of laws or righting of wrongs,
He grinds it all as the Scotsman's grist.

Yea, there by crag and moor she stands,

This mother of half a world's great men, And out of the heart of her haunted lands She calls her children home again.

And over the glens and the wild sea floors
She peers so still as she counts her cost,
With the whaups low calling over the moors,
'Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.'
William Wilfred Campbell.

R