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For Home and
Come as the winds come, when
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded:
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
Knell for the onset!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick
"Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum;
Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?"
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the
"But when won the coming battle,
What if conquest, subjugation,
You must do the sum to prove it," said the
66 What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
When my brothers fall around me,
Should my heart grow cold and numb?"
Better there in death united, than in life
Thus they answered,-hoping, fearing,
For Home and
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said, "My chosen people, come!"
Lo! was dumb,
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing,
Ye Mariners of England
Ye Mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
While the stormy winds do blow-
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blowWhile the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-wave,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow-
The meteor flag of England
Till danger's troubled night depart,
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Home and Country
The Knight's Tomb
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
How Sleep the Brave!
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung;