mjlayaUB— &mmmm m m u ■ i towimj ' «. « " ■' * ' inMrf 'HE BIVOUAC MARTIAL LYRIST MAJOR R. COMPTCN NOAKE H i m ii m ii IMMMfMMMr^l|MMIMVMMM«WflW>M#MW<^^ i.^i|*«*«*** A, %\1M^ 'J/fJ-li?/^. Cornell University Library PR5110.N62M3 The bivouac; or, ^iSHSS&SSom " 1924 013 529 866 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013529866 THE BIVOUAC. •LONDON": ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. THE BIVOUAC MARTIAL LYRIST: CONTAINING SONGS, EPIGRAMS, AND POEMS. MAJOK E. COMPTON NOAKE. ' Hail, great in war I all hail, by glory cherish'd ! LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY. 1871. IN AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE, TO THE FIRST, OR ROYAL, DRAGOONS BY THE rR l OLD ADJUTANT, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. In the Songs of the Camp and Barrack-Room, now incor- porated in this volume, the author purposely abstained from introducing anything of a party or political nature, deeming it to be the soldier's duty to eschew politics altogether. Nor did he touch on the wrongs, real or supposed, of the soldier, or on the revilings of many of our orators, pam- phleteers, and military and other writers in magazines, in their persistent cry for a better class of men. His humble endeavour and cherished ambition being to confirm the soldier in his loyalty to his Queen, his Country, and his Corps ; to enhance his courage and historic pride ; to ele- vate him in his own estimation and in that of his country ; to teach him to value his medal as a prize priceless beyond all other, and, by contrast, to lightly esteem the good-con- duct badge, which the vilest man does, and the cowardly soldier might, wear ; also to awaken in our youth a love for those perils and adventures which pertain to a soldier's life. Since its publication, however, the relations between the country and the soldier have been so altered, and the Vlll PREFACE. revilings persisted in, that the author has departed from his former resolution, and, without losing sight of the soldier's loyalty, has endeavoured to teach him to retort on his calumniators and to question England's boasted generosity, hoping that his voice may reach those who have the power to redress his wrongs, by replacing him on a footing, as a matter of right, with the civilians who serve the State. The calumnies are continued in such articles as ' The Philosophy of Recruiting,' in the Contemporary Review for December 1869; in the pamphlet entitled 'The British Army of 1868,' in Good Words, January 1871, by the same author ; and in the degrading epithets in the Senate-house. The altered conditions are, first, in the implied object of the recent Enlistment Act, viz. to popularise the Army, so as to give it a political life. This is confirmed by the Secretary of State, who said, when introducing it, ' I look forward to seeing the broad line of demarcation between the Army and civil life in some way diminished.' This is but a repetition of the language of his mentor in Army reform — the author of the above-named pamphlet. Yet he has not the moral courage to propound such a comprehensive scheme as in Prussia, where the gentleman, the man of education and position, march side by side with the mechanic and the peasant, giving a lofty tone of patriotism to the whole. Nor dare he do so, as it would ruin the popularity of his party and his own individually. Nor dare he even say to the well-to-do classes, ' If you do not yourselves submit to instruction and discipline for a time, so as to fit you PREFACE. IX to redress your country's wrongs and to defend your hearth and all that you cherish, you must act liberally to those who do this for you.' Instead, he panders still more to the well-to-do classes by remitting a tax at the expense of the rank and file, and then mockingly appeals to the youth of that class from which the Army is recruited, to offer the highest sacrifice demanded by patriotism, whilst he gives back to others the superabundance of their mint and cummin. If our soldiers are to be imbued with politics, they will undoubtedly seek the franchise, and exercise it ; therefore it is to their interest to know that the Liberal party, to them, is the most illiberal, and consequently not their friend. But we may ask, is it wise, is it not rather suicidal, this removing of the line of demarcation, recruited as our army is and ever must be under the voluntary system ? Secondly, the soldier is now deprived of the right or the privilege to re-engage after twelve years, so as to complete twenty-one years' service, and thus obtain a pension — the Secretary of State declaring that he has no claim to such re-engagement. This, too, with the full knowledge, through parliamentary and other returns, that a regiment arriving in India one thousand strong will in ten years — the allotted time to serve there — lose by death five hundred and fifty ; also that not more than one man in fourteen of those who enlist lives and serves twenty-one years so as to obtain it. Whilst claiming to be a rich, great, and generous people, we destroy the hope of all our soldiers, and deter men from enlisting for the sake of depriving each fourteenth man of a few pence a day in his old age. The pension now paid X PREFACE. and to which he would be entitled is, through the difference in the value of money and as compared with the shilling a day of his comrade of former years, only sixpence. Again, all men discharged at twenty-one years' service up to 1854 received one shilling a day; from thence to 1867 only eightpence. Yet, notwithstanding this great reduction, there was no recognition of the soldier's services for recon- quering India, as after Waterloo, by a gratuity of two years' service towards pension, or by extra pay. On the contrary, in the six years ending 1866, the seventy-nine thousand men serving within the United Kingdom paid for the common necessaries of life — over and above what it cost the army of 1844 — the enormous sum of one 'million, six hundred and twenty-nine thousand, three hundred, and eighty-two pounds .■* or two hundred and seventy-one thousand, five hundred and sixty-two pounds a year ; all of which went into the pockets of the general community. Thirdly, the men are now enlisted for ' General Service, instead of being allowed to choose their regiments. The term 'general service' is an unfortunate one, as formerly a man was sentenced to general service by court martial, as a punishment. The general-service regiments, in contradis- tinction to those serving within the United Kingdom, served almost, if not continuously, in the East or -West Indies or some other foreign station, and were, by tradition at least, called condemned regiments ; the incorrigibles of the home army being sent into them as a punishment. This tradition * Vide Lecture by the author in the Royal United Service Institution Journal, delivered February i, 1867. PREFACE. has apparently been handed down by the old veterans, as those ominous words have deterred many young men from enlisting, even after having made up their minds to do so and applying to the recruiting sergeant. Hence one cause of our late want of success in raising men. It will, however, bring its own cure. Every regiment has its history — the tradition of its fame. That of a few may be known in some districts far better than others, and young men naturally wish to join a corps of which they know something. Haply they have heard that the Royal Dragoons took a crescent at Tangiers, and an eagle at Waterloo; that the 8th Hussars rode at Balaclava; that the 3 2d bear 'Lucknow' on their colours for its gallan- try ; that the Fusiliers fought at Inkerman or the Alma ; or they may have an acquaintance in the Rifles. That they cannot join the regiment of their choice, is a sore disap- pointment to many ; but the great hardship lies in this : that, after being attached to one regiment for twelve or four- teen months, a man may be ordered off to another : thus wantonly outraging all friendly feelings, and destroying that historic pride which is the very life of a regiment. Young men on joining the army leave their homes and all those who are dear to them, and enter upon a new life where all are strangers. The recruits naturally draw to each other; some will be in the same squad and in the same class at drill, will mess together, and live and sleep in the same room. In a few months they will be dismissed to their duty, and be (or should be) allowed to choose their own comrade, that is, their particular friend. The two will then sleep in Xir PREFACE. adjoining berths, answer for each other's kits and interests during absence, lend a helping hand when pushed for time, share in joys and sorrows, counsel each other in difficulties, and in the absence of all home friends be as brothers. This is no exaggerated picture, as the Author, from his own know- ledge and experience, can testify. Yet such friends are to be ruthlessly separated : the more heartless, as there is no necessity for such a measure, volunteers being always ready when called for. Fourthly, the bounty, or earnest-money in bargaining for life and limb, is no longer to be paid ; but, as an equivalent, the good-conduct pay, if merited, is to commence at two instead of three, and at six instead of eight years. To give the civilian reader some idea of the imbecility displayed in the conception of the good-conduct regulations, he is re- ferred to the Appendix No. i. CONTENTS. partial Songs. PAGE Again fill the glass . . . 245 A Hoiseman brave . . . 130 Artilleryman's Song . . . 131 Aldershot Camp . . . .63 Arm, arm for the strife . . 140 A Soldier's Life's the Life for me. 141 A Song about King Solomon . 136 Aw ake ! awake ! . . . . 178 Balaclava (Anniversary Song) . 228 Balaclava Charge . . . 229 Bear up 21 Begone, dull Care . . . 144 Britain's Queen .... 3 Britannia rebuked by Fame . . 154 Britons, where now is your old generosity? . . . .48 Can I see a bleeding Foe ? . .17 Can't love him enough . . 51 Captain of God's Host . . 169 Cardigan to the Light Brigade . 142 Civilians v. Soldiers . . .41 Civilians scorn the Soldier . 121 Come back to die . . . 215 Come into the Canteen, Joe . 67 Come, Soldiers, be jolly . . 170 Come to me . . . .83 Comrades, drink .... 240 Comrades, the world look round . 129 Consecration of the Sword . . 72 Contented wi' little . . .44 Country Quarters ;■. Camp Life . 71 Dandy Jack's Song . . . 249 Dearest, 'tis a Soldier's duty . 18 Dear Harp, no martial strain . 79 Death of General Ponsonby . 6 Do justly and love mercy . 43 Drink not ... . 259 Don't care no Embarkation Hymn . . . 150 I England's Confession . . . 155 England's Hymn (Thanksgiving). 152 Epitaph on Lord Hill . . . 195 Even' Man has his mission . . 127 Epitaph on Mr. Secretary C. . 42 Fancy's Sketch . . . .43 Fired by the Story . . . 1 17 Free Trade 52 Free Trade Aposdes . . . 219 Friendship 65 Funeral Hymn . . . -29 General Mackinnon . . . 196 God of the BatUe-field . .112 God of the Soldier . . .189 Good Ale will make us jolly . 39 Half-yearly Inspection . . . 197 Havelock's March . . .17 Health to the Soldier . . . 210 Here am I for one day's spree . 253 He surely wears the cap-and-bells 24 Hey, boys, up go we . . .27 Holy Bible 165 Hope on and hope ever . . 65 Hurrah, hurrah, my gallant Steed ! 125 Hurrah for the Rifle and Sword!. 44 Hymn — Lord God of Hosts . . 38 Hymn — Lord, we know . . 138 Hymn of Praise (after Victory) . 246 Hymn of the Battle-eve . . 236 I am proud, Mothers, proud of my Dead 214 I live all alone with my Mother . 80 Inkerman 108 Is there a Chief?. . . .157 Is want a crime ? . . . .75 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE It sounds — away ! 263 I've wondering seen . . . 126 Jove and the British Soldier . 248 Kathleen Mavourneen . . 252 King Arthur's toast . . . 201 La Marchant's Brigade . . 33 Lecture on Pensions . . .22 Let them talk of home duty . 243 Love 146 Love, Wine, and Glory . . 69 Major Hodson, of Hodson's Horse 208 March, Erin's and Britain's Sons . 30 Medal v. Cotton Stripe . . 231 Moral command .... 182 Mordaunt and Royal Dragoons . 242 My duty I have done . . . 179 My first stripe . . . .66 My Friend says he's happy . . 45 My Harp 20 My heart's in the cold grave . 105 Ne'er wait to be commanded . 94 Nicholson before Delhi . . 13 No longer now as household word 86 Old familiar faces . . . 209 On those who fell in the Mutiny . 148 O say not woman's heart . . 58 O sing that merry song once more 18 O such a life as we have led . 220 Our country, my Comrades . . 175 Our country, right or wrong . 15 Our Napiers .... 163 O when in the sunshine of youth . 91 Philosophy of recruiting . . 100 Philosophers .... 171 Picton and the 28th Regiment . 128 Portuguese Song of Peace . . 68 Progress 61 Question and reply , . .87 Recruiting Tom's song . . 255 Relative rank . . . .28 Reply to the Frenchmen's Hymn. 102 Returned from War . . . 181 Say, Comrade, why that silent tear 119 Siege of Badajos .... 191 Send round the wine-cup . . 26 Sentry, go ! 120 Sergeant Ball .... 145 PAGE Shall I be silent? . • • 95 Shame ! shame ! . . . . 227 Sir Colin Campbell and 93d Regt. 84 Skirmishing Song . . .85 Soldiers are merry boys . . 93 Song of the Spirits of the Slain . 237 There's not a word from flank to flank 2 There's pleasure round the social board .... 189 They want a better class . . 113 They want us, Tom, to reengage 222 Thou God of Battle . . 87 Though you are poor, don't show it 167 Three stand-up toasts per annum 53 Throw wide the gate . . . 159 Tom Buffstick and the Norwich belle 262 To-morrow 159 Tom Tobin and Marshal Massena 80 True glory 184 Truth 193 'Twas by the watchfires' light . 50 The Army Chaplain . . .99 Ballot 24 Barrack-room . . . 247 Barrack-room chorus . . 265 Bill, the Bow, and the Rifle . 176 Bivouac .... 233 Bh'e ribbon of our race . 60 Bold Lancer .... 103 Brave can never hate the Brave .... 122 Britons' Land . . .77 Canteen .... 118 Chameleon . . . 48 Clean contrary way . 46, 96 Connaught Rangers . 101 Corporal's Wife's Song. . 251 Cowardly Comrade . . 160 Cross and Crescent . . 59 Cross and Tricolor . . 54 Dashing Hussar . . .73 Days of other years . . 19 Dear old Rag . . .90 Dear ones at home . 241 Devil's agreement . . 147 CONTENTS. XV PAGE PAGE The Devil at fault . 2O0 The Sister of Mercy . 203 Devil's code . • I3 2 Soldier all his own again 167 Devil in difficulties • "4 Soldierand Peace-ai-any-price Dirge of night . 2O9 3° Dying Soldier . IO4 Soldier's Comment on Lord Eighty-seventh • 123 H — ton . 212 End of care . . 217 Soldier's Defaulter-sheet 165 Soldier's Inheritance 41 Fifth Fusiliers . 8l Soldier's Litany , 15 Fifty-second . . 88 Soldier's Philosophy 121 Forging of the Sabre . • 3° Soldier's Reverie , 216 Forty-fifth . . 89 Soldier's Tribute to F. Night- Forty-third . . 161 ingale . , 203 French Treaty . 186 Soldier's Tribute to the Press 107 Galloping Hussar . • 7° Soldier's Widow . 227 Glitter of the Shilling . ■ 225- Third Dragoon Guards . 78 Grave of Hope . . . 183 Tory, lad, is the Soldier's Gunner's field of pride . • 57 friend . 200 Harvest Home . 164 Trenches . 124 Household Brigade ■ 239 Trooper .... 5° • 74 Veteran — evening of Life i°5 Veteran's Parting „ 77 Light of other days . in Veteran's Prayer . '53 Lone one . 12 Veteran visiting his Corps 169 Magic hour . ■ 5° Voice of Affection 62 Maid of Bandon . . in Volunteer Rifleman's Wife's Mother's Blessing. . 214 92 Mountain Fern . 213 Warning .... 224 Ninety-first (Argyleshire) . 191 Up and onward .... 8 Noble of his Ancestry . 5 Up, at them, Guards . *43 Pearl of great price . 198 Up, stand by your Queen, boys . 37 Plague of education . 180 Unto the last .... 178 Prodigal . 106 9 Rapture of the strife • 244 Victory's for them who dare and Relief . . ' . who obey .... 14 Red and Blue . 158 11 Wealth v. Valour "5 Reviler's heaven . • 257 Weary upon our arms we lie 35 Riding-master . . . i8 S We have drunk to them who're away 35 Rifle-pits • 174 Welcome home .... 4 Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock 34 Welcome to Windsor's old hall . 60 Royal Dragoons . . 100 We now have a Hospital Corps . 96 Sagewhowritesfrom lowly cot 146 Wellington's name . . 119 Sentinel . 204 We'll meet the loved again in Sentry at glory's gate . • 39 Heaven .... 187 Seventh Hussars . . 211 Well, Tom, my old fellow . 194 Seventy-ninth Highlanders . 82 What is thy duty, Comrade ? 3 CONTENTS. What more ? .... 8 What ! Soldiers never wish to die 173 What is the Soldier's heritage ? . 221 When by the watch-fire slumbering 207 When Priam's 'fair boy . . 97 Who would not be a Soldier ? . 139 WhytheTenthLegionCsesarloved 176 PAGE Wiltshire Will . . . .49 Will the Priest labour more . . 205 Wisdom and Folly . . . 254 Would you know the Soldier? . 25 Work v. Wages .... 206 You need not pass so lightly by . 116 Yes, scoffing Senator . . . 120 |)u£)rts antr (Epigrams. Army Organisation . . . 320 British Pluck .... 310 Cardigan 315 Children and Soldiers . . . 315 Cromwell 311 Cubhood 321 Discipline 316 England after the Mutiny . . 285 England eating the Leek . 294 England's Augean Stable . 294 England's glory, is the Soldier's meed 322 Envious Brothers . . . 316 Epigram 294 Epitaph Fie, Ladies, Ladies ! . Fortune's Wheel . Fragment .... Glory the crown of immortality Glory waits for the Brave God's Providence Good-conduct pay 294, 314 • 317 • 309 . 289 314 322 314 319 Havelock 315 Home of the dying Soldier . .319 Ho, Permissive Saints ! . . 306 Hymn to Bacchus . . . 305 In Hawick's fair city . . . 281 Invocation toSleep, after the Battle 313 I scorn thee, Soldier . . . 284 Life 309 Mars lightly esteemed . . . 318 Medals all a fudge . . . 320 Medals v. Cotton Stripes . . 313 Misrule 317 On a Picture .... 308 Our Lecturing Sisters . . . 202 Our Party, right or wrong Our Senators Parliamentary Scoffings Patriotism . Peace with God . Precedence in glory Retribution 297 Returning thanks for the Army . 287 Tears 309 The Ballot 320 293. 27S. 281 319 320 3 : 3 3*7 277 Baptism of Fire Beautiful .... Brave live in the Affections . Cotton Ixjrds Devil and the Author . Devil and the War-office Guards' Epitaph . Light Brigade Moon-stricken National Hypocrite Queen of Weapons Route for Heaven. Sentimental Demagogue Soldier's Murderer Spirit of Britain's Address to the Soldier Thirty-second two Veterans Veterans' meeting Tom Bragger's Ghost Valour's Wreath . Whether, when, as time rolls on? Wisdom in taxing the tongue Woman's rights and Education . Woman's rights for ever . Young Lambs to sell . 321 310 322 282 299 318 321 2 73 3i7 281 284 314 298 3i8 271 315 29S 296 271 316 279 320 3°4 302 312 MARTIAL SONGS. There's not a word from flank to flank In ' files,' or ' fours,' or serried rank ; There's not a simile or say, But thou hast heard it many a day. Yet, as the heart oft fires anew In reading what before it knew, Read this, and haply thine shall glow At what thou dost already know. And should a latent spark be fired, 'Tis all the poet has desired ; Throw by his rhyme, pursue the theme Till action comes— 'tis his to dream. WHAT IS THY DUTY, COMRADE? What is thy duty, comrade ? 'Tis to do Whatever conscience telleth thee is right ; Yet let not even conscience cloud thy view By simply doing ; do it in thy might. It is thy duty when the foemen throng In double numbers, there to turn thy face ; The forward footstep makes the right arm strong : The fearless heart can never know disgrace. What is thy duty ? England claims thine all ; Whate'er she bids, no question ask, but dare — Her honour's thine, thy life is at her call ; And where thou turn'st, the God of Battle's there. BRITAIN'S QUEEN. Air — ' Fague a Ballagh." (In moderate time and with spirit.) To Britain's Queen a round, boys, With three times three, with three times three ; And make the roof resound, boys, With shouts of glee, with shouts of glee. By each bright glass o'erflowing, This night shall see, this night shall see, How soldiers' hearts are glowing With loyalty, with loyalty. WELCOME HOME TO THE SOLDIER. Then to our Queen a round, boys ; For here alone, for here alone, Are freemen to be found, boys, To guard a throne, to guard a throne. The German, Gaul, and Roman, Alike disdain, alike disdain To have a lovely woman O'er them to reign, o'er them to reign. And why ? they'd ne'er such beauty Adorn'd with smiles, adorn'd with smiles, To bind men to their duty As in our isles, as in our isles. Then to our Queen a round, boys ; For here alone, for here alone, Are women to be found, boys, To grace a throne,'to grace a throne. WELCOME HOME TO THE SOLDIER. Air — ' I'm afloat.' Welcome home ! welcome home ! hearty welcomes we bring, Warm, gushing, and true from the bosom they spring ; With thankful emotion we'll sing of thy praise, And cheer thee and bless thee the rest of thy days. No more in the trench — where the foe springs his mine, And the shells blaze in death — shall a cold bed be thine; No more storm the breach, nor the wall escalade ; Rest, cover'd with glory that never shall fade. Welcome home! welcome home! hearty welcomes we bring; The flagon shall flow, and the roof-tree shall ring ; No tongue shall be silent, we'll sing of thy praise, And cheer thee and bless thee the rest of thy days. THE NOBLE OF HIS ANCESTRV. 5 Welcome home ! thou hast battled that we may be free, And the love of thy country is centred in thee ; Her care be to comfort thy evening of life, So weary with conquest, so worn in the strife. The maid waves her kerchief, the brave bare the brow, And mothers of Britain, with cheeks all a-glow, Point their sons to thy deeds, proud to kindle the flame That shall light them to conquest, to glory, and fame. "Welcome home ! thou hast battled that we may be free, And the love of thy country is centred in thee ; With grateful emotion we'll sing of thy praise, And cheer thee and bless thee the rest of thy days. THE NOBLE OF HIS ANCESTRY. Air — ' British Grenadiers." The noble of his ancestry Tells with a haughty pride, Of hawks, and hounds, and heraldry, Of lands and forests wide ; But none of these can yield the joy The British soldier knows, When he marches away, As the merry drums play, To meet old England's foes. The miser's joy is in his gold, The merchant's in his gain, The plodding farmer ploughs the wold And gathers in the grain : Nor gold nor gain yield half the joy The British soldier knows, When he marches away, As the merry drums play, To meet old England's foes. DEATH OF GENERAL PONSONBY. Yes, those who like may bend and bow To him who gathers gold, To rank or name, or those who plough And gather from the wold : True homage is alone for him, As well the soldier knows, Who marches away, As the merry drums play, To meet old England's foes. Though scanty be the soldier's board, A right proud man is he, When maid and mother bless the sword That aye will keep them free. His good right arm's his country's strength, And that the soldier knows, When he marches away, As the merry drums play, To meet old England's foes. DEATH OF GENERAL PONSONBY. Air— 'The Admiral.' ! Twas in the glorious month of June, and every face look'd gay, And every heart with ardour burn'd to meet the coming fray; And daring spirits seem'd to breathe and sparkle in each eye, As Royals, Greys, and Inniskillings raised their battle-cry. Full fifteen hundred well-tried blades leapt sparkling from the sheath, Grasp'd by those hands that ever made them messengers of death ; And anxiously we listen'd for the trumpet's gladd'ning sound : 'Twas given, and our chargers near'd the foe at every bound. DEATH OF GENERAL PONSONBY. 7 With confidence upon their chief his hardy men relied, And proudly on they follow'd, and the power of France defied; The choicest squadrons she could boast were soon dispersed — they fled — And left the field of battle strew'd with dying and with dead. We soon re-form'd at the ' recall' to charge Count d'Erlon's corps, The flower of France's infantry, ten thousand men and more; And though the grape and shot and shell came ploughing through our ranks, No faltering heart was beating from the centre to the flanks. A dauntless heart had Ponsonby, who led us to the fray, A soul that every danger spurn'd, that never knew dismay; His cheerful smile, in language plain, told all was calm within, And firm and clear he gave command amidst the battle's din. O, then was seen the mighty charm a chieftain's smile has o'er The youthful heart that never trod the battle-plain before ; He heeded not the leaden shower, but rode from man to man, While 'Here's our noble General !' in joyful accents ran. Though pale and paler grew his cheek, he heeded not his wound, But with a skilful soldier's eye he scann'd the battle-ground ; Then signall'd with the waving plume,* 'twas answer'd with a cheer, And through their squares we dash'd, and through their squadrons in the rear : Three thousand prisoners ground their arms, two thousand stricken die, But there was no brave Ponsonby to join the victor's cry. And not a man drew blade that day, or march'd behind his bier, But said ' Our good brave General !' and wiped away a tear. * The signal he gave for the Brigade to advance when he made that memorable charge on D'Erlon's corps. UP, UP, AND ONWARD, ALL WHO CAN. WHAT MORE? What ! ask me why my medal thus I cherish ? Read on it ' Delhi,' which we did restore. Shall England's fame like traders' riches perish ? Did we not bleed and conquer there ? What more ? Why storm the breach ? Couldst thou but feel the passion That stirs the soldier to his bosom's core, Thou wouldst for shame not question in this fashion ; We dared — was ours not England's cause ? What more ? What ! had I fall'n ? Who recks ? The dauntless spirit Leaves but its clay upon this nether shore ; Who highest aims shall highest joys inherit — With England's glory for our aim. What more ? UP, UP, AND ONWARD, ALL WHO CAN. Air — ' To daunton me.' Jacobite Song. Up, up, and onward, all who can, To meet the foeman man to man ; Come, Cornishmen, and men of Kent, Come, yeomen from the Ouse and Trent. Let Lancashire pour forth in flood, And Yorkshire men from wold and wood ; Our watchword, ' Onward, all who can ; Come, meet the foemen man to man !' Ye brothers from the Clyde and Forth, Strike with the strong arm of the north ; As Tay's swift torrent sweeps along, Bear back to sea the invading throng. VICTORY. And come, ye fighting sons of Wales, Come from your mountains, hills, and vales ; ' Up, up, and onward, all who can, And meet the foemen man to man !' God gave us iron in our hills, Emblem of our stern British wills ; The glowing steel is ne'er so bright As when it flashes in the fight, In grip of hand whose home and hearth Is only where free men have birth ; Then ' Up and onward, all who can, And meet the foemen man to man !' Our soldiers, dauntless, stem the tide Of nations in their hate and pride ; And though they reel 'neath victories won, For you and yours they still reel on. Then rally round them, child and wife, And all that's dear of honour, life, Call, ' Up, and onward, all who can, And meet the foemen man to man !' VICTORY. Air — ' My lodging is on the cold ground. ' AVhen Victory fled from the crest of the Greek, She perch'd on the banner of Rome, Resolved, while for freedom she fought, she would seek In no other nation a home. For centuries over that banner she spread Her wings, as its guardian to fame ; But at tyranny's rule away the bird fled, And left Rome's proud legions to shame. D HAVELOCK S MARCH. O'er the wide world she hover'd, disdaining to stay With a people who would not be free ; But over the wide world oppression held sway, Save in Britain, the Isle of the Sea. Here she rested her weary wing, never to roam, Except with our flag on the wave, Or our banner in battle ; for this is her home — The home of the free and the brave. Not a proud pennant flies, not a flag leaves the strand, But o'er them she's seen to preside, And darts from her sea-home o'er many a land, Our armies in battle to guide. With a bough of green laurel she flies o'er the field, And crowns each brave brow with a wreath ; She loves the bold spirit that never will yield, And cheers him when sinking in death. HAVELOCK'S MARCH. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' ■ Brave soldiers of Britain,' thus Havelock said, ' Our comrades in Lucknow have sent here for aid ; Tis ours to relieve them ere three days are o'er, Or the red blood will run as it ran at Cawnpore.' Up, up, and away ; what Briton says Nay, When honour and duty forbid him to stay ? Up, up, and away, for battle or fray, Though ten times our number should stand in the way ! ' Though deep be the Ganges and swift be its flow, Though few be our numbers, and many the foe, Though the country be up, it shall never be said, That Britons have turn'd ; so right onward we'll tread.' WATERLOO. 1 1 Up, up, and away, what Briton says Nay, When honour and duty forbid him to stay ? Up, up, and away, for battle or fray, Though ten times our number should stand in the way ! And red was their path with the blood of the foe, From the Ganges right on to the gates of Lucknow ; In many a skirmish, in many a fight, They conquer'd ; ' God with them' defending the right. They were up and away ; what Briton says Nay, When honour and duty forbid him to stay ? They were up and' away, for battle or fray, Till no foeman remain'd to stand in their way ! WATERLOO. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' Napoleon to Soult thus exultingly said, ' One half of those English are wounded or dead ; They are thoroughly beaten and soon must give way, So send word to Paris that we've won the day.' ' Stay your messenger, Sire ! While a corps is complete, Not a foot will they yield, and would scorn to retreat ; They give Death the challenge when others despair, And when half are stricken, the more do they dare.' ' My Marshal, at noon not a rank, not a square, But was shatter'd by guns and the brave cuirassier ; Now four hours have pass'd — true, they're not in retreat ; But then they dorit know when they really are beat.'* ' I saw them cross Douro when fullest its flood, Boldly storm San Sebastian through seas of blood ; * Napoleon's exclamation when he saw the Royals, Greys, and Innis- killings rally, after riding down D'Erlon's corps, and losing in that memor- able charge every third man. I 2 THE LONE ONE. They give Death the challenge, then onward they go, Though 'twere legions from hell they should meet as their foe.' •* Marshal ! Marshal ! the Guard, see, are broken, have fled ! O, Austerlitz, Wagram ! Shame ! would they were dead ! Then France might have wept without shame in her woe ; But now her Guard runs from a half-beaten foe.' ' Nor mountain-pass, river, nor night will bring rest, So relentless, untiring, and bold is their quest ; Those dare-devil horsemen swoop down on their prey — I know them too well, Sire ; away — haste away !' THE LONE ONE. Air — ' Miss Forbes' Farewell.' Why sitt'st thou in the wintry blast, Unshelter'd from the sleet and snow ? Dost ponder on the weary past, Or on thy wearier way of woe ? Say, lone one, wherefore this sad plight — This tatter'd garb, this wasted form ? Death rides the whirlwind of the night ; Turn in, nor longer brave the storm. Who art thou ? ' Who !' the lone one cried : ' Behold in me a nation's toy — Caress'd, defaced, broke, thrown aside, Forgotten in her whirl of joy ; For that proud day when, wild and high, My spirit flash'd, my sabre flew, Now pity from the passer-by Is all she deems the soldier's due. NICHOLSON BEFORE DELHI. Flatter" d when War's red banner waved ; Flouted when Peace that flag had furl'd ; Scorn' d, though beneath its fold we braved, And beat the foe o'er half the world. O for that day when wild and high My spirit flash'd, my sabre flew, That 'neath its glitter I might die, And Victory's shout be life's adieu !' NICHOLSON BEFORE DELHI. We march'd from Delhi long before 'twas day, And found the foemen ready for the fray • And as their banner glisten'd in the sun, Thus spoke our chief, the gallant Nicholson : ' On, onward, Sixty-first and Fusiliers ! Send back defiance in your lusty cheers ; Though in " position," fresh, and five to one, God's arm strike with us — we no odds will shun ! Reserve your fire until the rifle's flash Shall singe the rebels' beards ; then with a dash Go in and win, as Britons ever won, And vengeance take for deeds in Cawnpore done.' In steady line we gain'd the mountain's crest ; The flash — the cheer — the bay'net did the rest ; Each strong arm held his conscience ; Pity fled, And left the heel of Vengeance in her stead. 14 victory's for them who dare and who obey. VICTORY'S FOR THEM WHO DARE AND WHO OBEY. Air — 'Cheer, boys, cheer.' March, boys, march; a noble task's before us, 'Tis ours to keep old England's homes from shame ; 'Tis ours to bear the flag that's flying o'er us, Higher and higher up the hill of fame. Boldly 'twas borne by men-at-arms and bowmen, By musketeers so daringly unfurl'd, That Marshal Bugeaud said of them as foemen, ' They are the bravest soldiers in the world.' March, boys, march ; a noble task's before us, 'Tis ours to keep old England's homes from shame; 'Tis ours to bear the flag that's flying o'er us, Higher and higher up the hill of fame. March, boys, march ; the path we tread to glory Science and Art with perils multiply ; Dare like our sires, and yet a brighter story 'Grave on the page of England's history. No more now we move to music's measure ; Silent and swift's the order of the day : Watch till your chief shall sign or glance his pleasure, Victory's for them who dare and who obey. March, boys, march; the path we tread to glory Science and Art with perils multiply; Dare like our sires, and yet a brighter story 'Grave on the page of England's history. THE SOLDIER'S LITANY. 1 5 OUR COUNTRY, RIGHT OR WRONG. Air—' The Garb of old Gaul.' Cheer, cheer up, my lads, for another campaign, The route's in ; and see, to the bugle's refrain, Battalions and squadrons all mass'd in array, In the garb that was never disgraced in the fray. No matter what the colour be, Or red or green or blue, An English, Scotch, or Irish heart Beneath is beating true ; Nor whether trumpet, drum, or fife, Accompanies our song, The chorus, boys, shall ever be, ' Our country, right or wrong !' Old Reason implores, half defying in affright, And more than half in doubt, ' May God defend the right '.' Yet shouts a fierce ' Amen !' as he sees our array, In the garb we have worn in full many a fray. No matter what the colour be, &c. Be the cause right or wrong, 'tis not ours to inquire, The soldier who reasons ne'er knows the soldier's fire ; We have pluck, we have strength, and souls to strike or stand. All devoted as one to do our Queen's command. No matter what the colour be, &c. THE SOLDIER'S LITANY. God of battle ! God of peace ! God of love ! and God of grace ! God of all who seek Thy face, Guide us, Lord, to Thee. 1 6 THE SOLDIER'S LITANY. When the sun sinks in the sky, And the shadows lengthen'd lie, When the heart throbs wearily, Give us strength in Thee. When in camp at close of day, Watching for the coming fray, Silently, O God, we pray, ' Stay our hearts on Thee.' When we bear in manhood's bloom Some loved comrade to the tomb, Hear, O God, in muffled drum, Hearts subdued to Thee. God of heaven ! God of earth ! Be our God when we go forth ; Be the guard of home and hearth, Make them dear to Thee. When in serried ranks we stand, Holding at our chief's command Sword and life in ready hand, Then we look to Thee. When the cannon shakes the ground, When the trampling hoofs resound, When the foemen gather round, Lord, we're bold in Thee. When the lifted sword shall fall, When we strike at England's call, Banish hatred, Lord, from all ; All are loved by Thee. AVhen upon the purple heath We shall yield to Thee our breath, May Thy angel, Lord, of death Wing our souls to Thee. CAN I SEE A BLEEDING FOE ? l^ Then before Thy throne to kneel, This our prayer for England's weal : ' Seal her glory with Thy seal, Keep her great and free.' CAN I SEE A BLEEDING FOE? Air — 'jWhen our heads are bow'd with woe.' Hymn. Can I see a bleeding foe, And not stay the lifted blow ? Can I see th' imploring tear, And not feel that God is near ? Can the aged say, ' O, spare !' And I disregard his prayer ? See the humble suppliant tear, And not feel that God is near ? Can I see the maiden cry, Wring her hands in agony ? See the mother's pleading tear, And not feel that God is near ? Can I of the victory tell ? Can I hear the paeans swell Toned by orphan's sigh and tear, And not feel that God is near ? God, in whom we live and move, God of charity and love, Can I but shed tear for tear, When I feel that Thou art near ? O, SING THAT MERRY SONG ONCE MORE. DEAREST, 'TIS A SOLDIER'S DUTY. Air — ' Ae fond kiss, and then we sever.' Burns. Dearest, 'tis a soldier's duty Calls me from thy maiden beauty. See, the sacred ensign flowing, Steeds are saddled, bugles blowing. One fond kiss, and we must part, love ; But while life shall wake this heart, love, I'll be constant, thine for ever ; Death alone our love shall sever. Those bright eyes, where true love beameth, Charm as when the sabre gleameth ; Now love all the soul is stealing, TJien war makes a sterner feeling. Hostile front to front opposeth, Hand to hand in battle closeth ; Glory, honour, fame, and duty, Call me from thy maiden beauty. By those vows so fondly plighted, When the moon our path has lighted ; By thy heart so fondly beating, 'Gainst this breast each throb repeating ; By the love thou hast imparted, And these tears at parting started, — I'll be constant, thine for ever, Death alone our love shall sever. O, SING THAT MERRY SONG ONCE MORE. Air — ' There is na luck about the house.' O, sing that merry song once more, It wakens in review Scenes pass'd in my old gallant corps With comrades brave and true. THE DAYS OF OTHER YEARS. 19 I've heard it in the barrack-room, And mid the tented throng ; When bivouack'd 'mong heather bloom It was our favourite song. t O, sing, &c. And O, how joyously 'twas sung When foemen were in view, When trumpets loud defiance flung, Or signall'd to pursue ! And when return'd, and round the fire We sat as victors crown'd, A comrade's hand would strike the lyre, And song go gaily round. O, sing, &c. O, sing that merry song once more, To bring to mind the day, When first I saw my gallant corps Dash headlong in the fray, When from the haughty foeman's brow Bright victory's badge we tore, — The thought still makes my bosom glow, O, sing that song once more. O, sing, &c. THE DAYS OF OTHER YEARS. THE VETERAN VISITING THE MONUMENT ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS FALLEN COMRADES. Air — ' Harp of Tara.' Ye tell of days of other years, When bright the vision came Of hope, amid a cloud of fears, That we should live in fame. MY HARP. We trod the deck, the cheer rose high, The blessing and the prayer, That fired the heart and fill'd the eye Of every soldier there. We turn'd the tide of many a fight, And as you, conqu'ring, fell, Fame, smiling, robed you in her light — My fame, ah, who will tell ? Weary and old, men pass me by ; And yet I once could dare ; The fire I feel sinks in the sigh For fame I cannot share. Friends of my youth ! the vision brings The days of other years, And Joy o'er Grief her mantle flings, And my lone bosom cheers. And changes come, and voices say — Loved voices of the past — ■ ' Fame's but for time — that little day : Here friendships ever last.' MY HARP. Air — ' Logan Water.' My harp ! whene'er I touch thy string, Long-buried thoughts from Mem'ry spring ; In her rich lap they bud anew, And gladden as they meet the view. From boyhood and from early youth Thou bringest them array'd in truth, And dear home faces smiling say, ' Why "linger here ? come, come away !' BEAR UP, BOYS ! And he who oft would guide and cheer In battle's hour, when death was near, Will now, as then, impassion'd say, ' To glory this !' and points the way. Thus rny loved harp, within thy tone The past and future blend in one ; And thus my vision so imbue, It makes the present joyous too. BEAR UP, BOYS ! Air — 'Hark, 'tis the Moorish evening drum.' Bear up, boys ! though the shock be rude, Approving Heaven cries, £ Dare !' Nor ever yet was heart subdued Which echo'd back, ' I dare !' Bear up ! bind glory to your car, Fame rides the foremost steed ; The night lends lustre to the star, The danger to the deed. Bear up, boys ! though the shock be rude, Approving Heaven cries, ' Dare !' Nor ever yet was heart subdued Which echo'd back, ' I dare !' Although our flag's shot to a shred, Though arms begin to tire, Mind, valour's brightest wreath is shed Where brave the brave admire. Bear up, bear up, boys ■ battle on, Though hotter be the press ; The hardest fight's the noblest won, In daring is success. Bear up, boys ! &c. LECTURE ON PENSIONS. LECTURE ON PENSIONS. Written, as was also tlie following song, 'The BALLOT,' on reading Sir Charles P.. Trcvelyaris pamphlet, ' The British Army in 1868.' Place,. Exeter Hall. Air — 'Alley Croker.' While, ladies, you Such stitching do, You cannot pay attention To what I say — My theme to-day Is soldiers and their pension. And I propose, Before we close, Their morals too to touch on ; A subject which — Pray stay that stitch ! — Men say forms my escutcheon. But O, this stitching ! this weary, weary stitching E I can't dilate Unless you 'bate This weary counting, stitching. You know as well As I can tell, A nation wanes or waxes, According to The pensions due ; And these are paid by taxes. Shall men who bled In your sons' stead, For you and England's glory, Who march away To battle fray, Be pension'd when they're hoary ? LECTURE ON PENSIONS. 23 Worn and hoary, when they are worn and hoary — What right have they To care or pay When weary, worn, and hoary ? The greater shame I cannot name, Although 'twas my intention ; But claim your aid, Both wife and maid, To do away with pension. And I would make, For England's sake, The heaven-born, skill'd mechanic Serve out three years 'Mong swords and spears, Instead of men Satanic — O Satanic ! for soldiers so Satanic ! — And fill their place With men of grace — The heaven-born, skill'd mechanic. We need not grant, Nor will they want, For three years, any pension ; They're men of mind ; They're too refined — However, I just mention, On Sunday they Will march to pray, And listen to a sermon ; And not, you know, As now they go A hunting rats and vermin — O the vermin ! no hunting rats and vermin ! But smart and clean — O blessed scene ! — March off to prayer and sermon. 24 THE BALLOT. Epigram. He surely wears the cap and bells Who lectures upon soldiers' acts : Himself has kiss'd ; and kissing, tells, And telling, reproduces facts. THE BALLOT. Air — 'The Rogue's March.' The ballot, they say, From the land's, pass'd away, Now middle-class men shun the fighting - T Neglecting the blade, They have taken to trade, The gain being far more inviting Than national wrongs to be righting, Than shooting and stabbing and smiting. Of old though so bold, They now so love their gold, All patriot feeling 'tis blighting. Ye traders, beware ! If your pockets you spare, Be sure of the ballot's returning. Will volunteers come From the plough and the loom ? The year sixty-five be your warning ; Then soldiers, your short service scorning, Your bounty and promises spurning, Brought you down on your knees, Saying, ' Stay, soldier, please ! We'll give you more pay in the morning.' WOULD YOU KNOW THE SOLDIER ? So humbly you pray'd, That in duty we sta/d, By honour and honesty guided ; You, true to your creed — ' Knuckle down when in need, But bluster when danger's subsided' — ■ Now flout with, ' You're too well provided ;' The deeds that we do are derided ; You scoff at the blade Which has guarded your trade, And battles when war is decided. Reviling, you say We mis-spend night and day In roistering, revel, flirtation ; Quote figures to prove How we drink, how we love, And slander by multiplication. You'd employ us on land reclamation, To dig by Horse Guards regulation ; Then turn us adrift To the devil a gift, To pension us 'stead of the nation. WOULD YOU KNOW THE SOLDIER? AIR — ' Come under my plaidy.* Can sages at college, so learned in books, Know man from that knowledge ? or e'en from his looks ? They study, yet know not ; they see, yet are blind To good which they show not, to ill that's behind. The higher the station, the greater the cheat ; In civilisation is cultured deceit • The art of dissembling, the veil of the mind, When bad thoughts assembling, are spoken as kind. 26 SEND ROUND THE WINE-CUP. As sages your classes you cannot divine ; Go, live with the masses if man you'd define ; Plain, rough-hewn, unletter'd, their thoughts on the tongue. As free and unfetter'd as lark in his song. Would you know, then, the soldier ? in barrack-room dwell ; March shoulder to shoulder, his virtues to tell. Yes, sages at college, 'tis cruel to judge By such narrow knowledge, and fair play to grudge. SEND ROUND THE WINE-CUP. Air— 'Gentle Zitella.' Send round the wine-cup, Lift ye the song, Nobly our comrades Fell in the throng ; Fearless and foremost ever to shine ; Beacons in battle, toasts at our wine. Send round the wine-cup, Lift ye the song ; Nobly our comrades Fell in the throng. Tears for the maiden ; Grief for the brave Who, with years laden, Sink to the grave. But for the fallen joy-bells shall ring, Young men shall envy, old men shall sing ' Send round the wine-cup, Lift ye the song ; Nobly those heroes Fell in the throng.' HEY, BOYS, UP GO WE ! Marble will moulder, Sabres will rust, So shall our comrades Mingle in dust ; But through time ever their fame shall ring, Young men shall envy, old men shall sing : ' Send round the wine-cup, Lift ye the song ; Nobly those heroes Fell in the throng.' HEY, BOYS, UP GO WE ! Air— ' Hey, boys, up go we !' Jacobite Song. When Commerce spreads her studding sails, And ' sea-room, sea-room !' sings ; When Speculation rides the gales On Credit's proffer'd wings ; When men have work and hearts are glad, 'Tis few will soldiers be ; When trade is up, why, labour's up, And hey, boys, up go we ! A long lane 'tis that has no turns ; Who bides his time is wise ; And Patience, though for long she mourns, At last bears off the prize, As we have done; so lefs be glad, Rejoice and sing with me ; When trade is up, why, labour's up, And hey, boys, up go we ! When ill winds blow, they do some good ; The winning side may laugh ; The best tap that was ever brew'd Is such as now we quaff. 28 RELATIVE RANK. Then fill and drink, and let's be glad, Rejoice and sing with me ; When trade is up, why, labour's up, And hey, boys, up go we ! A man is rich with ' little more,' Two pennies* boys, will clink; Content is "Wisdom's choicest store When he has aught to drink. So fill, and let each heart be glad, Rejoice and sing with me; When trade is up, why, labour's up, And hey, boys, up go we ! RELATIVE RANK. Air — ' Lillibulero. ' ' Insulted by order,' cried Lancet to Fleam ; ' Just Mister, plain Mister, before each one's name !' ' Just Mister !' sneered Cash-box, ' and stuck on a flank- We're nameless until we get relative rank. Relative rank, relative rank, We'll write up our wrongs and get relative rank ! At mess we are nowhere ; at balls the young Sub, Because he's a combatant, gives us a snub ; We offer to dance, 'tis declined with a " Thank ;" But wait till we once get our relative rank ! Relative rank, relative rank, The girls will then dance to our relative rank !' ' We've got it, we've got it !' cries Lancet to Fleam ; ' No more just plain Mister before each one's name ; Field-officers now — though it may be a blank, For people will ask, " What is relative rank ?" Relative rank, relative rank, Too soon they will know what is relative rank !' * In 1867 the pay was increased twopence a day. FUNERAL HYMN. 29 "Who visits a maid when she's coughing and hoarse, Who visits a stable to doctor a horse, Who counts other's cash, is a mere mountebank, When once he presumes on his relative rank : Relative rank, relative rank, Cash, Lancet, nor Fleam, but the Sword gives the rank. Give physic its place, its true value to gold, But on the affections the sword keeps its hold ; Its witness, the welcome so kindly and frank, That women all give to the combatant rank : Combatant rank, combatant rank, That women all give to the combatant rank. FUNERAL HYMN. Air — ' Scots wha hae.' Burns, Glory, glory, glory, sing, Glory to our God and king ; Fife and drum and trumpet ring, In loud melody. Proudly march behind the dead, Death defy widi lifted head, Dare the grave with firmer tread, Shouting, ' Victory !' Our loved comrade's now at rest, By the God of Battle blest; Lord, may we too be Thy guest In eternity. Foremost in the fight he fell, — Foemen of his courage tell. Lord, help us to do as well, Looking up to Thee ! 3° THE FORGING OF THE SABRE. MARCH, MARCH, ERIN'S AND BRITAIN'S SONS. Air — ' Lesley's March to Scotland." March, march, Erin's and Britain's sons, Shoulder to shoulder, and gather fresh glory ; March, march, Erin's and Britain's sons, Long shall the deeds of this day live in story ! Think of the fights in Spain, Think of the Belgic plain ; Alma and Inkerman, fields of our glory ; Think of the Light Brigade, Fame that can never fade, How proudly they obey'd, — told is in story. March, march ! step to the drum and fife, See the old colours how proud and defying ; March, march ! bear them, boys, through the strife, As they were ever, in victory flying. Sharply the rifles ring, Wildly the bullets sing, Soon will our front be their front opposing ; Let heart and hand be strong, They shall remember long Erin's and Britain's sons' prowess in closing. THE FORGING OF THE SABRE. Air — ' Bob and Joan.' Vulcan, to your task, Bare your arm for labour ; All your skill I ask, On the trooper's sabre. THE FORGING OF THE SABRE. Take a bolt which thou Forged for Jovian thunder ; Fuse with lightning's glow, Till the fire-caves wonder. Round the hammer swing, Sparks set flying, bright'ning, From the anvil fling Polish'd blade of lightning. Twine from Glory's bough Wreath that never fadeth ; Take from Valour's brow Fillet Honour braideth ; Lay them on the blade When the hammer dashes, Pure and brighter made By their living ashes. Round, &c Fashion it with care, 'Tis the sword of order ; Scourge when rabbles dare Step o'er freedom's border ; Tyrants' bitter foe, Trampled ones' redressor, On its flashings show Death to the oppressor. Round, &c. Give it Music's ring, Rousing rapt emotion ; On its gleamings wing Heart-throbs of devotion. On it grave this scroll : ' Who bears me to glory Lives on Briton's roll, Hero of her story.' Round, &c. 32 THE FIELD. THE FIELD. Air— 'The Sea.' The field, the field, the tented field ! I ne'er yet trod the reeking sod But foes were made to yield. The sun's retreated in the west, And all, by piquets guarded, rest ; But soon the guns the hills shall shake, And dreamers from their dreams shall wake ; Their tunes I love, e'en heard afar, The battle's din and noise of war ; The bursting shell, the ringing steel, The charger's plunge to the iron heel, The gladd'ning shout at close of day, The shout, the shout of victory ! The night was dark, the moon abash'd, Her face did shroud in dark'ning cloud, The guns so fearful flash'd. The leaguer'd town was girt with steel, Her battlements did rock and reel, Her batter'd wall in fragments fell, The foemen raised their madd'ning yell ; The stormers shouting rent the air, As o'er their heads the fire-balls glare ; The round-shot whistled, and echoing roll'd The battle thunder uncontroll'd. Such was the noise and such the strife, When I began a soldier's life. Since then, Old England I have served In peace and war, climes near and far, Nor once in duty swerved. In many a fight this trusty blade Has stretch'd the foe upQn the glade ; LE MARCHAST'S BRIGADE. 33 And to-morrow, boys, again 'twill be Steep'd to the hilt for liberty. There's peace at home in every blow, There's peace at home when lie the foe ; And crown'd with peace and banner high, All England as one man shall cry, ' See, see, our conquering soldiers come ; Protectors of our hearth and home.' LE MARCHANTS BRIGADE. Air—* The Battle of the Baltic.' Of Salamanca, boys, We will sing — a glorious day, When the Third, and Fourth, and Fifth, Were the foremost in the fray. With bounding hearts they saw the Frenchmen come ; And when their shout was heard, Brave Le Marchant gave the word, As he waved on high his sword, ' Charge them home !' Each eye beam'd bright with joy As their swords flew from the sheath ; Their gleam to them was victory, But to the Frenchmen death. Their dauntless bosoms danger never knew ; But, with Britons' conscious pride, On they gallop'd side by side, Then rush'd a bursting tide On the foe. Le Marchant's bold brigade Thirteen hundred men rode down ; Still uncheck'd each joyous cried, ' On for glory and renown !' 34 THE ROSE, THISTLE, AND SHAMROCK. A thousand Frenchmen's blood bedew'd the field, Whilst two thousand in dismay- Ran, and threw their kits away ; But the British made them stay, And there yield. And when Old England calls, She shall find our blades as true As Le Marchant's bold brigade, Who the Frenchmen overthrew. To keep her banner stainless as the snow, We'll gallop side by side, Though girth-deep red we ride, A bursting, whelming tide, On the foe. THE ROSE, THISTLE, AND SHAMROCK. Air — ' My lodging is on the cold ground.' While the Rose of Old England shall bloom on its stem, Or Scotland's rough Thistle shall grow, The Shamrock shall flourish united with them, In spite of the traitor and foe. They have conquer'd together ; and shall they be riven — Our banner be shorn of its fame ? No, no ; while yon sun, boys, shall light us, by heaven, Our swords shall defend it from shame ! Shall traitors the Rose and the Thistle dare spurn ? Make the Shamrock the badge of ' repeal' ? No, not till the Briton from battle shall turn, Or low to the tyrant shall kneel. The foe on the battle-field mercy may crave, And mercy will freely be given ; But the blood of the traitor shall redden each glaive, As it gleams with the vengeance of heaven. WE HAVE DRUNK TO THEM WHO'RE AWAY. WEARY UPON OUR ARMS WE LIE. ArR — 'Canadian Boat-song.' Weary upon our arms we lie, Xo hope to cheer, and no succour nigh ; The sun shall return, but who can say We shall wake to live throughout the day ? Rest, comrades, rest ; the night's begun, And nothing is heard but the random gun. Comrades in toil, unshrinking still, The foe shall find us upon this hill ; Though hope be fled, nor succour nigh, We will show how free-born Britons die. Rest, comrades, rest ; midnight is past, And nothing is heard but the sweeping blast Rest ! O how calmly sleep the brave, E'en where to-morrow may be their grave ! Though hope be fled, nor succour nigh, They wake to conquer or to die. Wake, comrades, wake ; that morning gun Signals that day, and the fight is begun. WE HAVE DRUNK TQ THEM WHO'RE AWAY. Air — ' Here's a health to them that's awa'.' Jacotitc Song. We' have drunk to them who're away, We have drunk to them who're away ; And now we will drink to those comrades, my boys r Who will dash with us into the fray ; Who never yet met with the foe But victors they came from the field ; And to-morrow again the proud foeman shall know How Britons their weapons can wield. 36 THE SOLDIER TO THE PEACE- AT-ANY-PRICE MAN.- We have drunk to them who're away, We have drank to them who're away ; And now we will drink in a bumper, my boys, ' Success to our arms in the fray !' We shall triumph, for freedom's our cause ; We shall triumph, for Britons are brave. Hurrah ! for Old England, our Queen, and our laws,. We'll triumph, or sleep in the grave. We have drunk to them who're away, And to our success in the fray ; And now in a brimmer we'll drink, my brave boys, ' Speed, speed to the opening day !' Every eye that I see sparkles bright, With ardour each brave bosom glows ; Then stand up, my boys, give a ' Hip, hip, hurrah !' 'Tis the shout of our lads in the close. THE SOLDIER TO THE PEACE-AT-ANY-PRICE MAN. Say, peace-at-any-price man, whence thy race, Which to the British soil brings but disgrace ? What lotus sire begat, what mother bore, And sent thee dreaming from thy native shore ? What ! British-born, and bear that foul device ? Thou from thy boyhood ripe in cowardice ; So ripe, when Valour's whisper shakes thy tree, The falling fruit is stupid perfidy. The clown defends the hamlet of his birth ; Thou wooest insult to thy home and hearth ; His manhood kindles at the foeman's cheer ; Thy trembling knee in homage bends to Fear. UP ! STAND BY OUR QUEEN, BOYS. 37 The silly sheep looks danger in the face, And stamps defiance, ere it seeks the race ; The very worm will vent its tiny ire ; Whilst thou wouldst lick the foot, and, licking it, expire. UP! STAND BY OUR QUEEN, BOYS. Air — ' Hey, tuttie tattie." Party men to party cling, And to sea their country fling, So from Royalty they wring Place, or power, or gain. Up ! stand by our Queen, boys ; Honour'd shall she reign, boys ; Throned in ev'ry soldier's heart, Ever to remain. Low, to whips, they'll stoop and cringe, Nor their conscience feel a twinge ; Nay, their soul they'll singe, Just for place or gain. Up ! stand by our Queen, boys ; Honour'd shall she reign, boys ; Throned in ev'ry soldier's heart, Ever to remain. Times and things they'll not revere, But away will ruthless tear All that makes a country dear, Just for place or gain. Up ! stand by our Queen, boys ; Honour'd shall she reign, boys ; Throned in ev'ry soldier's heart, Ever to remain. 38 HYMN. Pledge we then our Queen of hearts, Brim your glasses, pints, and quarts ; Country ! Queen ! we'll do our parts, Once more and again. Up ! stand by our Queen, boys ; Honour'd shall she reign, boys ; Throned in ev'ry soldier's heart, Ever to remain. HYMN. Air — Hymns Ancient and Modern, No. 325. Lord God of hosts, here in Thy presence kneeling. Behold an army gather'd in array ; Turn not Thy face, O God, from our appealing, But help Thy servants through this fearful day. Angels obey Thee ; strike on our side, And be our chief's, as Thou wert Joshua's guide. Lord God of hosts, do Thou in mercy bless us With strength to battle with a manly heart ; Give courage, should a sinking thought oppress us, So that the hand may do a double part. Lord, let Thine angels fight on our side, And be our chief's, as Thou wert Joshua's guide. Lord, make the foemen's numbers unavailing ; Stretch forth Thine arm and save us from despite : Make their knees tremble, and all hearts be quailing, And Death's dark angel follow in their flight. Angels obey Thee ; strike on our side, And be our chief's, as Thou wert Joshua's guide. THE SENTRY AT GLORY'S GATE. 39 GOOD ALE WILL MAKE US JOLLY. Air— 'While Joan's ale is new.' Old Song. Just prove 'twill be a gain, or I'll ne'er be an abstainer ; And though no flagon-drainer, I'll sign no pledge with you. The soldier who can't stay his hand, But drinks to lose his self-command, We'll banish from our social band, While Joan's ale is new, While Joan's ale is new, my boys, While Joan's ale is new, &c. Good ale will make us jolly, And banish melancholy ; Yet fools will say 'tis folly That we good ale should brew. The soldier who can't stay, &c. Shall we despise the Giver ? And cast into the river The juicy grape, boys ? Never ; Nor yet good ale eschew. The soldier who can't stay, &c. THE SENTRY AT GLORY'S GATE. Air — ' The Rogues' March.' (Scornfully.) These are wonderful times, O such wonderful times ! When the wise their own wisdom are preaching From the ladder's top round, When their trumpet-notes sound In magazine writings and speeching ; 40 THE SENTRY AT GLORY S GATE. When parsons to strengthen their teaching, When the forum the pulpit o'er-reaching, Would dispatch us pell-mell Down the highway — well, well — Whilst their own hand to glory is reaching. Let the sage in his pride Up to glory's gate ride, He will surely find there, boys, a sentry Holding fast in his hand His chiefs written command : ' Admit none of those envious gentry ; Who passes must show a strict entry* Of deeds he has done to the sentry, Who will judge of the case And say " Right about face," Or " Present" as he opens for entry.' So, my comrades, you see, Though now slander'd we be, 'We shall ' challenge' our letter'd despisers. But we'll open the gate To the good and the great, Who are ever the soldier's advisers. O true-hearted, honest advisers ! With you we will share the great prize, sirs ; But will scatter pell-mell Down the highway — well, well, Such rabble as those our despisers. Thus they prove the wise say, ' Ev'ry dog has his day,' And after a sorry condition ; For we'll chuck 'em the crumbs, As ,we rattle the drums, And gather the sheaves of ambition ; * Defaulter's sheet. CIVILIANS V. SOLDIERS. 41 Grave our deeds on the tongue of tradition, Which mocks at the sorry condition Of those hapless drones O'er their crumbs and their bones, And their groans in the halls of perdition. THE SOLDIER'S INHERITANCE. Read, comrade, on our colours proudly flying, The title-deeds of our inheritance ; Graven by Glory when the brave were dying, And Valour waved aloft his conquering lance. Inheritance of Peril's stormy pleasure, Of heart of fire to meet the battle's shock, Of ready foot that laughs at music's measure, Of fame that at the wing of Time doth mock. Beyond the price of miser's heap'd-up riches, Beyond what sage or senator can buy ; Inheritance of History's golden niches Alone are theirs who conquer or who die. CIVILIANS v. SOLDIERS.. Air — ' The weighted scale. ' If a civilian serves the State, Though on an office-stool, Or on a letter stamps the date, Or whips a boy at school, He's pension'd-off as years increase, And spends his latter days in peace. 42 EPITAPH. If in the Cabinet he sits For years but two or three, His heavy duties rack his wits To such intensity, He's pension'd through his .life's long span,. The weary half-demented man. The soldier's chaplain, and the judge, Are cared for without fail ; But even beams are all a fudge When placemen weight the scale With over-reachings, place and power, Against the honest soldier's dower. Although the soldier woos the strife, Exalting England's fame ; Risking for others limb and life In battle's bloody game, Our statesmen cry, ' We'll give to you No pension, though your righteous due.' EPITAPH. Old comrade ! here the clever C — well lies — Supremely clever in all Whiggish eyes. And how he pilfer'd such a reputation From the Whig- Radicals of this proud nation : He studied their great men (if such there be), In hopes to cull their flowers of orat'ry, Appropriate their gems (if gems they own), And from the gath'rings weave himself a crown. These, flatter'd, spread before him all their mind To pick the choicest jewels he could find. When men beheld, they said, ' There's not one gem To grace a statesman on that diadem ; Not knowing how to choose (if choice he had), He took the tinsel, and that tinsel's bad.' DO JU5TLV. 43 FAXCYS SKETCH : AN ELEGY. Before the bier the mournful trumpets bray, The muffled drums roll to departed worth : A oiice-thought-honest statesman's pass'd away, Borne to the mountain of his mighty birth. C — well is gone ! and with him greatness goes, And all the wisdom of the Lower Hoi^e ; Yet his matpmal mountain in her throes May some day bless us with a brother mouse. Chieftains > reverse your swords with tearful eve, And bowels of pity aching through and through. For this poor party slave, thojgh he did try, • For party ends, to rob you of your due. Soldiers ! heap coals of fire upon his head. By firing three times three above his bier : Another round '. another ! shame the dead, For robbing of a brother pensioner. DO JUSTLY. EPIGRAM. ' Do justly and love mercy,' C — well's preaching. Even while soldiers he is overreaching. Smiling to B , ' Hold we our pensions fast But to the devil soldiers' pensions cast. Soldiers, the common herd .' what right have they Either to pension or to extra pay? We bear the brunt of parFament'ry strife, They for the country risk but blood and life. Besides the country can't afford the pence, And 'tis the pence which make extravagance. And not the thousands by the year that we, And such as we, get from the treasury.' 44 HURRAH, FOR THE RIFLE AND SWORD ! CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. Air — ' Contented wi' little.' Burns. ' Contented wi' little and cant;e wi' mair,' The heart of the soldier can never know care ; His country's his corps, and his corps is his home, And comrades are brothers wherever they roam. When quarter'd at home, why, what matter, if drill'd, He meets with a friend and his glass is refill'd ; He's welcomed by beauty, young, blooming, and fair ; Then where is the soldier whose heart can know care ? And when the route comes, with a heart leal and light He hears the drum beat with a thrill of delight ; Though he marches away all privations to bear, The heart of the soldier can never know care. And when hostile front and front mingle in strife, O, who like the soldier so careless of life ; But there his true heart's ever destined to care, That he, though in death, in the triumph may share. HURRAH, FOR THE RIFLE AND SWORD ! Air—' Paddy Snap.' Quick ! we have not a minute ; On to the wood on the height. Double, until you are in it, And then extend to the right. See, their column's advancing, Rounding the foot of the hill ; Their flag in the bright sun glancing : Take cover — quick — and be still. MY FRIEXD SAYS HE'S HAPPV. 45 Soon their round-shot will pound us ; Stick every man to his tree ; And though the limbs crash round us, Be cool and aim from the knee. ' Sight' for six hundred paces, Let none come over the ford, Steady, and keep in your places, Fire quick, but say not a word. Heed not the falling timber ; Hark, hark to that British cheer ! We've made their gunners ' limber,' And gallop back to the rear. Quick ! we have not a minute ; Double, boys, down to the ford ; Now our horsemen are in it : Hurrah ! for the rifle and sword. MY FRIEND SAYS HE'S HAPPY. Air — ' My lodging is on the cold ground.' My friend says he's happy, that happiness lies In riches, and pleasure, and ease ; How blind not to see that the bold spirit flies To treasures far higher than these ! Can hope of sweet pleasure the inner man fire ? Will riches not deaden the heart ? Can soft ease arose us ? No, no, something higher Leads man to a more noble part. He pities my lot, as he scornfully tells The pleasure of counting his gain. Tis little he thinks how the soldier's heart swells When the bugle-note wakens the plain ; The tramp of the foe has a charm for the soul, There's danger to dare and subdue ; And Fame every fearless one stoops to enrol, Though red-handed Death be in view. 46 THE CLEAN CONTRARY WAY. THE CLEAN CONTRARY WAY. He, wasting words, wears out his bright ideas. Air — ' Hey, boys, up go we.' Jacobite Song. As the Whig leader lay abed Communing with his soul, Indignantly he smote his head — Short Service and Control Will to our party honour bring ; Although those Tories say, As up aloft their hats they fling, The clean contrary way. Though we can't make his Highness yield, All others on the roll Shall surely, when they take the field, Be under the control. 'Twill honour to the army bring, Civilians to obey ; And yet those Tory devils sing, The clean contrary way. We'll follow out Trevelyan's plan, Short service of three years, That democratic artisan May help us 'gainst the Peers, And louder shout for queen or king, And better us obey — At this the Tory devils sing, The clean contrary way. No soldier on the pension-roll Shall ever be again ; We'll let him beg the pauper dole, Or die in want and pain. 'Twill to our party honour bring No pension more to pay ; At this those Tory devils sing, The clean contrary way. THE CLEAN CONTRARY WAY. 47 Trevelyan writes : there is no fear Of having any blanks ; That fifty thousand men a year Will crowd into the ranks ; And with them loyal notions bring — At least, they'll Whigs obey : At this the Tories louder sing TJie clean contrary way. As Hezekiah turn'd and sigh'd, The Premier tum'd and said : On Blight's opinion I relied, And yet I am afraid ; Though Cardwell vows 'twill honour bring, And Lowe backs up his say, The louder those Tories sing The clean contrary way. He slept — and in his dream he saw Confusion o'er the land, Rebellious men defy the law, The foe upon the strand. He heard the youth of England cheer, 1 With gold the foeman stay, The savings from the pensioner, Tlie clean contrary 7vay? Old men look'd sad, the women wept, And cast on him the blame ; And maidens, trembling, softly stept, And hung their heads in shame. He wrung his hands, he heaved a sigh — ' O that I see this day, And realise the Tory cry Of, Clean contrary way .'' BRITONS, WHERE NOW IS YOUR OLD GENEROSITY? THE CHAMELEON : AN EPIGRAM. The vane upon the steeple veers Just as the varying breezes blow ; The many-hued chameleon bears Deception in its brightest glow ; And our Whig Premier veers around When rabbles cry for something new ; And though the man is most profound, We but discern the lizard's hue. BRITONS, WHERE NOW IS YOUR OLD GENEROSITY? Air — 'Freedom's Farewell.' Jacotite Song. Britons, where now is your old generosity ? Where's the reward for services done ? A generous deed is a great curiosity, 'Tis the eighth wonder under the sun. All that you legislate for is economy, All that you care for's how to get rich ; All of you cry, ' Here's justice ; so run who may, Lest our party she coupe in the ditch.' See the old soldier there, lingering in poverty, Broken by twelve years of battle and clime. As he's no legal claim, blacker your perfidy ; Bought and beguiled,* you squander'd his prime. Ragged regimentals show your generosity ; Want's the reward for services done ; A veteran cared for's a great curiosity, Wonder of wonders under the sun. ' * See Appendix No, 2. WILTSHIRE WILL. 49 WILTSHIRE WILL. Air — ' The Young Man's Dream.' O leave his belts on him, boys, let him lie there To look as he ever look'd, ready to dare. That shatter'd limb, gently ! — there ! leave his brow red, For better nor purer blood ever was shed. And leave too the cross he so modestly wore, Though the boast and the pride of each man in the corps ; Place his right hand above it just over his heart, Both true to their country, both true to their part Lay his rifle beside him — I saw its bright crown Flash first in the breach when the foemen went down ; And to-day, red and reeking, 'twas first in the fight Where foot stood to foot and men gripp'd in their might. When hit, he cried ' Mother !' looked upwards and smiled, And all the stem soldier was lost in the child ; Hope beam'd in his face as it beams in it now, As if that fond mother were smoothing his brow. Poor Will ! ne'er a woman more loving and kind, And none to the faults of a friend half so blind ! Here ! pillow his head with his knapsack, and then Lay the cloak o'er the gentlest, the humblest of men. Ay, ay, smooth the sod, boys ; and never did Earth Enfold in her bosom more soldierly worth ; For where the brave battled on this bloody hill, The foremost, as ever, was poor Wiltshire Will. 50 'twas by the watchfire's light. THE MAGIC HOUR. Air— 'A famous man was Robin Hood.' (Boldly.) Though morning breaks with wind and rain, And ankle-deep lies all the plain ; Nor wind nor wet, nor mud nor mire, Can quench the British soldier's fire. There is a joy, how few can tell, But every soldier knows it well — The soul's sweet magic of the hour When marching in his strength and pow'r : When Glory's wreath is in his view ; When Valour whispers, ' Dare and do ;' And Fame stands by, his name to tell Who conquering fought, who fighting fell. 'TWAS BY THE WATCHFIRE'S LIGHT. Air—' March to the battle-field.' (With feeling.) 'Twas by the watchfire's light My faithful soldier left me ; He, marching to the fight — Alas, that fight bereft me Of all that e'er Could make life dear ; It left my poor heart breaking ! That dreadful night The watchfire's light Fond mem'ry will be waking. 'Twas by the watchfire's light My faithful soldier left me ; Ah/cruel, cruel fight, That of my love bereft me ! can't love him enough. 51 A lonely widow' d bride, Through life's dark stream I'm straying, And feel its ebbing tide Is wearily delaying, Yet soon 'twill cease ; Then, then in peace We'll meet, nor more be parted. Beyond the tomb Lies that sweet home Where none are broken-hearted. 'Twas by the watchfire's light, &c. CAN'T LOVE HIM ENOUGH. Air — ' The Fop.' From old English opera, Lumel and Clarissa. Dear Jeanie, I tell you, without any jest, The man of all men that I hate and detest Is he who keeps telling, His own bosom's swelling With ardour so bright, that he's happy and willing To give, as a war-tax, from income a shilling, To keep off the foeman — The stay-at-home no man ! I'd cuff him ! the woman ! Flaunt his face with my muff, Round his neck tie my ruff, And fan The brave man With his own baby-puff. Dear Jeanie, I really can't hate him enough. But that gallant fellow who marches away To perils, privations, to battle and fray ; 52 FREE TRADE. The foremost, the fearless, In loyalty peerless ; The hopeful, when all around's dreary and cheerless; The daring, that woman may shed but one tear less, One less by the hoary ; Whose own's England's story ; Whose fame is her glory : With a kiss for a cuff, And my arms for a ruff, I'd cheer Up the dear For each battle's rebuff. Dear Jeanie, I really can't love him enough. FREE TRADE. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' To the Lords of the Council thus Palmerston spoke : You cannot make riflemen with the pen's stroke ; Ten thousand will leave you, unless you restore The pay and the pension you gave them before. Council in Chorus. We'll give the poor devils a guinea* to drink ; And when they're drunken 'tis little they'll think. Our party's decree is to cheapen man's food ; So we must e'en cheapen the price of his blood. Palmerston. With millions of surplus, you might — nay, you must- Sink party and place too : for once, sirs, be just. What ! blood against sugar? stake life against tea? Pitch both to the devil, or into the sea ! '* A fact. See debates on the Estimates. THREE STAND-UP TOASTS PER ANNUM. 53 Chorus. Neither sugar nor tea will we pitch overboard, But the poor drunken devils that carry the sword : Pay and pension or not, they'll fight all the same ; They're plucky, and loyal, and proud of their fame. Palmerston. Ten thousand skill'd riflemen lost every year, Is paying for place and for party too dear ; The fate of the country hangs on the decree — 4 A pound of cheap blood versus sugar and tea.' Chorus. If our own men won't list, then the Germans and Blacks Will do, with our own Volunteers at their backs ; The son of the soil on a footing shall be With the hireling stranger : all trades shall be free. THREE STAND-UP TOASTS PER ANNUM. Air — ' Where's the slave so lowly.' Irish Melodies. O Britain, where's thy glory? Not in thy veterans' story ; Though all can tell They served thee well Till prematurely hoary. Worn, weary, and forsaken, They no sympathy awaken, But pine in want. The only grant For constitution shaken Is taunting thanks ; the total sum, Three stand-up toasts per annum. 54 THE CROSS AND THE TRICOLOR. The soldier never faileth, When thou to him appealeth, To force thy trade With blood and blade, Though he to battle reeleth With limbs by fever wasted ; Though naught but toil he's tasted, He served his land With heart and hand Whilst these were strong and lasted. But now worn out he'll get the sum, Three stand-up toasts per annum. Is not thy wisdom folly ? The bargain most unholy ? Did ardent youth Of trust and truth, The foe to melancholy, E'er think when he'd be hoary He'd tell this bitter story, ' I pine in want ; The only grant For England's trade and glory, Is taunting thanks ; the total sum, Three stand-up toasts per annum' ? THE CROSS AND THE TRICOLOR. Air — ' British Grenadiers.' The sons of France With sword and lance Make all her streets look gay ; In many a camp The soldiers' tramp Is heard the livelong day. Drum answers drum, Fife answers fife, THE CROSS AND THE TRICOLOR. 55 As chanticleers at morn ; And citizen And husbandmen Wake to the bugle-horn. Why this array ? Why keep in pay Six hundred thousand men ? Savoy and Nice Are but a piece ; Xext is the Rhine ; and then — Nay, now — they boast* Their conquering host Shall tread the British soil ; That town and village They will pillage, And homeward bear the spoil. Fools ! do they think That they shall drink The fountains of the free ? That we will yield To them the field, Or lordship of the sea ? Let Badajos, Rodrigo's fosse, And Waterloo ring out ; Aboukir's bay, Trafalgar, say Who raised the victors' shout We conquer"d then ; And stalwart men But wait old England's beck, To storm the fort, Or port to port Leap to the bloody deck. ' Written at the time of the French Colonels' threats. 56 THE TROOPER. The Red Cross, fast Nail'd to the mast, Shall, flying, rather sink, Before the Gaul It down shall haul, Or we from battle shrink. Shall France dismay With her array The men whose flag's unfurl'd, Dauntless and free, On every sea, And sways one half the world ? On sea or shore, We ask no more Than once our strength to try ; And, as before, The Tricolor Beneath the Cross shall lie. THE TROOPER. Unhorsed, unhelm'd, undaunted, and alone, A British trooper mourn'd his gallant roan ; When from the Russian lines two horsemen dash'd,. One lance in rest, the other's sabre flash'd. ' Briton, thy choice ! — no time for parley here ; Life and this thong — death and the Russian spear ?' ' Strapp'd to thy stirrup, serf! no, no, the free Accepts the spear and death, if so it be.' ' Defiant, take thy choice,' the Lancer cried, And struck the rowels in his charger's side ; The plunge, the point, the parry and return, And one more Russian mother's made to mourn. THE GUNNER'S FIELD OF PRIDE. 57> Seizing the foeman's lance, the Briton said, ' I hold my choice, and see thy comrade dead !' ' But half thou hold'st ; still, Briton, thou mayst choose : Yield up the lance ; 'tis death shouldst thou refuse.' The plunge, the blow, the parry and the thrust, And down the Russian's rolling in the dust. ' The prize we share !' the Briton taunting, cried ; ' The shaft I hold, the spear is in thy side.' THE GUNNER'S FIELD OF PRIDE. Air — ' The German Rhine.' We saw — two armies saw it — To us a glorious sight, A noble British batt'ry Defy the Frenchman's might ; Hemm'd in by twenty squadrons, Unaided and alone, They show'd how British gunners Go heart and hand as one. We saw — two armies saw it — Men surging to and fro Amid the fierce commotion, Each eager for his blow. The lifted blades are flashing, The angry cries we hear ; When o'er the din of battle Rings high the British cheer. We saw — two armies saw it — The mass has rent, and then From out its fiery centre Rode Ramsay and his men, o 8 O, SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART. Hurtling the horsemen from them, Down crushing those who stay, And wheel, and hoof, and sabre, Come gory from the fray. We saw — two armies saw it — And watch'd with bated breath The gallant Norman Ramsay Dare numbers to the death. In battle's fiercest furnace The British heart was tried At Fuentes Onoro,* The gunner's field of pride. O, SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART. In reply to ' Drink to her who long.' Irish Melodies. O, say not woman's heart Was made for bards alone, Or that their magic art Can wake its sweetest tone. No, no, though harp and song Awhile her heart may move, To the brave alone belong Dear woman's looks of love. Then say not woman's heart Was made for bards alone ; It is the soldier's part To wake its sweetest tone. O minstrel, maiden's eye Ne'er beams with half the joy As when her true love's nigh, Her honest soldier boy. * Recorded by Napier. THE CROSS AND CRESCEN1. 59 When from the battle-plain He comes, released from toil, The soldier meets again Dear woman's sweetest smile. Then say not woman's heart Was made for bards alone ; It is the soldier's part To wake its sweetest tone. THE CROSS AND CRESCENT* Air — ' British Grenadiers.' Xot as our lion-hearted King and Saladin we meet, But on the British quarter-deck the eastern King we greet ; The Cross and Crescent flying high, that all the world may know We're friends as firm as we were foes six hundred years ago. The quarter-deck! befitting place for Britain's Queen to stand When she bestows the choicest gift she has at her command; The Star bedecks the Sultan's breast, that all the world may know We're friends as firm as we were foes six hundred years ago. Through her proud fleet our Ocean Queen conveys her princely guest, Who ever and anon exclaims, 'The West ! the mighty West !' Long may our flags together fly, that all the world may know We're friends as firm as we were foes six hundred years ago. The pride of Eastern chivalry, the noblest of the West, Opposing, fell in that loved land which both esteem 'the blest;' And now our ensigns fly aloft, that all the world may know We're friends as firm as we were foes six hundred years ago. * Written in commemoration of the Sultan's reception by the Queen, 1867. 60 WELCOME TO WINDSOR'S OLD HALL. THE BLUE RIBBON OF OUR RACK Air — ' A famous man was Robin Hood.' Before the world's tribunal came — Appellant from the court of Fame — A bard, who claim' d the foremost place In the great Derby of our race. He pleaded as with words of fire, Triumphantly he swept the lyre, Until this chorus of the throng Silenced the refrain of his song : ' The bard holds but the second place In the great Derby of our race, Where glory is the stake, and Fame, As umpire, shouts the victor's name. We love the poet's tuneful lyre, But more the soldier's soul of fire, Whose valour wins the foremost place And the blue ribbon of our race.' WELCOME TO WINDSOR'S OLD HALL Air — ' Over the sea.' Brave men and free, 'tis my decree, Guest of his Queen every soldier shall be ; Listen to me, brave men and free, Ready's the banqueting-hall. Then march, march, march, Ye lads of the feather, Who strike home together ; March, march, march, Trooper and spearman and all. PROGRESS. Brave men and free, 'tis my decree, •Guest of his Queen every soldier shall be ; Listen to me, brave men and free, Ready's the banqueting-hall. Merrily sing, merrily sing, Welcome, thrice welcome to each one we bring ; Merrily sing, merrily sing, ' Welcome to Windsor's old hall.' Then march, march, march, Ye lads of the feather, Who conquer'd together ; March, march, march, Gunner and guardsman and all. Brave men and free, 'tis my decree, Guest of his Queen every soldier shall be ; Listen to me, brave men and free, Welcome to Windsor's old hall. 61 PROGRESS. Sages say the world's progressing, Distancing the laggard Past ; No retreating, onward pressing, Sowing, reaping, gathering fast. Swords for sickles, soldiers, bring — Fame is valour's harvesting. Wealth to wealth the rich man gathers, Storing with a double hand ; And the poor, unlike their fathers, Eat the fatness of the land. Better win the world's acclaim — Glean the scatter'd leaves of Fame. 62 THE VOICE OF AFFECTION. Riches perish, joys are fleeting, Progress treads upon decay, Wildly at each step repeating ' Every dog must have his day.' Sowing upon Time no name, Soldiers only reaping Fame. THE VOICE OF AFFECTION. Air — ' The Maid of Llangollen.' When I'm marching, campaigning, wherever I roam, My heart will turn back to my own dear old home, Where joy crown'd the hearth and affection the bower, And fill'd up the measure of each passing hour. When I'm marching, &c. On my ear fall the chimes as they did long ago, And the sweet song of birds where the primroses grow ; But in memory's crown the gem brightest I wear Is my loved sister's voice and my fond mother's prayer. When I'm marching, &c. Though my hair has long since changed from chestnut to gray, And the cherish'd have all, one by one, pass'd away, They are still my companions wherever I roam, For I live 'midst the scenes of my own dear old home. When I'm marching, &c. In life's eve returning, the primrose will grow, And the wild chimes will ring as they rang long ago ; But the hall of my fathers another shall tread, And the voice of affection's alone from the dead. When I'm marching, &c. ALDERS HOT CAMP. ALDERSHOT CAMP. Air—' Alley Crater.' At first 'twas said The camp was made For quarters in the summer ; And every one Then thought it fun, From the captain to the drummer, To toil away- Through hot field-day, To skirmish and to rally, And column form, The hill to storm, Or charge up the long valley. But, O, the winter, the long and dreary winter, Of heath and bog, And damp and fog, The weary, dreary winter ! The drifting snow, The chilling thaw, And then the rain comes pouring, To make each hut A waterbutt, And angel tempers souring. The stormy wind, With these combined, Through every chink is throbbing In swelling tones, In dying moans, Now sighing and now sobbing. O, the winter, the long and dreary winter Of heath and bog, And damp and fog, The weary, dreary winter ! 6 4 ALDER3H0T CAMP. From eight at night Till morning light Upon our beds we're rolling ; And if 'tis wet, All day we sit, Or listlessly are lolling, Without the bliss Of woman's kiss, Without her smile to warm us ; Without the chance Of one sweet glance To cherish and to charm us, Through the winter, the long and dreary winter, Of heath and bog, Of damp and fog, The weary, dreary winter ! There's not a bush To woo a thrush ; There's not a linnet singing ; There's not a blade Of grass to shade The daisy as it's springing ; The summers rust To sable dust, And blacken all creation ; And autumn wears But heath and furze To show its desolation. But O ! the winter, the long, the dreary winter, Of heath and bog, Of damp and fog, The dreary, weary winter ! HOPE ON AND HOPE EVER. 65 FRIENDSHIP. Air—' Hark ! 'tis the Moorish evening drum.' Whenever Memory calls her roll, Scenes through the vista loom, "While in the front rank, bright and clear, Appears the barrack room. More in advance, the lone vedette, The comrade of my heart, Watches and warns when ills beset, And acts true friendship's part. Whenever, &c. Friendship ! where weavest thou thy band ? Where, guided by one aim, Men march to free their native land, Or win a place in fame. The perill'd life, the triumph shared, The ready help that's given, Twine round the heart in friendship here, And lift the soul to heaven. Whenever, &c. HOPE ON AND HOPE EVER. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee." Hope on and hope ever, through sorrow and care ; The faint-hearted never gain'd aught by despair. Hope on and take courage, the brave never rue ; Whilst faint-heart demurrage pays long ere 'tis due. Hope on and hope ever, be firm to the end ; Hope on, for you'll never find such a true friend. Though foemen may thicken, 'tis hope cheers the brave ; And the good man, when stricken, sees hope in the grave. 66 MY FIRST STRIPE. Hope on and hope ever the battle to win ; The faint heart hopes never, but basely gives in. His life's cup, though bitter, he drinks as he sighs ; And, the slave ! hugs the fetter which brave men despise. Hope on and hope ever, be firm to the end ; Hope on, for you'll never find such a true friend. Though foemen may thicken, 'tis hope cheers the brave ; And the good man, when stricken, sees hope in the grave.. MY FIRST STRIPE. Air — ' The midges dance above the bum.' The captain buys his company, The colonel buys his corps, But neither half so proud as I When my ' first stripe' I wore. My first stripe — 'gad ! I felt as though An inch I'd taller grown, With cap more careless on my brow, I thought the world my own. I sought my father's fireside ; He bless'd his soldier boy; Methinks I see his look of pride, My mother's tear of joy ; My young heart then was bounding light, Nor care nor sorrow knew, The future fancy painted bright, The present happy flew. My dreams were glory, battles won, The scouting party beat, The post surprised ere rise of sun, The masterly retreat. COME INTO THE CANTEEN, JOE. 67 I felt the laurel on my brow, I knelt at honour's shrine ; The aigulet, the plume of snow, The cross and star were mine. COME INTO THE CANTEEN, JOE. Air — ' Come into the garden, Maud.' Teymyson. Come into the canteen, Joe, For Bass's best brew's on the run ; Come into the canteen, Joe, For I'm sitting here all alone ; And the smoke of the weed floats in clouds through the room, As from the long clay it is blown. I said to the settle, ' Where's Joe ? For Bacchus's star is on high.' And then to the bench, ' Do you know ?' But the devil a word in reply. So I swore to the jug, if he did not come soon, , I'd drink it myself till 'twas dry. There has fall'n a briny tear From the tapster into the grate ; He's coming, he's coming, don't fear, He's sure to be here, though he's late. So I pull'd at my pipe, and I read in its wreath, ' Joe's coming, but still you must wait.' I said, ' Well, well, here's a go,' Took a jolly good swig at the beer. Sipped t'other quart till it grew low, And then my head got very queer. And all that I felt was the hard fist of Joe, And all that I heard was his cheer. 68 THE LANCER. PORTUGUESE SONG OF PEACE. Air — 'Portuguese song of war.' Moore. The song of peace now echoes through our mountains, Where wasting war was heard erewhile ; But now our teeming valleys smile, And joyous peasants safely toil Beside their vines and native fountains ; While underneath the olive's shade, Our maids their tresses twine and braid, And dance and sing upon the glade, And lovers wander through our vales and mountains. A grateful song now echoes through our mountains To Britain's soldiers, whose red brand Has sever'd Lusitania's band, Winning back freedom to our land Of olives, vines, and streams and fountains. Peace ! O peace ! for ever smile Upon their happy glorious isle ; And never may the traitor's guile, Nor foeman's foot pollute her vales or mountains ! THE LANCER. AiR — ' My lodging is on the cold ground.' Hurrah for the lancer ! his eye sparkles bright, When the foeman appears on the field ; His bosom swells high as he rushes to fight, To conquer, but never to yield. The flag that waves o'er him has often been dyed, In the purple life-stream of the foe, Nor long be the time, boys, when we from his side, Shall again make that purple stream flow. Hurrah for the lancer ! &c. LOVE, WINE, AXD GLORY. 69 When dispersed in pursuit, with his glittering spear, He strikes down the foe to the ground ; On, on still he rushes, nor checks his career, Till he hears the ' Recall' trumpet sound. Unrivall'd in battle, his heart knows no care, If his own native island be free ; He is reckless of life, as he's fond of the fair, And in friendship none truer can be. Hurrah for the lancer ! &c. LOVE, WINE, AND GLORY. PilloVd on the lap of Love, Toying with her tresses ; Lost to all below, above, In a cloud of kisses : Whisp'ring to my soul, I said, ' Here shall ever be thy bed.' Bacchus, jealous, vow'd a vow, That his witching glasses Soon should make me feel and know, Wine all else surpasses. Magic draught ! though brief the bliss, Rival 'tis to woman's kiss. ' Sweet is Love and balmy Wine,' Scoffingly cried Glory ; ' Come and tread the path divine, Live in England's story. Youth then, wond'ring, knees shall bow ; Age, in homage, bare bis brow.' Xobler passions, nobler aims, Nobler thoughts came flashing — • 4 On, and win the world's acclaims, Where bright swords are clashing ; Wafted on the wing of fame, Ages, hence shall sing thy name.' 70 THE GALLOPING HUSSAR. THE GALLOPING HUSSAR. Air — 'Judy Callaghan.' The galloping hussars Are of a sprightly genus, And though they're sworn to Mars, They're devotees of Venus. Although her star's on high, And fair at night its gleam is, Look in sweet woman's eye, 'Tis there its brightest beam is. Yes, those eyes Are brighter than the planet ; Love there lies, Nor burns till soldiers fan it. See yon lovely maid, So beautiful in blushes, What is it but love, That to her cheek thus rushes ? Did ever woman look On lover half so charming, Or ever lover look t On woman half so warming ? Round and round They thread the dance's measure, Lock'd as one, With hearts brimful of pleasure. 'Tis not because they have More manly forms or features, It is because they're brave, They're loved by the dear creatures. Their looks of love they give To him who is most daring j COUNTRY QUARTERS V. PERMANENT CAMP LIFE. 7 I And who than the hussar Shall more those looks be sharing ? Who like him Can thread the dance's measure, Fill like him Sweet Beauty's cup of pleasure? COUNTRY QUARTERS versus PERMANENT CAMP LIFE. Air — * I remember.' I remember, I remember, In the jolly days gone by, Our old pleasant country quarters ; Now this camp is all my eye ! What sweet smiling pretty faces Would greet us after drill ; O, they make me to remember Those old country quarters still. I remember, I remember, In those jolly days gone by, How the lasses' smiles and kisses Fill'd a fellow's heart with joy. I remember, when a-marching, How the lads and lasses came, And the boys upon men's shoulders, And the old man with his dame ; All with merry happy faces Gave a welcome loud and shrill ; O, they make me to remember Those old country quarters still. I remember, I remember, In those jolly days gone by, How the lasses' smiles and kisses Fill'd a fellow's heart with joy. 72 CONSECRATION OF THE SWORD. From December to December I look out upon the camp, Upon its tarry sameness, And upon its dust and damp ; O, its solitude and sadness My very pulse do chill, And they cause me to remember Our old country quarters still. I remember, I remember, In the jolly days gone by, How the lasses and the glasses Fill'd a fellow's heart with joy. CONSECRATION OF THE SWORD. Air— 'The Old Hundredth.' Come, comrades, gather round the board, And consecrate our own true sword, That's flash'd in many a field of fame, But never yet was sheath'd in shame. Sprinkled with wine, with hearts elate, Our sword to Him we consecrate, Who makes its flash in foeman's eye The promise of our victory. Asserter of old England's rights, Avenger of her wrongs and slights, Guard of her homes — my cherish'd blade ! Thrice bless'd, by mother, wife, and maid. Soon on the field thine edge shall shed Oblations of a deeper red, To Him who makes its flash to be The herald of our victory. THE DASHING HUSSAR. 73 THE DASHING HUSSAR. Ant — ' Sprig of shillala.' O, love is the soul of the dashing hussar ; He dearly loves woman, and dearly loves war, With his carbine so true and his sabre so keen. He ne'er marches into a village or town, But the dear lovely creatures put on their best gown ; And when marching out, the last kiss and good-bye Bring the crystal tear-drop in each pretty blue eye, For the dashing hussar with his sabre so keen. From their bivouac slumbers no soldiers e'er rose, With hearts half so lightsome to meet their proud foes, As the gallant hussars with their sabres so keen. They welcome the wjld day of battle, and mount, Then swift as the whirlwind dash on to the front, In skirmishing order the foeman to check ; Or charge line or column, — 'tis little they reck, With their carbines so true and their sabres so keen. Who so swift in pursuit when a column is broke, Whose arm can strike home with so deadly a stroke, As the gallant hussars with their sabres so keen ? On picquet at night, who so watchful as they ? Who so warily patrol along the lone way ? Surprising the foeman, who never can know On which flank to look for the vigilant foe, With his carbine so true and his sabre so keen. Then pledge, in a bumper, the gallant hussar, Unrivall'd in love, as he's peerless in war, With his carbine so true and his sabre so keen. As true as his sabre the throne to defend, Is the gallant hussar to each comrade and friend ; And, old England free, not a care does he know, But how he may come within reach of the foe, With his carbine so true and his sabre so keen. 74 THE HUSSAR. THE HUSSAR. Air — ' Then a toast to dear woman.' Quick, bridle and mount — your ' telling off' mind, Let no word break the stillness of night ; On his flank soon the foeman the hussar shall find, With his carbine and sabre so bright ; Or haply his picquet surprising, As safely in fancy he lay ; No matter which, ere the sun's rising, Through his ranks we will carry dismay. Chorus. Safe return'd, let us fill high the glass, boys, To the comrades who with us did ride ; To our chief let the welcome toast pass, boys, And nine cheers for the hero beside. Hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! of our corps he's the pride ; Hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! Of our corps he's the glory and pride. Quick, quick, boys, and mount, not a moment's delay, They know not the snare we have laid : See, they come, not a man can escape us, away ! There's death in the gleam of your blade. 'Twas well done, although twice our number, None shall mingle again in the fray ; On the mountain's side coldly they slumber, Not one lives to tell of the day. Chorus. Let us pledge on the field of our glory The comrades who with us did ride ; And may our chief long live in story ; Come, nine cheers for the hero beside. Hip, hip, hurrah ! hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! &c. IS WANT A CRIME ? 75. IS WANT A CRIME? ' From what I have seen at Xetley, I should say that we are now tapping the lowest strata of our population for recruits. . . • The shilling of the recruiting sergeant appears in most cases to have been the last resource against absolute want.' Sir C. E. Trevelyan. Are — 'Alley Croker.' When master died For work I tried ; But being 'prentice only, All turned me back With, 'Trade is slack;' So I sat sad and lonely, Or walk'd the street In snow and sleet, Hoping, but still in sorrow, That some kind friend A hand would lend, And give me work to-morrow. O, to-morrow ! and give me work to-morrow. But still the same, When morning came, I walk'd the streets in sorrow. Poor father sigh'd, And mother cried, For he was old and ailing ; The grate was cold, The cupboard told Their little store was failing ; Poor sister Jean, Just seventeen, And I were broken-hearted ; We kiss'd ' good-night,' And 'fore 'twas light To tramp for work I started. .7 6 IS WANT A CRIME ? O, the tramping ! from town to town this tramping ; Folk little know The want and woe That dog our steps when tramping. No work I found In all my round ; But when my heart would falter, I knew and felt That mother knelt For me before God's altar ; Thus strengthen'd, I Again would try, Again the ' tramp' would follow ; But still the same, When ev'ning came, Want stood beside my pillow. O, that pillow ! want stood beside my pillow ; But honest pride Said, ' Only bide And I will make thy pillow.' Beside my bed, In lonely shed, There stood a knight reviling ; But how abash'd — Like hound that's lash'd — He looked, when angels smiling Said, ' Bide your time, * For want's no crime, When hand and heart are willing ; Still let thy guide Be honest pride : Go, take the 'listing shilling.' O, the shilling ! I took the 'listing shilling ; Now prouder far, In peace or war, Than knight that scorns the shilling. THE VETERAN'S PARTING. JJ THE BRITON'S LAND. Air — ' The German Land.' Know ye the land where honest Truth Is crown to age, and stay to youth ; Where Beauty's deck'd by Virtue's hand, And Love beside them takes her stand ? We know that favour'd land full well ; 'Tis where the trae-soul'd Britons dwell. Know ye the land where speech is free, Where manhood never bows the knee, Where men to men as brothers stand, And Justice holds an even hand ? We know that glorious land full well ; 'Tis where the free-soul'd Britons dwell. Know ye the land whose foes declare Her sons will do what gods would dare, Turning where numbers thickest stand With forward foot and ready hand ? We know that glorious land full well ; 'Tis where the free-soul'd Britons dwell. THE VETERAN'S PARTING. My days among you now are past, Old comrades tried and true ; No matter where my lot be cast, My heart will be with you : In camp, in barrack-room, and when You gather to the shock of men. ■j 8 THE THIRD DRAGOON GUARDS. And fondly will my memory dwell With those who've gone before, Who by our side for England fell Amid the cannon's roar ; The bold defiant comrades, when We gather'd to the shock of men. The living and the dead shall stand On memory's parade ; The truthful heart, the trusty hand That bore the ready blade ; That never fail'd, my comrades, when We gather'd to the shock of men. And when this earth shall melt in flame, The heavens a crumpled scroll, May each one see his humble name On God's great muster-roll ; And as he hears it called, reply, ' Great God of armies, here am I !' THE THIRD (PRINCE OF WALES') DRAGOON GUARDS. AlB — ' Bonnie Dundee.' The trumpet is sounding, and loud booms the gun ; Spring into your saddles, the fight is begun ; Keep your horses in hand, press them on with the heel, And soon shall the foemen your keen sabres feel. The Third Dragoon Guards upon Blenheim's red plain Beat the foe, and to-day we will beat him again. The wild day of battle, the rush on the foe, Is a pleasure that none but the soldier can know. DEAR HARP, NO MARTIAL STRAIN. 79 Remember brave Wood upon Ramilies' field, When the Third made the Guards of Bavaria yield, As their standard and kettle-drums prove to this day; Our old gallant corps was ne'er match'd in the fray. It has often been tried, but never yet fail'd ; At the gleam of its sabres the foeman's cheek paled. The wild day of battle, &c Talavera, Victoria, and Usagre tell, How fierce on the Frenchmen the Third's sabres fell ; Each witness'd our standard in victory fly, And this day shall witness that standard on high. The trumpet is sounding, and loud booms the gun, Spring into your saddles, the fight is begun. The wild day of battle, &c. DEAR HARP, NO MARTIAL STRAIN. Dear harp, no martial strain I ask from thee, But soft and plaintive be thy melody ; Sweet strains congenial to my spirit bring, Whilst I attempt my faded flow'r to sing. How dear the silent solemn hours of night ! For then my weary spirit takes its flight To her who dwells beyond the starry zone — My first, last love — my lost lamented one. When stirring scenes of camp with daylight close, And comrades round have sunk in soft repose ; When all is hush'd, my feelings then will blend With hers I love, my first, my only friend. Dear hallow'd shade ! not long the time may be, When day and night no change shall bring to me ; Then with thy spirit mine shall rest above, Where all is happiness, for all is love. 80 I LIVE ALL ALONE WITH MY MOTHER. TOM TOBIN* AND MARSHAL MASSENA. Air — 'Bonnie Dundee.' Says Marshal Massena, ' Sir, how many men, In thousands, has Crawford ?' Says Tobin, ' He's ten.' ' Tis false !' cried the Marshal ; ' the Coa was cross'd With only five thousand, and one he's since lost.' With taunting defiance thus Tobin replied : ' Although I'm your pris'ner, and though I have lied, Know this of a truth, then, with four thousand men, Our Crawford will beat you, though you may bring ten. Why talk about numbers ! If Crawford but nods, His men march right onwards, ne'er counting the odds ; Whilst you and your Frenchmen the battle will shun, Unless to the battle you bring three to one.' In a fury Massena swore Tobin should die, For daring a Marshal of France to defy. ' Guard, march off your pris'ner ! [Aside] Gods ! what chief could cope With such men, and conquer ? 'Twere hoping 'gainst hope/ I LIVE ALL ALONE WITH MY MOTHER. Air — ' The pretty maid milking her cow.' I live all alone with my mother, With nothing but straw for my bed, And fear I shall never have other, Until my true lover I wed. But now he is wearing the feather, And marching the world up and down ; O, I'd make his bed in all weather, Would he but come back for his own ! * Historically true. THE FIFTH FUSILIERS. 8l All day I am thinking about him, My dreamings are broken by fears ; I can't live much longer without him, I'm drowning so fast in my tears. O, were we but once more together, Though marching the world up and down, 'Tis I'd make his bed in all weather, Would he but come back for his own. I'd wake him before the reveille, I'd march by his side all the day ; When hairing he'd kiss his own Nelly, And I'd sing him songs by the way. And when that the marching was over, The moon and the stars overhead, The closer I'd cuddle my lover, Though his cloak alone were our bed. THE FIFTH (NORTHUMBRIAN) FUSILIERS. Aik — ' Hearts of oak." Our colours wave o'er us, and proudly shall fly, As victory's emblem when foemen are nigh ; Triumphant we bore them o'er Rodrigo's fosse, Twas by Ridge* they were planted on famed Badajos. And our war-song shall be, As we march to the field : Where fate, boys, shall call us,f What matter — we're ready To die or to conquer, but never to yield. Salamanca, Busaco, and Orthes attest We trail'd the proud eagle of France in the dust ; And Russian cheeks paled as they tum'd from the fight, On the green hill of Alma and Inkerman's height. And our war-song shall be, &c. * Major Ridge. + Regimental motto. G 82 THE SEVENTY-NINTH HIGHLANDERS. This day the Northumbrian soldier shall stand, The foremost in fight, where hand grapples with hand ; The ' fighting Fifth' boast not, but dauntless will do ' Whatever the brave in the battle dare view.' And our war-song shall be, &c. Our colours wave o'er us, and proudly shall fly, As victory's emblem when foemen are nigh ; And ever unstain'd by defeat shall they wave, Or the last Fusilier shall He low in the grave. And our war-song shall be, &c. THE 79TH (CAMERON) HIGHLANDERS. AIR — ' Allister M'Allister.' The Cameronian Highlanders To battle nish wi' lusty cheers, Nae dunted heart 'mang them appears, But a' are wud* to close. The Sphynx they won by Egypt's flood, And dyed it deep in Gallic blood ; At Egmont-op-Zee proud they stood Triumphant o'er their foes. The Cameronian Highlanders, &c. At Salamanca, Fuentees, The Nive and Neville, Pyrenees, At Waterloo they tore the bays From brow of Gallic foes. The Cameronian Highlanders, &c. * Mad. COME TO ME. Around the throne of Britain's Queen There's no' a braver band, I ween, Than the Highland lads in tartan sheen, The kilt, the plaid, the hose. The Cameronian Highlanders, &c Your chanter blaw, my bonnie chiel ; Come, gie's our gallant clansman's reel, W? that we'll face the vera deil — Our rush wha daur oppose ? The Cameronian Highlanders, &c. j COME TO ME. Air — Hymas Ancunt ajtd JlfoJtru, Xo. 379. Come to Me, ye heavy-laden, Lay your burden on My breast ; Sire and son, and wife and maiden, Come, and I will give you rest. Whate'er be the lot assign'd you, Kindly friends and quiet homes, Trouble there is sure to find you, Trouble meets the heart that roams. You who bear your country's banner, Trust the Father on the throne ; He it is who guards her honour, He who gives the heart its tone. ^"hen you are cast down and weary, When the sun of hope grows dim, Pray, the God of battle's near ye, Pray, for strength you'll find in Him, He will lighten all your trouble, He will banish every care ; Life is but an empty bubble — Heaven's your home, and God is there. 84 COLIN CAMPBELL AND THE M'GREGOR HIGHLANDERS. SIR COLIN CAMPBELL AND THE 93D (M'GREGOR) HIGHLANDERS AT BALACLAVA. Air — ' Wha wadna fight for Charlie?' Who would not fight for glory ? Who fears the foeman's glaive ? Who'd shun the bed that's gory ? Let him turn and live a slave. Firm with shoulder lock'd to shoulder, Here we'll bide the horseman's might ; And if fated, here shall moulder Hearts that never shunn'd the fight. Who would not fight for glory? Who fears the foeman's glaive ? Who'd shun the bed that's gory? Let him turn and live a slave. Britain's honour's with M'Gregor ; Russia's shame is in our steel ; Soon we'll make the Highland trigger Show her eagles' feather'd heel. Ninety-third, we'll die, but never Yield to any haughty foe ; Life and honour go together ; British hearts shall never bow. Yes — we'll fight for Britain's glory, We will fear no foeman's glaive, We will shun no bed that's gory, Highland heart shall ne'er be slave. SKIRMISHING SONG. 85 SKIRMISHING SONG. Air — ' Moneymusk.' Watch the centre — work together — Watch and wait and work together — Change and turn and front together — Watch and wait and work together. ' By the centre' — they're retiring — ' Forward,' cool, but quick your firing ; Dash for cover ; if there's none, Wait your comrade lying down. Watch the centre — on together — Watch and wait and work together — Change and turn and front together — Watch and wait and work together. Watch the centre — files together — Keep together, work together — Change and turn and front together ; Files must keep and work together. Judge your distance — fine your sight — In their face the sun is bright ; Steady aim, make doubly sure, Steady till your man's secure. Watch the centre ; files together, Keep together, work together — Change and turn and front together ; Files must keep and work together. Watch the centre — work together- Watch and wait and work together — Change and turn and front together — Watch and wait and work together. Watch the centre — pass the word, ' Close upon the lifted sword' — 86 NO LONGER NOW AS HOUSEHOLD WORD. ' Close,' see now the horsemen come, Welcomed by the bullet's hum. Back to back, boys, stick together ; Quick and form, all close together ; Conquering or falling, whether, British hearts go all together. NO LONGER NOW AS HOUSEHOLD WORD- Air— 'A famous man was Robin Hood.' No longer now as household word, ' A shilling is a soldier's pay When old, and he has sheath'd the sword He bore unstain'd through flood and fray.' And yet, ye star-deck'd chieftains, when Did you within St. Stephen's hall, Your voices lift for those brave men Who rallied ere they heard your call ? No longer now as household word, ' A shilling is a soldier's pay ;' But, ' Who for England draws the sword Is doomed in age to poverty.' Ye burgesses and knights of shires, Ye merchant princes, say in truth, Are you, then, poorer than your sires, Or have your bosoms less of ruth ? No longer now as household word, ' A shilling is a soldier's pay j' But, ' Who for England draws the sword And bears her flag through flood and fray,. May wear the medal on his vest, To mark the foray and the feud, But he must bear within his breast His country's base ingratitude.' QUESTION AND REPLY. 87 THOU GOD OF BATTLE !— PRAYER. Thou God of battle, shield us with Thy power, Strengthen each spirit in this trying hour ; Great God, we praise Thy name, we trust in Thee Alone, to bless our arms with victory. Almighty God, we call upon Thee now ; Be with us, Lord — O, make the foeman bow ! Father of mercies, be our chieftain's guide, How to direct the fight or stem its tide. Though through this lurid cloud red lightnings flash, And mountains shake beneath the cannon's crash, Our hearts with ardour bum, they're touched by Thee, Thou living God, the God of victory. Maker, Redeemer, Judge — we're Thine in death, We're Thine in victory — O, grant its wreath ! In life or death our heart's last prayer to Thee Is for dear England — Lord, may she be free ! QUESTION AND REPLY. He. ' Say, Mary, canst thou trust me now, With wasted form and pallid brow ? Deep in the thickest fight I strove To be more worthy of thy love. Say, canst thou trust me now Y She. ■ ' Yes — ever when I bent the knee, My earnest prayer has been for thee ; Thy soul seemed wedded, love, to mine, And now my heart, my all, is thine : Yes, I can trust thee now.' 88 THE FIFTY-SECOND LIGHT INFANTRY. THE FIFTY-SECOND, OR OXFORDSHIRE LIGHT INFANTRY. Air — ''The British Grenadiers.' Since England first sent forth her sons to war on freedom's side, A braver corps there never sail'd across the foaming tide, Than the gallant Fifty-second, who in battle never quail'd, The ' old and bold,' the often tried, that never, never fail'd. The Indian foeman fled dismay'd before their dauntless might, And Frenchmen long will recollect their prowess in the fight; Busaco's mountain saw their colours high in victory wave, And proved the Fifty-second boys the bravest of the brave. With the Forty-third and Rifles, in Portugal and Spain, They beat the best light troops that France e'er mass'd on battle-plain ; Their honour'd post in the advance, 'twas theirs to lead the- way; And in retreat, as the rear-guard, the haughty foe to stay. La Mancha's plain, Vittoria, and Neville's stream, the Nive, All show'd how vain in battle 'tis 'gainst British boys to strive ; Each heard their shout, and saw our colours high in victory wave, And proved the Fifty-second boys the bravest of the brave. The dangers of the frowning breach and mountain-pass they spurn'd, Though aye outnumber'd, still to close their dauntless bosoms burn'd ; O'er Badajos, the Pyrenees, at Orthes, Waterloo, The colours of the Fifty-second high in victory flew. And when, my boys, the day shall come, and England bids us go, We'll fight as our brave fathers fought, and ever beat the foe y We'll make the Fifty-second's colours high in victory wave, And prove it, as of old, to be the bravest of the brave. THE FORTY-FIFTH REGIMENT. 8g THE FORTY-FIFTH REGIMENT. Air — ■ Garry Owen.' Cheer, Forty-fifth, the foe's in sight ; Soon we shall mingle in the fight ; And they once more shall feel the might Of British arm and bay'net. Reserve your fire till close upon The foremost ranks, and then rush on To victory, And never fear, My boys, but you will gain it. Remember Salamanca's fight, Remember famed Busaco's height ; There many a Frenchman sank in night Beneath your glittering bay'net. Reserve your fire till close upon The foremost ranks, and then rush on To victory, And never fear, My boys, but you will gain it. The skirmishers are closing fast ; Another round will be the last ; Now forward, to the bugle's blast, And beat them with the bay'net. Reserve your fire till close upon The foremost ranks, and then rush on To victory, And never fear, My boys, but you will gain it. 90 THE DEAR OLD RAG. THE DEAR OLD RAG. Air — ' British Grenadiers.' Cheer, comrades, cheer, and never fear,. A good time's coming yet ; And though dela/d, 'twill ne'er be said Our duty we forget. Our fathers fought, and honour brought To Britain's noble flag ; And every sword around this board Has crown'd the dear old rag. Aloft it flies — the world defies — • And though 'tis tattefd, torn, A shot-hole here, a long rent there, No foe a shred has shorn. And still around there shall be found The loyal and the true, To bear the flag, the dear old rag, To fame and glory too. The joyous thrill — I feel it still — When first upon the wall I saw it fly in victory, Foretelling Delhi's fall. For many a day through bloody fray, We onward bore the flag, Till o'er the hall of the Mogul We placed the dear old rag. There as it flies, it testifies — Comrades, a goodly boast — That back we won to Britain's crown A kingdom that was lost. Then, come, fill up a brimming cup : May they who guard the flag Ne'er count the cost of sweet life lost, To save the dear old rag ! O, WHEN IN THE SUNSHINE OF YOUTH. 9 1 O, WHEN IN THE SUNSHINE OF YOUTH. Air—' Tom of Bedlam.' O, whex in the sunshine of youth, My heart felt its first shade of sorrow, I tum'd from the past, and bade Time travel fast, For Hope promised joy on the morrow. And blithe as a fawn my heart welcomed the dawn, In which Hope had promised no sorrow ; But dark clouds would fly o'er the green hill of joy, And, passing, they whisper'd, ' To-morrow.' Though wiser in manhood than youth, I still trod the hill-top of pleasure, And chid in my prime the slow footsteps of Time, In filling the cup of life's treasure. And blithe as a fawn would my heart hail the dawn, Now stronger to battle with sorrow ; But dark clouds, would rest on the hill of joy's crest, And sadly they whisper'd, ' To-morrow.' Now wisdom has ripen'd with age, My heart lives in memory's story ; The daring deed done, the hard victory won, And fields of our gallant corps' glory. And blithe as a fawn my old heart hails the dawn, Unclouded by one thought of sorrow; The sunshine of youth gilds a manhood of truth, And Joy sweetly sings of to-morrow. X) 2 THE. VOLUNTEER RIFLEMAN'S WIFE'S SONG. THE VOLUNTEER RIFLEMAN'S WIFE'S SONG* Air — ' To daunton me.' When your own true-love first shall say, ' Be mine, dear maid, and name the day,' Reply not till you first shall know If he's a rifleman or no. When my true-love proposed, I said, ' A marksman only will I wed : Through yonder egg your bullet send, Then I am yours till life shall end.' Quick through the egg the bullet flew, Then round my waist his arms he threw, And hugg'd, and kiss'd — 'twas such a kiss, So sweet — the very thought is bliss ! And now I lay me down secure, With latch alone upon the door ; Beside me's one whose faithful arm Keeps me and baby free from harm. The news went round the other day, ' The French ! the French are in the bay !' I buckled on my William's belt ; I shook, but O, how proud I felt ! For well I knew there could not be A braver rifleman than he ; His arm is strong, his eye is clear, With heart to dare and never fear. I look'd all day ; and through the night I watch'd to see the beacon light ; But still no blaze ; and doubt and fear Were changed to hope for him so dear. * Among the hill tribes in Algeria a custom prevails, that when a young man demands his bride, her father asks, ' Can you put a bullet through an egg at the distance a man can throw a stone ?' This is the standard of his prowess. SOLDIERS ARE MERRY BOYS. 93 Mom brought him back ; I kiss'd him then, As wives should kiss their own true men ; I wiped his brow — I loosed his belt — I spoke not — but how proud I felt ! SOLDIERS ARE MERRY BOYS. Air — ' Come, let us dance and sing.' Soldiers are merry boys, And with the fair they share such joys, That pleasure never cloys, In cottage, camp, or hall. Love appears 'Mid smiles or tears ; Where'er they meet the lovely dears, Grave or gay, Still they say We're welcome to them all. Soldiers are merry boys, And with the fair they share such joys, That pleasure never cloys, In cottage, camp, or hall. When the uniforms appear, Widows doff their grief and care, Put on their blithest air, And dart their winning glance, And among The merry throng Join the jocund laugh and song, And with glee, Merrily, They thread the mazy dance. Soldiers, &c. 94 ne'er wait to be commanded. Nor is the lovely maid Of the uniform afraid ; Her cheek then wears a shade More blooming than the rose ; Chaste and coy, With what joy, Her heart meets her soldier boy, While her eyes, Where true love lies, Her dearest thoughts disclose. Soldiers, &c. NE'ER WAIT TO BE COMMANDED. Air — 'The British Grenadiers.' Ne'er wait to be commanded, When you see a comrade ' push'd j' Some day you'll be short-handed, And wish your buttons brush'd. Aye remember, 'tis in trifles That the kindly heart is shown ; And when you lighten others' cares, You lighten half your own. By Jove ! there goes, the ' warning,' And your boots are on the shelf; Quick, quick — you're months in turning ! I'll take this — take that yourself. Now you feel that 'tis in trifles That the kindly heart is shown ; And when you lighten others' cares, You lighten half your own. Turn round, and let's parade you ; Belts and buckles, arms — all right ; Now no man can upbraid you, And your heart, my boy, is light. SHALL I BE SILENT, COMRADES ? 95 So remember, 'tis in trifles That the kindly heart is shown ; And when you lighten others' cares, You lighten half your own. SHALL I BE SILENT, COMRADES? Air — ' To daunton me." Shall I be silent, comrades ? I, Who shared with you the barrack room ; Because, when now you pass me by, In duty bound you touch your plume ? Where is your meed of glory ? where ? Not in your country's favour'd smile ; The broken crutch of pauper fare Is all she gives her rank and file. Silent, when envious tongues defame, When selfish hearts so coldly turn, When eyes are blinded by the flame Which in your hearts so bright doth bum ? No ! where's your meed of glory ? where ? Not in your country's favour'd smile ; The broken crutch of pauper fare Is all she gives her rank and file. Not yours to ask the how or why ; The foe in front, you falter not In the proud march to victory ; And then — yes, then you are forgot. Where is your meed of glory ? where ? Not in your country's grateful smile ; The broken crutch of pauper fare Is all she gives her rank and file. g6 WE NOW HAVE A HOSPITAL CORPS. THE CLEAN CONTRARY WAY. Time, 1865. AiR — ' Nobody can deny.' The people keep telling us day after day, We are now better off, though we've not so much pay. But you and I know the clean contrary way ; Which no honest men deny, deny, Which no honest men deny. They go on the plan — and it prospers, they say — That soldiers fight better the lesser their pay. But you and I know the clean contrary way ; Which none but a fool will deny. ' The country's in danger ; your fears now allay ; For one pound to drink every soldier will stay.' But you and I know the clean contrary way ; And that they will find by and by. E'en our chiefs, when in Parliament, smother their say, Forgetting, ungrateful, our share in the fray. But you and I do the clean contrary way ; Which nobody can deny. Whatever may come of it, this we will say — But show us the foe, and a fig for the pay. In time men may see the clean contrary way ; And justice be done by and by. WE NOW HAVE A HOSPITAL CORPS. Air — 'Tom of Bedlam.'' We now have a hospital corps, But not to make sickness more cheery ; A stranger must now wipe the cold dewy brow, And raise up the head that is weary. AVHEN PRIAM S FAIR BOV. 97 O who, when we roam from our own dear old home, Where pillows are smooth'd by our mother, Can comfort and cheer with a smile, word, or tear ? 'Tis the comrade we know as a brother. O say, can our feelings be drill'd ? Can discipline waken emotion ? Can kindness be made, as we make the sword-blade ? Or orders secure true devotion ? O who, when we roam, &c. O, when the heart's drooping, it clings To those whom it knows, and those only ; While the rude stranger-hand in a far-away land But makes the lone soldier more lonely. O who, when we roam, &c. WHEN PRIAM'S FAIR BOY. Air — 'Abraham Newland." When Priam's fair boy Bore off Helen to Troy, The Greeks put on breastplate and castor, Marching on to the field, Each behind his big shield, For sorely they fear'd a disaster. ' O, fear is a rigid task-master,' Who makes every ill appear vaster, Saying : ' Better to fight For ten years day and night, Than unarmour'd to finish it faster.' Like Trojan and Greek, The proud Roman would seek For safety the shield and the castor; g8 WHEN PRIAM'S FAIR BOY. And our own belted knight Never rode to the fight, But armour'd, for fear of disaster; And the squire, to be as his master, To save a whole skin and his plaster, Clothed himself, head and heel, In brass, iron, or steel, And hid his face under a castor. But the brave musketeer Order'd fear to the rear, And with him the buckler and castor ; Marching into the fight In the pride of his might, Defying defeat and disaster ; Reaping victories vaster and faster, Beating hollow both Pollux and Castor. And the rifleman, peer To the bold musketeer, Can fight without breastplate or castor. Shame on Science and Art, For their cowardly part, To bring back the buckler and castor ; Pluck and manhood they trip With the iron-clad ship, And shields growing vaster and vaster. But Britons in wooden three-master Won battles far harder and faster : For death or for life, Or the fun of the strife ; And all without buckler or castor. . THE ARMY CHAPLAIN. 99 THE ARMY CHAPLAIN. In reply to an article on Recruiting, by an ■ Army Chaplain,' in Good Words, August 1863. ' Good Words, Good Words, for Sunday* reading, Buy, come buy, of books the best !' Comrades, pass by that cry unheeding — 'Tis a libel, 'tis a jest Our Chaplain tells the world, in Good Words' pages, We fight for England only for our wages. Himself he judged, while others judging, Blinded by his pride of heart ; The love we bear to England grudging, Because in that he has no part I wonder why he wrote in Good Words' pages ; Was it for charity, or mammon wages ? And does he serve the one Great Master For position, or for love ? Haply his sire decreed him pastor In hopes his morals 'twould improve ; Many a wildling in the Church engages Not for the love of souls, but for the wages. See the young wildling at his college, His deep carouse, his ribald jest; See the recruit, — and then acknowledge Whose future promises the best The promise ripens in Time's rolling pages : 'Tis by our fruits we're valued, not our wages. You, sir, our pastor, stand beside us ; Let Duty hold the balance true ; For lying tongues you may deride us, Yet who the beam kicks ? Answer, who ? You say we lie for fifteen-shilling wages ; Pray what had you for lying in those pages ? * Published expressly for Sunday reading. THE ROYAL DRAGOONS. PHILOSOPHY OF RECRUITING." Why lift thy cry, ambassador of charity ? Why vilify the soldierly community Whom thou hast sworn to guide Over temptation's tide ? Dost thou not teach the children at the Sabbath school ? Dost thou not preach ' The slanderer is as the fool' ? Why, Onslow, why dost thou in thy philosophy Say that we lie, and princes are in infamy ? We ask, because reviled, Has gold thy palm defiled ? Even fools will think — and soldiers but confirm the thought- That by its chink a pastor may be sold and bought. THE ROYAL DRAGOONS. Air — ' Garry Owen.' The saucy Royals, in Charley's reign, Twice beat the Moors in one campaign, Twice trail'd the Crescentf on the plain, Won fairly by their sabres. The saucy Royals are dashing blades, They drink their glass, and win the maids, And beat the foe Where'er they go — There's victory in their sabres. * Written on reading the Rev. Phipps Onslow's ' Philosophy of Re- cruiting, ' in the Contemporary Review for December 1869. f Captured in sorties from Tangiers, in which they were garrisoned from 1661 to 1683. THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. At Dettingen the brave old corps Charged through the Mousqucteras noirs, And to the king their standard bore*— Won fairly by their sabres. The saucy Royals, &c. And proudly too at Waterloo They trail'd the birdj of triple hue ; But eagle-taking's nothing new To Royals with their sabres. The saucy Royals, &c. And often have the hills of SpainJ Cried echo to their joyous strain, And Lusians seen once and again The Royals' conquering sabres. The saucy Royals, &c. THE 88th OR CONNAUGHT RANGERS. Air — ■" Nora Creina.' Say not the bay'net's always bright, That 'tis a thing with ne'er a speck on ; No doubt that on Busaco's§ height The boasting Frenchmen did so reckon. But the Connaught Rangers made A charge so fierce that undeceived them ; Right and left each reeking blade Of hope and life at once bereaved them. Frenchmen never yet could stand Against the dashing Connaught Rangers ; For the boys Feel no such joys, As when amidst the battle's dangers. * Regimental record. -I- Ibid. J Served with Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, in his romantic expedition on the eastern coast in 1706; also five years with Wellington. § Inscribed on the colours. 102 REPLY TO THE FRENCHMEN S HYMN. And Fuentes Onoro* saw The prowess of the sons of Erin, Tumbling Frenchmen o'er like straw When the streets and vineyards clearin'. And on Salamanca's* field The Irish boys were crown'd with glory; The foe was made Toulouse* to yield, And oft Vittoria's"" told in story. Frenchmen never yet could stand Against the dashing Connaught Rangers ; For the boys Feel no such joys, As when amidst the battle's dangers. Rodrigo they storm'd, and won ; At Badajos they were victorious ; True 'twas said by Wellington, A deed there never was more glorious. They won the Alma by their fire, And Inkerman by butt and bay'net ; Felling Russians to the mire, Shouting, ' Bear up, boys, and gain it !' Back to back, in threes and fours, Right stoutly fought the Connaught Rangers ;, For the boys Feel no such joys, As when amidst the battle's dangers. REPLY TO THE FRENCHMEN'S HYMN.. Air — ' To daunton me.' The Frenchmen say they'll make us rue For beating them at Waterloo ; And boast in satire and in song That past defeats have made them strong. * Inscribed on the colours. THE BOLD LANCER. IO3 Would they Trafalgar try once more, And see again their tricolor By Britons trail'd along the sea, As saw La Hogue their fleur-de-lis? The Frenchmen say our fame shall fade Beneath the glitter of their blade ; That with the boarding-pike and lance They'll win and keep the sea for France. A welcome true — no odds we reck, If they'll but dare the bloody deck j 'Tis all that Britons ask and crave, To meet the Frenchmen on the wave. They tell us that they'll soon set sail — Our granddames heard the same old tale, And oft their fathers heard the same — And yet the Frenchmen never came. Nor dare they come, the braggart crew, While Britons to themselves are true ; 'Tis all we ask, 'tis all we crave, To meet the Frenchmen on the wave. THE BOLD LANCER. Air — ' Lesley's March to Scotland.' March, march, on to the battle, boys ; Fair is the field, and the foe is before us ; March, march, on to the battle, boys ; Soon shall our flags wave in victory o'er us. Loud be your battle-cry, Forward to victory : Ply the rough heel till your gallant steeds answer ; Send the point sure and home. Death is the foeman's doom, When he dares bide the shock of the bold Lancer. 104 THE DYING SOLDIER. March ! trot ! gallop ! now steady, boys ; Hold them in hand; knees tight to the leather; Charge ! charge ! keep the lance ready, boys ; Leaning' well to it, and dash in together. Loud be your battle-cry, Forward to victory : Well to the rowels your gallant steeds answer ; Send the point sure and home ; Death is the foeman's doom, When he dares bide the shock of the bold Lancer. THE DYING SOLDIER. Air — 'Love not.' Weep not, weep not, comrades ! weep not for me ; Life's but a breath, and then eternity. So close our race, so evenly we run, 'Tis but ' good-night,' to meet at rising sun. Weep not, weep not. Weep not, weep not ; your tears but give me pain ; Hath One not said, ' For me to die is gain' ? Then why regret, why wish for death's delay, When angel spirits beckon me away ? Weep not, weep not. Weep not, weep not ; for though the body die, The spirit ever lives beyond the sky ; Death's but the portal to that blest abode, Where we as angels shall adore our God. Weep not, weep not. THE VETERAN. TC>5 MY HEART'S IN THE COLD GRAVE. Air — ' My heart's in the Highlands." My heart's in the cold grave, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the cold grave along with my dear ; Roam, roam where I will, still my lone spirit flies To the spot where my loved and lamented one lies. When beauty is round me, it 'minds me of her — So fair and so lovely, I ne'er saw her peer ; With heart all affection, with look all of love : My heart's in the cold grave wherever I rove. Midst life's busy scenes, when the campaign's begun, When rifles are ringing, and loud booms the gun ; When the struggle has closed, and the foemen give way, Even then to her cold grave my spirit will stray. My heart's in the cold grave, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the cold grave along with my dear : Roam, roam where I will, still my lone spirit flies To the spot where my loved and lamented one lies. THE VETERAN : EVENING OF LIFE. Air — ' The Meeting of the Waters.' Irish Melodies. Old Time with his finger Now points to the west ; Nor wish I to linger, But sink to my rest. A link more is broken, • My last friend's away ; A sad but sure token We cannot here stay. 106 THE PRODIGAL. But why muse in sadness For pleasures gone by ? My soul, bright with gladness, Her wing will soon try. Death comes — 'tis no haven ; But in the bright west, In that beautiful heaven, My spirit will rest. There woes are requited, And troubles shall cease ; There comrades, united, Shall live on in peace ; There crowns shall be given, As bright as the west ; In that beautiful heaven Our spirits shall rest. THE PRODIGAL. AlR — ' Lillibulero.' Though ruin'd by revel and riot and wine — An abject to feed on the husks with the swine — His father forgave the wild prodigal boy, And the song and the dance were the round of their joy: The round of their joy, the round of their joy, And the song and the dance were the round of their joy. ' Be just judging error' 's the motto we leam In the father's embrace and the spendthrift's return ; Be just judging error — 'twill heighten your joy To judge as the father his prodigal boy : His prodigal boy, his prodigal boy, To judge as the father his prodigal boy. THE SOLDIER'S TRIBUTE TO THE PRESS. lOJ Would England, in writing, but learn to be just To that gallant heart who ne'er fail'd in his trust, Who flings in the fray blood and life as a toy, And in blood and in life is a prodigal boy : A prodigal boy, a prodigal boy, And in blood and in life is a prodigal boy. The rich man may revel and riot and kiss, And sages say nothing, but share in the bliss ; Whilst the soldier, if women or wine should decoy, They hold up to scorn as a prodigal boy : A prodigal boy, a prodigal boy, They hold up to scorn as a prodigal boy. If the soldier but differs from others in this, That serving his country's the height of his bliss ; If battle's a pleasure which fear cannot cloy, Then welcome the name of the ' prodigal boy :' The prodigal boy, the prodigal boy, Then welcome the name of the prodigal boy. England boasts, in her pride, that she holds with the sword The land where the mighty Mogul was once lord ; And the sword in her hand, O, I tell it with joy, Is the sword of her soldierly prodigal boy : Prodigal boy, O, her prodigal boy, Of life he is truly a prodigal boy. THE SOLDIER'S TRIBUTE TO THE PRESS. Air — ' Lillibulero.' Balaclava ! how proudly thy valley we name ! Balaclava ! thy harbour we think of in shame ; On thy hill is a cairn to the red-tapists' crimes ; 'Twas raised by the Press — the first stone by the limes. Shout for the Times, boys, shout for the Times ; Three cheers for the Press, and one more for the Times/ 108 INKERMAN. The blast swept the camp in its terrible hate ; The storm strew'd the shore with the wrecks of the fleet ; Yet good comes of evil when God works his ends : It raised up the Press as the best of our friends : Best of our friends, boys, best of our friends ; It raised up the Press as the best of our friends. The mind travels back to the desolate heath, Where the strong man is dragg'd down by fever to death ; By want, by neglect, caused by red-tapists' crimes, Exposed by the _Press, and at first by the Times. Shout for the Times, boys, shout for the Times ; Three cheers for the Press, and one more for the Times! The dying man, lingering, clinging to life. Saw those who should help him in envious strife ; Each cries to the other, 'The duty's not mine; And if the men die, all the blame will be thine.' Tell it, O Press ! give it wings in the Times ; Full ten thousand died through the red-tapists' crimes. Things are changed; but thy mission, O Press, will not end, Till from want the old vet'ran his last days may spend ; Of his pay he's been robb'd since he left that famed shore, Though England is richer fourfold than before. Tell it, O Press ! give it wings in the Times, That England may blush for her blackest of crimes. INKERMAN. Greeks tell of Marathon, Romans of battles won ; We of our Inkerman challenge compare. Greeks chose their battle-ground, Romans were staked around, * Britons were sleeping found — no skill was there. * The Roman soldiers usually fortified their camp with stakes, each man lacing obliged to procure one. INKERMAN. 1 09 Inkerman ! Inkerman ! World's wonder, Inkerman ! Did Greek or Roman such odds e'er repel ? When our boys' heads are gray, When ages pass away, How Britons fought that day nations shall tell. Silent the trump and drum ; Stealthily on they come, There's not a whisper's hum heard through the night ; Over Tchernaya's bridge, Up to the mountain-ridge ; Guns from the rocky ledge ' train' on our right. Piquets, who should have kept Watch while the British slept, Close to their shelter crept, resting secure ; Crashing came shot and shell, Tents on the sleepers fell ; Had they awoke in hell ? such was their roar. Rifles in ready hands, Forming in scatter'd bands, Boldly each Briton stands fronting his foes ; Volley on volley rings ; Death rides on bullets' wings, ' Coming !' he hissing sings, on as he goes. Dash in with bay'net, then, As only Britons can ; Back roll the Russians down the steep hill, Fell'd by the rifle-butt, Struck down by stab and cut ; Blood overflows each rut, filling the rill. True, 'twas the soldier's fight, Won by his pluck and might — Five to one on that height number'd the foe ; Matchless his steady aim, Hand to hand all the same, When in war's bloody game death is the throw. IO ' DON T CARE. ' Inkerman ! Inkerman ! Battle of giant men, Holy thy heathy hill, holy thy flood ; Alma and Inkerman ! Russians remember when Britons their rifles baptised in their blood. 'DON'T CARE.' Air — ' The Meeting of the Waters.' Old comrade, how often, Would men but forbear, Those passions 'twould soften Aroused by ' Don't care' ! ' Don't care' by to-morrow May kindle a flame, Quench'd only in sorrow, In sighing and shame. By words in haste spoken When tempers are toss'd, Young hearts may be broken, Old friends may be lost ; Forbear, and Love's river, From source to the sea, May ripple, but never Break over the lea. Forbear, and to-morrow May be far away The dark cloud of sorrow Which gather'd to-day ; But answer, my brother, Why gather'd it there ? Because one or other Said, ' No, I don't care.' THE MAID OF BANDON. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. Air — 'The light of other days.' While others deeply are lamenting The light of other days, The soldier knows not such repenting, But boasts in present rays. Around him Beauty's brightly shining, And all her charms displays ; Then where's the heart can know repining For light of other days ? True friendship's glow, life's choicest treasure, Supremely is possessed, And glory's hope fills up the measure Of joy within each breast ; While others are the past reviewing, And hope once strong decays, The soldier's heart needs no renewing The light of other days. THE MAID OF BANDON. Air—' The Lass of Gowrie.' In Erin's Isle there lived a lass Whose beauty none could e'er surpass, Nor English nor Scottish princess Could vie with her of Bandon. Her cheeks were of the rosy hue, Her eye beam'd bright as pearly dew ; A fairer flower there never grew Upon the banks of Bandon. GOD OF THE BATTLE-FIELD. The lark when soaring on the wing, The tuneful linnet in the spring, Nor nightingale could ever sing Like the fair maid of Bandon. It chanced that on a summer day, Well mounted on his steed so gay, A young dragoon came there to stay, And woo'd the maid of Bandon. Though suitors had she rich and great, None with the soldier could compete, For he would never sound ' retreat,' So won the maid of Bandon. Those lovers who in hope look'd gay, Now hang their heads, and folks all say The young dragoon has ta'en away The fairest flower of Bandon. GOD OF THE BATTLE-FIELD : PRAYER. Air — National Anthem, God of the battle-field, Glory to Thee we yield, Great is Thy pow'r. Hear now a soldier's pray'r, Lay thine own right arm bare, Give us to do and dare In this dark hour. Brace, Lord, each feeble frame, Save from defeat and shame Children of dust ; Buckler and breastplate Thou, Helm on each lifted brow, Deign to look on us now, God of the just. THEY WANT A BETTER CLASS, THEY SAY. Be Thou our sword, we pray, Sharp and two-edged to slay, Flaming in might ; Nor lay thy red sword by Till foes, defeated, fly ; Giver of victory, Strike for the right ! THEY WANT A BETTER CLASS, THEY SAY. Air — ' The girl I left behind me." They want a better class, they say, But not, old boy, for fighting ; A soldier's measured nowaday By reading and by writing. A lad may read on any plan, Be cramm'd at school and college, And yet may never be a man, Though fill'd with all book knowledge. The fact is this, old comrade true, The learned men are jealous, Because the highest praise is due To forward fearless fellows. When Learning comes, men stand aside, Nor dare to rub his shoulder ; But heart and arms they open wide, A welcome to the soldier. The soldier's book's the book of life, Neglected oft by sages ; Its leaves are perils, toils, and strife, His comrades are its pages ; He reads and gathers up the sum, Endearing and enchaining ; There's true worth in the barrack-room, And glory in campaigning. 114 THE DEVIL IN DIFFICULTIES. THE DEVIL IN DIFFICULTIES. Air—' Lillibulero.' In council presiding, the Devil declared, And in his opinion his ministers shared, The soldiers of Britain would christianise all From the mountains of Spain to the Chinaman's walk So who can devise what is best to be done To keep us our kingdom that's under the sun ? They're plucky as devils, would storm our own nest ; And, failing so oft to plant fear in each breast, I tried the Twelve-years' Act, which works very well, Yet still they outnumber the forces of hell. So who can devise what is best to be done To keep us our kingdom that's under the sun ? The Aldershot Camp was my scheme, and 'twas done To make life as dreary and bleak as our own ; And this, with ' position' and purposeless drill, Jades ev'ry rough heart, yet they battle on still. So who can devise what is best to be done To keep us our kingdom that's under the sun ? I made it perfection to worry and swear, Seam the thumbs, keep the touch and the line to a hair y Not to blink, not to think, but to crush down the mind, And yet these dare-devils are never behind. So who can devise what is best to be done To keep us our kingdom that's under the sun ? 'Twas I who first prompted the slow measured tread, Put lead in each heel and each Dundases' head ; Thus, best of all targets, they march to the fray, And though half are kill'd, t'others never give way. So who can devise what is best to be done To keep us our kingdom that's under the sun ? WEALTH V. VALOUR. 115 Can no one persuade that ' light order" and ' double' Are freaks of the fancy, a mere Prussian bubble ? Should they but once try it, they'll run us so fine, The world will be Christian* from pole to the line. Then, charging us home, we'll come down with a run, And never get back to the light of the sun. ' Heed not, dreaded chieftain,' fierce Moloch replied ; ' The weight that they carry will shorten their stride, 'Twill spot\ every heart till the strongest shall fail, And thus by the pack shall our kingdom prevail. And I will take care that the work's so well done, That all men shall worship thee under the sun.' The Devil, desponding, said, ' Moloch, your scheme, Like many of mine, will turn out but a dream ; The pack's to be changed for Sir Trowbridge's bag, So balanced, the weakest won't falter or flag.' Then planting the Cross on hell's gate with a shout, ' Rneel, devils ? t we must kneel, or shall never get out. WEALTH v. VALOUR. Wealth wars with valour when the strife is o'er, Scoffs at the heart's devotion, counts and weighs And values it, as if its fiery store Were some crude metal which it could appraise. Valour ! most noble and the most divine ■ Of all that holds possession of the soul, Before thy sheen must sordid wealth decline, And turn abash'd from history's golden scroll. * As the sword played so prominent a part, after the Nicean Council, in forcing one of our great doctrines upon half of the Christian world, it is hoped that the description of his Satanic majesty's fears of the British soldier's propagandism may not be thought exaggerated. T From the weight of the pack, and the injudicious way in which it is strapped on, the energies of the man are much weakened, and an irregular pulsation sets in, which causes in time a whitish spot to come upon the heart, often ending in invaliding, and possibly death. Il6 YOU NEED NOT PASS SO LIGHTLY BY. WELLINGTON'S NAME. Air — ' My lodging is on the cold ground.' The sword and the helm of the hero may rust, His last resting-place be unknown, The statue and column may crumble to dust, Or by some rude hand be o'erthrown : All may be forgotten, yet Wellington's name Shall live in the breast of the brave ; And Tagus and Douro shall tell of his fame Whilst the sea drinks their silvery wave. And Napier and Siborne have twined round his name A laurel that never shall fade ; And the berries, half hid, are their records of fame, And shall grow with the wreath they have made. So here's to the hero, and here's to the sage ! We'll pledge them in sparkling champagne ; May neither be wanting when we shall engage To direct or record the campaign ! YOU NEED NOT PASS SO LIGHTLY BY. Air — Miss Forbes' Farewell. You need not pass so lightly by Because the soldier's coat is red ; Not long ago how tremblingly You watch'd his footsteps forward tread ! The paper clutch'd — ' Say, what's the news ?' Ere you could tear the seal away ; ' 0, give the soldier all his dues : Another victory — Hurrah !' FIRED BY THE. STORY OF MARTIAL GLORY. 1 17 You need not pass the soldier by Because his coat is red or blue ; The flashings from his daring eye Are beams of good to yours and you. Your home's secure, and maid and wife Have peace by night and joy by day; For these the soldier stakes his life, And joins the battle's wild hurrah. Ye need not pass so lightly by Because the soldier's coat is red, But ever let the kindly eye Bespeak the welcome ere 'tis said; Then, though his onward foot may fail To break the foeman's proud array, And numbers o'er the few prevail, He'll fighting fall, and shout ' Hurrah !' FIRED BY THE STORY OF MARTIAL GLORY. Air — ' Groves of Blarney.' Fired by the story of martial glory, And fields made gory by Britain's steel, I long'd to share in such deeds of daring, And all my caring was my country's weal ; Freely I gave her my blood to save her, Though some were braver, all served her well ; And when benighted, she oft was righted By hands requited now in pauper's cell. Deeply I'm drinking, now life is sinking, The dregs of England's ungrateful cup, Although I gave her my blood to save her, To lift her banner and to keep it up. Il8 THE CANTEEN. In trenches knee-deep when winter-winds sweep, Oft did I watch keep till coming morn; Nor once was thinking, when life was sinking, I should be drinking from a pauper's horn. My fame, my glory, sinks in this story : ' A pauper hoary lies buried here, Unknown, uncared for' — and yet I dared for The last great honour of a soldier's bier. I had no fear then, though life was dear then — But who would fear when fights were unwon ? — In this sad story will set my glory, ' A pauper hoary lies here unknown.' THE CANTEEN. Air — 'Son, I give my spear to thee.' Stoleerg. (Lively.) Now the drums have ceased to beat, Telling of the sun's retreat, To the canteen come with me — Share our evening jollity. Horseman, gunner, linesman, here Drink together, join the cheer; Chaplains all would envious be, Witnessing such jollity. Gods their wine distill'd from dew, And in drinking envious grew, Stoned each other ; not so we — Friendship rules our jollity. Here's a fellow all decorum ; Here's a score with quarts before 'em, Proud as any king might be, Happier in their jollity. All come to be pleased and please, Sing in chorus, sing in glees, SAY, COMRADE, WHY THAT SILENT TEAR? 119 And determined care shall flee Far from them in jollity. Drink ' The Queen !' deep be the draught, We know no Whig nor Tory craft ; Country, corps, and Queen shall be Up, boys, in our jollity. SAY, COMRADE, WHY THAT SILENT TEAR? Air — ' The Song of Sorrow.' Say, comrade, why that silent tear, And why that struggling sigh ; T hink not the hand of death I fear — A soldier thus should die. 'Tis not in vain that I have bled — See, our old colours proudly fly ! And who would wish a dying bed Unblest by victory ? Before the sun shall reach the west Life's contest will be o'er; My route is signed, and I shall rest On yon bright happy shore. 3Iy spirit stays its joyous flight But while I make this last request : Bear to my boy this sabre bright, A soldier's dear bequest. -Say that his sire for freedom join'd In many a bloody strife ; That freedom's cause he ne'er resign'd But when he yielded life. If he reveres his father's shade, His father's sword he must gird on, Nor dare to sheathe the glitt'ring blade Till freedom's cause is won. JO YES, SCOFFING SENATOR. 'SENTRY, GO.'* Air — 'Rain, rain, and sun.' Tennyson. Rain, wind, and rain ! but now 'twas sleet and snow I The scenes of life are shifting ever so, Until the curtain drops at 'Sentry, go.' Rain, wind, and rain ! as fast our thoughts will flow, When moon and stars glad all the world below, But now they pivot them on ' Sentry, go.' Rain, wind, and rain ! and roofs still white with snow !' For two dark hours no marching to and fro, But cramp'd in this close box till ' Sentry, go.' Time, fleeting time ! why wilt thou mock us so, By halting thus, or marching past so slow, When on thy wing we'd hasten — 'Sentry, go'? YES, SCOFFING SENATOR. Yes, scoffing senator; some future day, Instead of epithets — ' street-sweepings,' ' scum' — You'll to the peasant youth of England pray, And bless the foot that follows fife and drum. You now revile the scarlet and the blue With 'froth' and ' dregs,'f and witless gibe and jeer. Beware ! the day may come when you shall rue, And shelter seek behind the cannoneer. Is War abed? Rebellion, too, asleep? You dip our ensign to exalt your trade, And nurse rebellion pow'r and place to keep, Which, waking, you would crush out with the blade. * When the clock strikes the hour at which the sentries are to be relieved, the one nearest the guard-room warns the relief by calling out, 'Sentry, go.' f The epithets applied to the army by Mr. Trevelyan when under the shelter of the House. THE SOLDIER'S PHILOSOPHY. There is a perfidy which none can see ; There is a loyalty which few can feel ; There is a hope in our adversity, And England's hope may yet be in our steel. Epigram. Civilians scorn the soldier when secure, And 'gainst the worn and weary shut the door ; But when the drum and fife and trumpet's breath Summon to march away to blood and death, They suppliant kneel : ' O soldier brave and true, Our only hope, our only friend are you.' THE SOLDIER'S PHILOSOPHY. Air — ' Hey, boys, up go we !' JacoHte Sovg. I mahvel, Dick, why learned men Can't let the army be ; We envy not the money'd Ten When they are on the spree. In grand hotel they drink moselle — For this who cares a rap ? We like to hear their chorus swell Whilst we sing in the tap. We envy not their downy bed When in the trench we lie, Or tumble weary in a shed, Without a stitch that's dry, Without a drink save from the spring, Or hap from wintry wind ; But take the world as luck shall bring, And men as we may find. And now their halls are lighted up, Look on this scene and this ; The sage is ravish'd by the cup, The saint by woman's kiss. THE BRAVE CAN NEVER HATE THE BRAVE. So Nature, Dick, will have her way, Whatever man's degree ; She makes him drink and kiss and play Just all as one as we. THE BRAVE CAN NEVER HATE THE BRAVE. Air— ' A famous man was Robin Hood.' Let kingdoms war — the truly brave Towards the brave no hatred know ; In witness, there's Rueda's* cave, Zapardiel and the Douro's flow. When biyouack'd on opposing bank, Whole groups would cross to other side, Hold kindly converse with the rank That soon the battle's shock must bide. Others 'neath Ru'da's vaulted rock, Which holds the vintage choicest store, In friendship heart and hand would lock, That ever met in strife before ; There talk'd the coming conflict o'er, And as the brimming bowl went round, Drank ' Speed to time !' when they once more Should meet upon the battle-ground. The soldier knows not how to hate ; He meets his foe in open fight, And bleeds or falls if 'tis his fate ; Nor asks the cause, or wrong or right. While Douro's stream shall westward flow, ' Or wine is in Rueda's cave, The Muse of History! will show The brave can never hate the brave. * One of the largest wine-stores in the Peninsula ; it is hewn out of the rock. + Napier. THE ROYAL IRISH FUSILIERS. THE 87TH OR ROYAL IRISH FUSILIERS. Air — ' Garry Owen.' The Royal Irish Fusiliers, The dashing Irish Fusiliers, The Fag-an-Bealach boys, whose cheers Strike terror to the foemen ! Their daring eyes, though always bright, Ne'er sparkle with so much delight As when upon The bastion Or plain they see the foernan. Upon Barossa's rugged height They put the doughty French to flight, And show'd with what resistless might The Irish wield the bay'net. Triumphantly they bore away The Eagle from that bloody fray ; Though three to one The French came on, 'Twas won, and by the bay'net Vittoria saw the Frenchmen fly Before old Erin's battle-cry ; At Orthes and Toulouse on high Our colours, boys, were waving. And sooner than the shock abide, The foe leapt in the Neville's tide ; Whilst the Fusiliers, With joyous cheers, Were battle-dangers braving. 124 THE TRENCHES, THE TRENCHES. Air — •' Hearts of oak.' Fall in, lads, with fascine and pickaxe and spade ; Not a whisper, keep close, and step light o'er the glade ;. In the trench not the smoke of a pipe must be seen, Till the parapet rises affording a screen. Then delve deep, my lads ; Every spit that you throw Advances a foot In our march to the foe — Advances a foot in our march to the foe. Lay the fascines in line with six inches o'er-lap, That each may work free in his share of the sap ; Sod the face to the banquette, the grassy side down ; Shape it off with the spade, that the work be well done. Delve, delve deep, my lads ; Every spit that you throw Advances a foot In our march to the foe — Advances a foot in our march to the foe. The darkness befriends us, the garrison sleeps, And out of the cold blast the sentinel creeps ; No fear of a sally ; ply pick and ply spade, And soon we shall have the first parallel made. Work, work with a will ; Every spit that you throw Advances a foot In our march to the foe — Advances a foot in our march to the foe. Cheer, cheer up, my lads, our work's nearly done, One parallel made, and the second begun ; HURRAH, HURRAH, MY GALLANT STEED ! 1 25 When the time comes for storming, we'll lay the spade by; With the sword we will conquer, or sword in hand die. So work with a will ; Every spit that you throw Advances a foot In our march to the foe — Advances a foot in our march to the foe. HURRAH, HURRAH, MY GALLANT STEED ! Air — ' A wet sheet and a flowing sea.' ' Hurrah, hurrah, my gallant steed ! Once more I'm on thy back, To charge the foe at topmost speed, Or follow in his track ; Or follow in his track, my steed, Like bloodhound in the chase, Till his best blood, a crimson flood, My gleaming steel shall grace.' 4 And welcome thou, my master dear ; The greatest joy I know Is when the trumpet's sound I hear, When shouts the freeman's foe ; When shouts the freeman's foe, and when We follow in his track ; When he shall yield, and from the field I proudly bear thee back' ' Hurrah, my steed ! away, away J The gladd'ning trumpets ring, Back on the foe, with snort and neigh, His bold defiance fling ; His bold defiance fling, and dash Like lightning o'er the lea ; Now, now they reel beneath the steel That heralds victory !' 126 I'VE WONDERING SEEN. I'VE WOND'RING SEEN. Air — ' The siller crown.' I've wond'ring seen beneath the sun A nation great and strong, Although the multitude would shun To meet the battle throng. And I have seen a province great As England three times told, In fierce rebellion, strong in hate, Which gather'd as it roll'd. I saw its fenced cities fall, Another sceptre sway, And England, prostrate, humbly call, ' O God, for help we pray.' A few brave men — God made them brave In answer to her prayer — Back all those fenced cities gave, And stores and treasures there. And then I saw beneath the sun These brave poor men despised ; Yet God requiteth wrong that's done, Just as the wrong is prized. This too I've seen — a nation look On soldiers as machines ; The motive power, the innate pluck That sniffs the battle scenes ; And tell of kingdoms she had won, And vaunt how small the cost. Lord, see this evil 'neath the sun, And recompense the boast. EVERY MAN HAS HIS MISSION. I EVERY MAN HAS HIS MISSION. AtR — ' Lillibulero.' Every man has his mission, the parsons all say, That some men must govern, and others obey; Yet the ruled would be rulers, at least they would try, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die : Ready to die, boys, ready to die, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die. The mill-owning spinners and weavers will tell, Could they but once rule, none could do it so well; The state as a mill they would govern, or try, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die : Ready to die, boys, ready to die, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die. The Manchester mission's to weave and to spin ; Their standard of worth is ' how much can he win ? Their creed is ' get gain,' ' gather money 1 their cry, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die : Ready to die, boys, ready to die, And swear for their crotchet they're ready to die. Long, long may our gentlemen rule o'er the land, And every true Englishman strengthen his hand ; Their mission's to govern ; and all may rely That honour will guide them till ready to die : Ready to die, boys, ready to die, That honour will guide them till ready to die. We too have a mission, the noblest on earth, The freedom to guard of the land of our birth ; To conquer for England, old comrade, or try, And if we can't conquer, be ready to die : Ready to die, boys, ready to die, Our mission's fulfiU'd when we conquer or die. 128 PICTON AND THE TWENTY-EIGHTH REGIMENT. PICTON AND THE 28th REGIMENT. AT WATERLOO. Air — ' Cease, loud Boreas.' ( With spirit.') 1 Twenty-eighth, remember Egypt !* Let no heart be downward cast, Front ranks, fire — you who're kneeling, Steady, till the bugle's blast ; You who're standing in the centre, Strike home, and no foeman spare, If an opening he dares enter When the round-shot rakes the square.' The guns have ceased, yet stern, unshaken, Rocks that stem the battle-wave ! Each void place is quickly taken, Though they tread a comrade's grave. Clouds of dust in front are rising, Shouts burst fiercely from their womb ; Gleaming swords, the eye surprising, Show the charging horsemen come. Trumpets ring ; the pace increases ; Horses stretch along the plain ; Distance at each bound decreases, Urged by spur and voice and rein. Flanking squadrons, inwards wheeling, Charge the ' faces' leftf and right ; Eings the volley — shatter'd, reeling, Now the Frenchmen turn in flight. * When surrounded by cavalry, the rear rank faced about and beat them off, although they repeatedly returned to the charge. + They were charged on the front and side faces of the square at the same time, and gallantly repelled their assailants. COMRADES, THE WORLD LOOK ROUND. 1 29 Well done ! you have rivall'd Egypt, Heroes of the Pyrenees !* See your steel-clad foemen flying, Leaves before the winter breeze : Scatter'd as at Albuera,* Thick as by Nivelle* they lie — Heroes of the Nive,* Barossa,* Shout your shout of victory ! COMRADES, THE WORLD LOOK ROUND. Air — ' Come, let us dance and sing.' Comrades, the world look round, From peasant to the monarch crown'd, And say, can one be found Exempt from pining care ? The merchant's life With care is rife ; The wily statesman dwells in strife, Place though brief, Care and grief Will haunt him while he's there. But soldiers' hearts are free From dull care ; they live merrily ; Sure they must happy be Who're welcome to the fair. Man never yet began Life's morning march, that little span, But e'er its course he'd ran, 'Twas dimm'd with clouds of care ; Hopes delay'd, Schemes betray'd, Time and talents ill-repaid, * Inscribed on the colours. 130 A HORSEMAN BRAVE, A GUNNER TRUE. Jilted too, 'Tis nothing new, By the bewitching fair. But soldiers' hearts are free From dull care ; they live merrily ; Sure they must happy be Who're welcome to the fair. Look round this circle bright, Where hearts in friendship hearts unite, Say, can dull care alight 'Mid such a happy band ? No, no, the hour, If care has power, Is when the front of battles lower, 'Tis this that they May still leave free Their loved, their native land. Save this, the soldier knows No care, but how to meet his foes ; Round him true friendship glows And beauty's witching wand. A HORSEMAN BRAVE, A GUNNER TRUE. Air — 'O, Willie brew'd a peck of maut.' A horseman brave, a gunner true, A guardsman, and a grenadier, In Dublin met, all merry boys, Before them whisky, pipes, and beer. We'll merry be, we'll merry be, There's still another jug in store ; Though the drums may beat, we'll not retreat Till we have pledged each other's corps. artilleryman's song. 131 So here's to every gunner true, Who guides the mighty ' king of war,' And sends the shells and round shot through The foeman's column, line, and square. We'll merry be, &c Here's to the guards and gallant line, Our hope and mainstay in the fight, Who wade the fosse, and storm the breach, Or escalade the walls at night AVell merry be, &c. And here's to every horseman brave, Who grasps with joy his glittering blade, Resolved to die a hero's death, Or through the strife to victory wade. Well merry be, &c. ARTILLERYMAN'S SONG: THE KING OF WEAPONS. Of weapons' queen let others sing, We gunners sing the praises Of him who reigns a mighty king Where'er the battle blazes ; Of the great gun, whose dreaded noise Can check the foe's advancing, Now o'er them flaming shells can poise, Now send the round shot dancing. Hurrah for the artillery, Great guns and the artillery ! Loudly we'll sing of weapons' king, Great guns and the artillery. 132 THE DEVILS CODE. The horsemen love their sabres' gleam Dearly as maiden beauty ; The infantry stern weapons' queen : 'Tis well — it is their duty. But when the battle rages round, And Death stalks in his power, His step is nowhere so profound As 'mid the grape-shot shower. Hurrah for the artillery, &c. The infantry may hold in check The horseman's fiercest battle ; But soon their squares are made a wreck When guns begin to rattle. The bravest squadrons broken lie, On hill and valley scatter'd ; And 'neath the guns' repeated strokes The strongest walls are batter'd. Hurrah for the artillery, &c. THE DEVIL'S CODE. ' On the adamantine basis of Christian principle we would build the whole fabric of legislation which regards the public morals.' J. S. Taylor. Air— 'The Admiral.' (Lively.) As Satan wander'd to and fro Among the sons of earth, He saw the soldiers' jollity, And mingled in their mirth : He led the laugh, the jibe, the jest, Drank deep with them in wine, And chuckled in his sleeve, and said, ' Nine out of ten are mine ; THE DEVIL'S CODE. 1 33 And every tenth man shall be mine By paction with a priest, Who, for the chaplaincy-in-chief, And promised daily feast, Will frame a law, in mockery Called the ' good-conduct code,' That men might sell their souls to me, Be godless, yet be good.' The mantle of persuasion then Upon the priest he threw, And hinted at a mitred crown, Shook hands, then off he flew. ' Your earnest I have taken, but My mind is ill at ease ; My hand seems wither'd by the touch, My blood is like to freeze ; And yet I feel a power within, A might upon my tongue, To make a He appear the truth, A righteousness a wrong, — To make the great, the good, the wise, Prepare the Devil's code, «■ That men might sell their souls to him, Be godless, yet be good. With the economising, then, Economist I'll be, And with the righteous over-much Will preach morality ; As sentimental demagogue, Most piteous tales will tell ; And act the saint, to make a saint Work out the cause of hell.' Economy first robb'd the men Of length-of-service pay ; And next the veteran's pension Was reduced a groat a day. 134 THE DEVIL S CODE. Religion aided discipline To frame the Devil's code, That sentimental chiefs might deem The godless soldier good. What gave to the iniquity A tenfold deeper dye, Old England's generosity Was made to be a lie. The money ta'en is now held up, And chiefs applauding say, ' Your country, if your conduct's good, Will give you extra pay ; Be moral in appearance, then, No matter what you do ; Her rules, not God's commandments, Are the rules of life for you.' Thus pity, pelf, religion, leagued To frame the Devil's code, That men might sell their souls to him ; Be godless, yet be good. To carry out the mockery Defaulters' books were made, Where minor crimes, and major crimes, And crimes of every shade, Were written, some with ink that's red, A sterner tale to tell, To show that the delinquent is A subject fit for hell. For every slip in thoughtless youth Imprinted on that page, The man is made to suffer in Decrepitude and age. Yet pity, pelf, religion, leagued To frame the Devil's code, That men might sell their souls to him, Be godless, yet be good. THE DEVIL S CODE. 13 5 Had many a crime recorded there Been done in civil life, 'Twould cause no shame to hoary head, No blush to maid or wife ; And yet the men who keep within Good conducts favour d pale May curse, blaspheme, in brothels sleep, Be preaching infidel ; Get extra pay while serving, too, And pension on discharge, Be on the sick-list from their vice When others join the charge. Yet pity, pelf, religion, leagued To frame the Devil's code, That men might sell their souls to him, Be godless, yet be good. As Satan yearly saw the host Of Hades in review, He found the souls regimentalised Were far between and few. Surprised, he hurried back to earth, To know the reason why He only got one soldier's ghost, For nine in days gone by. He met the chaplain : ' Sir, how's this, You send so few recruits ? Is the good-conduct warrant, then, Yielding a tithe of fruits ? Did pity, pelf, religion, then, Not help to make the code, That men might sell their souls to me, Be godless, yet be good ? Do not the chiefs applaud these laws ? Then why are things reversed?' -* A Prophet came — the many bless'd — The few he left accursed ; 'O 6 A SONG ABOUT KING SOLOMON. He made each man's defaulter sheet His passport into heaven ; While those I paid (as we agreed) Were down to Hades driven.' ' What ! this our paction ? where's my nine > My power thus overruled ? And you the crosier, mitred crown, And I stand thus befool'd ? No ! let pity, pelf, religion, Still indorse the code, Still purchase mock morality, And deem the godless good.' A SONG ABOUT KING SOLOMON. Am— 'Alley Croker.' Tradition tells Of snobs and swells, Philosophers and prize-men ; But we will sing Of Israel's king, The wisest of all wise men ; Who, at the board With wine well stored, Grew furious when a brother Stood up that he Might fulsomely Be-praise and toast another. O, King Solomon ! the wisest man was Solomon. Who stops the glass Is, sure, an ass, Says the wise and jolly Solomon. One cannot sip Though dry the lip And tooth 'gainst tooth be grating, A SONG ABOUT KING SOLOMON. But sit and blink Upon the drink, Till you have done your prating. Who blocks the ' pass' Against the glass Deserves a thorough thwacking, Whilst rosy wine, Drink pure divine, We true-hearts are attacking. O, King Solomon ! the wisest man was Solomon. Red rosy wine, Drink pure divine, Was the delight of Solomon. Who toasts his friends Just for the ends Thus publicly to flatter, But turns the lens Upon his friends, That fools may look and clatter ; If dull's your wit, Don't think that it Will brighten when you rise, man ; But learn this rule, ' The silent fool Is often thought a wise man.' O, King Solomon ! the wisest man was Solomon. The dullard shares With flatterers The world's contempt, says Solomon. The one great toast Wherein to boast, And give a zest to drinking, Is when we tell Of those who fell, Or battled on unshrinking. 1 38 HYMN. No wasted time : Thoughts bold, sublime, Come swelling, glowing, rushing, Lifting the soul Beyond control, In patriotism gushing. O, King Solomon ! the wisest man was Solomon. ' Posterity, In memory, Cherish the brave,' says Solomon. HYMN. Lord, we know that Thou art near When the sinner breathes his prayer ; When the trembling spirits sigh, Dear Redeemer, Thou art nigh. Thou hast felt our childhood's tears, Thou art with the ripe in years ; But when soldiers lift the eye, Answerest Thou ? ' Your Saviour's nigh.' Lord, we're not as others are, But red-handed from the war ; O forgive us, nor deny To answer, Lord, ' Your Saviour's nigh.' Not as others are we, Lord, Kneeling as we hold the sword ; Thee we plead in tear and sigh — Answer, Lord, ' Your Saviour's nigh.' Often Thou hast turn'd the spear ; Lord, to-morrow be Thou near. Shouldst Thou will that we must die, Death is life, if Thou art nigh. WHO WOULD NOT BE A SOLDIER? 139 WHO WOULD NOT BE A SOLDIER? Air — ' A-swearing we will go." Who would not be a soldier, With a coat of red or blue, When all the world is false, And he alone is true ? So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. Of petticoats and forms The churchmen rant and rave, As of more importance Than straying souls to save. So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. Dishonest as the priest Of petticoats and forms, The senator who waits Till Whip his conscience warms. So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. Dishonest e'en in thought The statesman — shame to say — By party sold and bought, His motto, ' Will it pay ?' So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. The merchant's motto this, And traders' high and low — ' If not by honest means, Get money anyhow.' So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. 14° ARM, ARM FOR THE STRIFE ! Back in the olden time Men gather'd slow and sure, But now they'll wade through slime To hasten in their store. So a soldier I will be, will be, And a soldier I will be. ARM, ARM FOR THE STRIFE ! Air — ' The Vicar and Moses.' Arm, arm for the strife ! Drum, trumpet, and fife Awaken a prayer in the soul, To God for his aid To strengthen our blade, And give it the battle's control. Arm, arm for the strife ! Drum, trumpet, and fife Lay Memory's treasure-house bare Till the heart, as it reads Its own doughty deeds, Throbs quicker to do and to dare. Drum, trumpet, and fife ! Entrancers of life ! What Britons have done 'neath your spell In battle's dark hour, How god-like their power, The foe of their land can best tell. Arm, arm for the strife ! Drum, trumpet, and fife But echo the chorus of fame ; Then on, comrades, on To the battle as one, And higher still lift England's name. A SOLDIER S LIFE S THE LIFE FOR ME. 141 A SOLDIER'S LIFE'S THE LIFE FOR ME. Air — ' A man's a man for a' that.' A soldier's life's the life for me, The tented field, and a' that, Where comrades round sing merrily, And crack their jokes, and a' that ; And a' that, and a' that, 'Tis glory's field, and a' that ; At England's call we bleed or fall, And beat our foes, and a' that All nations say we bear the bell For drinking wine, and a' that, But none of them could ever tell They saw our backs, and a' that ; For a' that, and a' that, We love our glass, and a' that ; But we love more to meet the foe With gleaming steel, and a' that. What though the ground's our only bed, 'Mid snow, and rain, and a' that, And lightnings play around the head ? 'Tis glory's field, for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that, With scanty fere, and a' that ; Old England free we ne'er repine, Our hearts are light, and a' that. 142 CARDIGAN TO THE LIGHT BRIGADE. CARDIGAN TO THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Air — ' Fly not yet.' Irish Melodies. Comrades, cheer ! from yonder post 'Tis ours to drive the Russian host, And 'mid ten thousand sabres' flash, And rifles' ring and cannons' crash, We'll show how Britons fight. Mount, chieftains, mount, lead on your men. And Russia soon shall hear again Our gallant fellows wildly shouting, As they her choicest troops are routing. Away, away ! 'Tis worth a life, as chief, to guide Such spirits as they onward ride To try the battle's might. Firm and fiercely grasp your steel, And give your horses rein and heel, Till, madden'd by the iron, they Dash wild and headlong in the fray, Though girth-deep red you wade. Strike, strike, as if each arm alone Were the defence of England's throne ; As if on each uplifted blade The issue of the fray were laid. Away, away ! And wondering nations who look on, Will point and say of each, ' There's one Of Britain's Light Brigade.' UP, AT THEM, GUARDS ! 1 43 UP, AT THEM, GUARDS ! Air—' The death of Nelson.' (Boldly.) RECITATIVE. The heart throbs proudly as we tread the plain Where British soldiers sever'd Europe's chain, Gave back to Liberty her trampled vest, And crown'd her ensign with their country's crest. When first at Waterloo The foe appear'd in view, Our gallant soldiers cheer'd, The loud drum beat to arms, The heart for battle warms, And high our banners rear'd. The British soldier knows right well There's victory in the trumpet's swell ; For never yet, when closing, Did foemen — Russians, Dons, or French — Abide the shock on plain, in trench, When Britons are opposing. The grape and round-shot now Through square and column plough, And every musket told. * Your men keep well in hand,' Was still the stem command Of Wellington the bold. Firm as their native island rock Our squares withstood their horsemen's shock, Then tum'd them with a volley; When Lancers dashing round the flanks Play'd havoc with their broken ranks, Ere they had time to rally. 144 BEGONE, DULL CARE ! Th' Imperial Guard came on, Led by Napoleon ; Of France they were the flower, With victory upon each brow ; For they ne'er felt till now The British bayonet's poVr. ' Up, at them, Guards !' and o'er his head Wellington shook his conquering blade. Soon front and front were closing. The fight was won ; for never yet Could Frenchmen stand the bayonet, When Britons were opposing. BEGONE, DULL CARE! Air — ' Begone, dull care.' Begone, dull care ! the camp was ne'er made for thee, Thou ne'er canst dwell with spirits so light and so free ; Thy home is in old Reason's hall, the city is thy throne ; But not a trooper round this ring thy sceptre e'er will own. Then let the chorus of our song In many a peal go round ; For with British boys so jolly and true Dull care was never found. With comrades tried past ills forgotten lie, Whilst glory's hope paints the morn with a brighter sky ; The soldier through the vista sees the hostile fronts oppose, And the victory hails, 'tis Britons' when once they close. Then let the chorus of our song, &c. SERGEANT BALL. 1 45 SERGEANT BALL, OF THE 28TH REGIMENT.* Air — 'Down, down, hey deny down.' If you are a Briton, come, listen to me ; If you are a soldier, right proud you will be ; If you are a mother, your leisure employ In teaching my song to your prattling boy. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. Fair maids smile a welcome, and sing o'er my song Whenever a company marches along ; To drum and to fife see how proudly they tread, As proudly they march when the foe is ahead. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. When watching Pamp'luna, brave Ball was sent down To purchase supplies at the Passages town ; And journeying onwards, the cannons' loud boom Told plainly Sebastian stoop'd to her doom. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. His two thousand dollars in safety he placed, Then on to Sebastian gallop'd and raced ; Join'd the men for the storm — none more forward to dare, Though many a dare-devil soldier was there. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. A shout, and a rush through the ditch to the breach, But not a man there to the top stone could reach ; So back through the ditch, 'neath a hillock they lay, Whilst o'er them in salvos our cannon did play. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. Two long hours it took them to batter it down, When ' Up, up, brave hearts, and the town is our own !' The shout, and a rush, and the first on the wall, And the first one knock'd back was the brave Sergeant Ball. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. * Historically true. See Napier. 146 LOVE. Unhurt by the blow, he dash'd into the fray, And fought in the front whilst the Frenchmen would stay ; Then join'd in the cheer as their arms they laid down, Right proud that he'd added to Britain's renown. Sing, Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. When, maiden and mother, and stripling and sire, You gather for mirth or you circle the fire, Forget not the soldier, so loyal and true, Who battles and bleeds for your homes and for you. Like Ball, brave Sergeant Ball. Epigram. The sage who writes from lowly cot Will not the less illume the heart ; And Beauty, though of humble lot, Will not the less of charm impart. A man may be of noble birth, Though poverty may deck his board ; Nor is true courage less in worth When rank-and-file bears lance or sword. LOVE. In life's young days there came upon my soul Sweet whisperings, Gentle as when the balmy zephyrs roll From angels' wings : They came unheeded long, at last I felt My spirit moved ; My own,* my soldier came, beside me knelt, And said he loved. * There is a tradition that marriages are predestined. THE DEVIL'S AGREEMENT. 1 47 My heart I then review" d, and leaf by leaf I turn'd it o'er ; And read, re-read each thought and wish, how brief, Within its store. And as I doubted, fear'd, sweet whisperings My spirit moved ; Soft as a zephyr fann'd by angels' wings, They said I loved. THE DEVIL'S AGREEMENT WITH THE RULERS OF INDIA, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Air — 'Bonnie Dundee.' To India's rulers, 'twas the Devil who spoke In the great council-hall, and his errand thus broke : * If you'll garrison Delhi with Sepoys, I'll then Make you first among princes, the chief among men.' Council in clwrus. ' We've built the wall high, and dug the ditch deep, The Jumna rolls past between banks high and steep ; The citadel's strong ; but, Sir Devil, say when Will you make us the chief among princes and men ?' ' To rule you must pander to Mussulman pride, Nor mind though the Brahmin your soldiers deride ; Just march every Briton from Delhi, and then I'll make you the chief among princes and men.' Council in cliorus. ' Our magazine's there, and treasure untold Of gems and of jewels, of silver and gold; 'Tis the key of the north — 'twere treason — but then Are we sure to be chief among princes and men ?' 148 ELEGY. ' Leave the Brahmin his altars, his idols, nor heed The Mussulman's faith, let him die in his creed ; Suppress your own Book — you know which one — and then I'll make you the chief among princes and men.' Council in chorus. ' Our men shall march out, and the Sepoys march in, And as for religion, we don't care a pin ; So give us your hand, Sir Devil, and then We are sure to be chief among princes and men.' The Devil departed, nor did he once stop Until he had reach'd Himalaya's high top, To gloat over scenes never witness'd till then, Not e'en among demons, much less among men. The Council, posses? d, saw nothing but blood ; The spring of Merut rolled downward in flood ; Each wave was a curse on the Council, but then A curse lightly falls on the great among men. ELEGY ON THOSE WHO FELL DURING THE INDIAN MUTINY. Over the ancient hall of England's kings Has sorrow come — A sorrow deep as darkness when it brings Its saddest gloom ; A blight has wither'd up the summer leaves Of pride and fame — A blast has scatter'd glory's gather'd sheaves In blood and shame. The wind sweeps o'er the battlements in sighs ; The willow weeps, And tells to Thames, as he to ocean hies, ' Our honour sleeps.' ELEGY. I Tie old keep groans ; the bell in nraiSed tolls Eaonis out its throe ; The royal standard droops its silken folds And flaps in woe. Britannia mourns, nor vrill be comforted, For children slain By Indian fiend ; not those who bowM the head On battle plain, Bat for die mighty mnrder'd in his chains, And smiling babe, And hoary head, the mother in her pains Died with a stab. Her enemies rejoice, and cry in scorn, ' Where's now thy power, Thou boasted empress of eternal mom ? Shame is thy dower ; The brightest gem that deckd thy diadem Is tamish'd now, Ej him who knelt and kiss'd thy garment's hen:. How fall'n ' how low .* Hall ■ be thou silent; harp ! for ever still ; Be hush'd, sweet song ! And thou, hoarse drum and trumpet, cease to thrill The martial throng. Soldier ! tread softly on thy measured way ; And thou, wild steed, Greet not thy master with thy grateful neigh, Bat hang thy head. Fond father ! hide thy blushes for hex shame, Sweet Innocence ! And, brother : hush ; not in a whisper name The foul offence ; Speak but in vengeance with the ready sword, That ne'er did fail In retribution, when the Almighty heard A nation's waiL 150 EMBARKATION HYMN. EMBARKATION HYMN. Time, 1857. Air — ' Hymn to Cynthia.' Ben Jonson. Soldier ! England's hope and stay, War has waked the world once more,. On — she bids thee to the fray Upon a foreign shore. Soldier ! to the battle press ; God will shield, and God will bless. Soldier ! stay thine onward tread, Listen to a nation's prayer, ' May the God of battle speed And help to do and dare !' Soldier ! to the battle press ; God will shield, and God will bless. Soldier ! under God, to thee England owes her deathless fame ; On, thou son of victory, And still exalt her name. Soldier ! to the battle press ; God will shield, and God will bless. Soldier ! guardian, truest friend ! Home and hearth thou keepest free > Young and old their praises blend In homage unto thee. Soldier ! to the battle press ; God will shield, and God will bless. THE RETURN. I ^ I THE RETURN. Time, i860. Air — ■ Hymn to Cynthia.' ' England ! on thy sacred sod Victory's golden wreath we fling ; Gift from the Almighty God, We but the treasure bring. England ! to the fight we press'd ; God hath shielded, God hath bless'd. England ! God hath heard thy vow — Heard and answered all thy pray'r; Wounded, worn, and weary now, We come to claim thy care. England ! to the fight we press'd ; God hath shielded, God hath bless'd.' ' Soldier ! challenged to our vow ! Bounty claim'd as a desert ! Suppliants should lowly bow, Nor dare their right assert Shielded in the bloody strife, Thankful be — hast thou not life ? Soldier ! this time go thy ways ; Thanks we give, for thou art brave ; God will cheer thy latter days, And England dig thy grave. Call on God in thy distress ; God will care for — God will bless.' 152 ENGLAND'S HYMN; ENGLAND'S HYMN* ON THE DAY OF THANKSGIVING AFTER THE MUTINY. Air — Hymns Ancient and Modern, No. 80. A day to thank Thee, Lord, we hail ; The Mutiny's suppress'd ; Lowly before thy throne we kneel With gratitude oppress'd, For battles fought and towns subdued, For provinces restored : Not us ; it was the soldier hew'd The Sepoy with the sword. The golden rivers of the East Again set to our shore, And with their riches Thou hast blest Thy people more and more. When ruin stared us in the face We knelt before thy throne — Not ours, the soldier's the disgrace — He blew them from the gun. Thou raisest men to do thy will, And conquer for a time ; To hack, and hew, and slay, and kill, And yet it is a crime. * 'O God of battle, steel our soldiers' hearts.' This prayer (illustrated) appeared in 1857 in one of our leading weekly papers, and was responded to by almost every heart. ' During the first debate at the Union Society, in rhy first term, an orator wound up with these words : ' ' When the rebellion has been crashed out from the Himalays to Comorin ; when every gibbet is red with blood ; when every bayonet creaks beneath its ghastly burden ; when the ground in front of every cannon is strewed with rags and flesh and shattered bone — then tails of mercy. Then you may find some to listen. This is not the time." ' G. O. Trevelyan. Such was the feeling in England— such the sentiments breathed into our soldiers' ears on embarkation. After the mutiny, England not only accused the soldier of cruelty, but, as if to propitiate the Almighty for her wicked prayers, literally consigned the veteran to poverty by taking from him the privilege of reengaging, so as to win a few pence a day for his old age. THE VETERAN S PRAYER. 153 Visit not us, Lord ! spare our trade ; By us it was not done : Lord, see the soldier's reeking blade — He blew them from the gun. Have mercy, Lord, in mercy spare ; Mercy we claim from Thee ; A peaceful trading people hear, And bless our industry. Spare us ; but let thy fury burst (Though we did urge them on) Upon the soldiery who first Blew Sepoys from the gun. Behold ! wire not red-handed, Lord, And in our zeal for heaven, The soldier from his plenteous board To poverty we've driven — A witness of our earnest zeal. O God, thy will be done ! Tlwu gaVst the zeal that fired his steel, He blew them from the gun. THE VETERAN'S PRAYER. -Great God ! Thou cover*dst me as with a shield, When iron hail Stream'd round my head in breach and battle-field ; Thou ne'er didst fail To help me when I called upon thy name In peril's post, When, thrice outnumb'ring, foemen trooping came, And all seem'd lost 154 BRITANNIA REBUKED BY FAME. Hear now an old man's prayer : let thy face shine On these dim eyes ; Sweeten want's bitter cup ; make my cause thine ; Nor let my sighs And tears come up to Thee in vain ; thy throne Is mercy's seat, And Justice reigns with mercy. Thou alone, O God, art great. ' Do justly and love mercy.' This decree Doth England scorn, And laugh at these frail limbs, this poverty, These vestments worn To rags. Judge Thou, O God ! the poor man's cause ; The poor are thine ; Especially the aged, whom the laws To poverty consign. ' Who giveth to the poor lends, Lord, to Thee.' Teach England this ; Prompted with cent per cent of gain, may she But know the bliss Of giving ! O, convince her it would pay !• Her sordid soul Would then give, give, and gush itself away. Gain is her goal. BRITANNIA REBUKED BY FAME. Air—' The Highland garb.' Flush'd with the news of victory, Of provinces re-won, Of deeds which ancient chivalry Had never dared or done ; England's confession and hypocrisy. 155 Touch'd with the momentary sting, That conscience oft had given, Britannia knelt, prepared to sing Her hymn of praise to Heaven. Fame touch'd her lip — ' Leave, hypocrite, Thy gift, and go thy way ; First recompense the men who fight, And then return to pray. Who won the Sutledge and the Scinde To deck thy diadem ? And who gave back the farthest Ind ? Hast thou requited them ? Requited ! yes, with poverty — Thy wealth is in their need ; Thy love — their tatter'd misery ; Thy scorn — the hoary head. Mock thou no more — leave, hypocrite, Thy gift, and go thy way ; First recompense the men who fight, And then return to pray.' ENGLAND'S CONFESSION AND HYPOCRISY. Time, 1857. Air — 'Alley Croker." England distress'd Her sins confess'd In sackcloth and in ashes, Nor raised a hand To ward the brand, But kissed its flaming lashes. J56 England's confession and hypocrisy. As she would read — ' I've found, instead Of judgment, but oppression ; Ingratitude For patriot blood, For righteousness transgression ; And the soldier, the weary worn-out soldier, Is left to die In misery, The true and faithful soldier. O, we have sinn'd ! O, we have sinn'd ! O, miserable nation ! Behold our tears, Our cries, our fears ; Lord, hear our supplication ! Let not the foe Work on us woe, Nor his red sword come near us ; O, once more hear A nation's pray'r ; Behold, O God ! and hear us. And the soldier, the weary worn-out soldier, Shall pass his days In thanks and praise, And we will bless the soldier.' The prayer was heard ; God's lifted sword Fell on the foe unnumber'd. But soon the prayer Begot in fear By no man is remember'd. One day all ranks Devote to thanks IS THERE A CHIEF ? As fleeting as their sorrow ; They close their eyes In sleep, and rise All hypocrites to-morrow. And the soldier, the weary worn-out soldier, Still, still may die In misery, The true and faithful soldier. IS THERE A CHIEF ? Air — ' In Lancashire there lived a man.' Is there a chief to represent The soldier in ouj Parliament ? Is there one medall'd man to fling The gauntlet in the senate ring ? Each wears a shackle on his tongue, And votes for party, right or wrong. Cliorus. Or right or wrong, or right or wrong, And votes for party, right or wrong. Sir Prudence ever looks ahead, And weighs his vote before 'tis said ; An independent member, he Thinks Malta 'd suit him to a T. He's not the medall'd man to fling The gauntlet in the senate ring. Chorus. The senate ring, &c. The bold Sir Lacey topp'd his peers, When riding on his soldiers' cheers ; Yet even he forgets their cause, So sweet is popular applause. He's not the man to represent The soldier in our Parliament. Cliorus. Our Parliament, &c. 158 THE RED AND BLUE. Sir Placeless, laughing in his sleeve, A question asks, a make-believe ; 'Tis answer'd as the question giv'n — Mocking the soldier, mocking Heav'n. This mockery will no chief resent, Though he offend the Parliament ? Chorus. The Parliament, &c. With ' independence' on their lip, They bare their shoulders to the Whip, And as they wince beneath the thong, Vote for their party, right or wrong. Stay, stay, my Muse, the gallant North And Barttelot are men of worth. Both chieftains they, to represent The soldier in our Parliament. THE RED AND BLUE. Air — ■ Tom of Bedlam.' O, welcome an honest red coat, And hand in hand welcome a blue one ; Whatever the stuff, why, the colour's enough To show that the heart is a true one. O, honesty's rare when the pocket is bare — So rare, that to wealth 'tis a fiction ; But the red and the blue to their salt are so true, They give to the lie contradiction. In war maid and mother cry, ' Help !' And hoary heads join the commotion ; Yet how many shirk the real bloody work, And selfishly pay their ' devotion' ! O, devotion is rare when life's in the ' dare' — So rare, that to wealth 'tis a fiction ; But the red and the blue to their salt are so true, They give to the lie contradiction. . THROW WIDE THE GATE. 159 Their duty to them is their all; No question is ask'd when commanded ; In trench, on the deck, it is little they reck, Though foemen come on double-handed. O, duty's so rare when life's in the ' dare' — So rare, that to wealth 'tis a fiction ; But the red and the blue to their salt are so true, They give to the He contradiction. TO-MORROW. Go to ! to-morrow? 'tis the bane of life ; To-morrow cheats the soldier of the strife ; Win fame to-morrow ? — rather grasp it now ; Who hugs to-morrow fears to meet the foe. Fight them to-morrow, with three hours of sun ? To-morrow never yet the battle won : To-morrow fight ! the soldier's time is now; He knows no morrow when he sees the foe. THROW WIDE THE GATE. Air—' The Red Cross Knight." Throw wide the gate, the table spread, For our hardy soldiers come ; They have fought and bled in a foreign land, That we may have peace at home. Then give the best of British cheer, For victory's flag waves high ; And we shall sing and the bells shall ring, And the feast eat merrily. 160 THE COWARDLY COMRADE. Let every sire and son attend Who's proud of Britain's name ; For our soldiers stand first on history's page,. Time cannot dim their fame. Then give the best of British cheer, For victory's flag waves high ; And we will sing and the bells shall ring, And the feast eat merrily. And come, ye fair ones, grace the dance ; For the hand you then will take Has grappled with the foe on the battle-plain,. For yours and your country's sake. And give, O give your sweetest smile, 'Twill make their hearts beat high ; And we will sing and the bells shall ring, And the feast eat merrily. THE COWARDLY COMRADE. Air — 'Good-morrow, fair maid.' When I and my comrade First started in life, He vow'd he'd stick by me As husband to wife ; To warn me of danger In front he would ride, Would shield me in battle, Or die by my side. With friend so true-hearted, Could I know dismay ? Though dangers had thicken'd, Could I turn away? I march'd to the conflict Secure in my pride, Secure in my comrade To warn and to guide. THE FORTY-THIRD LIGHT INFANTRY. l6l The first fierce encounter I stood all alone ; I look'd for my comrade, My comrade was gone ; But when I lay bleeding, Defeated, he came And tore my wounds open, Then wrapp'd them in shame. Thus ever a coward My conscience would prove, Though boasting of courage, Affection, and love ; Temptations may seize me, He heeds not my call, But comes with upbraidings Whenever I fall. O Conscience, what art thou, To promise thine aid When dangers are distant, When near, thou hast fled ! Go, leave me, thou false one, Thou treacherous friend, Or, faithful and fearless, Fight on to the end. THE FORTY-THIRD, OR MONMOUTHSHIRE, LIGHT INFANTRY. Air — ' Tullochgorum. ' With peace proclaim'd, the God of War Descended in his fiery car, And call'd the nations from afar To take the wreath of glory. 162 THE FORTY-THIRD LIGHT INFANTRY. France, boasting, claim'd the golden prize ; Said she won it, Bravely won it. ' No, no,' the frowning god replies, ' A blot is on thy story ; For often, like the frighten'd deer, Hast thou fled from the Briton's spear ; While his brave bosom knew no fear, Nor shunn'd the bed that's gory. The trump of Fame is louder heard For the gallant British Forty-third Than any corps that France has rear'd To grace her martial story. As light troops, they unrivall'd stand, Fierce and daring, Never caring, Among the brave the bravest band, Whose path is ever gory. To Britain I the prize award, And name the Forty- third its guard ; The post of honour's their reward, Their claim to future glory.' We'll guard it, boys ; and when the sound Of bugle wakes the battle-ground, Again each ardent heart will bound, To add to England's glory ; As wont, we'll march in proud array, First and foremost, First and foremost, Right on we'll march, and who shall say We shun the bed that's gory ? We own him not who would not fight For England's cause, for England's right — Who would not perish, that he might Long live in song and story. OUR XAFIERS. 163 OUR NAPIERS. Aia — 'Abraham Kewland.' O, the name of Xapier To Britannia is dear, For much has it done for her glory, In logarithms and figures, And bay'nets and triggers, And many a Tyrtsean story ! The deathless Peninsular story : When ten ages hence shall be hoary, Men will turn to the page Of the soldier and sage, And tell of the days of our glory. As laconic as brave, Wrote Charles on his glaive, ' T have Scitidi—vhat a noble confession ! British Lion, whose might Bore down all in the fight, Calm wisdom his rule in possession ; Forgiving the Ameers' transgression, If they but made his own confession ; Thus he temper'd the brand That he held in his hand — Example to all the profession. O, the great Xapier name Is so courted by Fame, That a niche higher still has she made it : Bold Robert has won Both a kingdom and crown, Without a man's life to o'ershade it. Unparallerd game — well he play*d it ! War, baffled, cried, 'Fortune betray'd it ;' But 'tis soldierly pluck That brings Britain her luck When talented chieftains shall aid it 164 THE HARVEST HOME. THE HARVEST HOME. Air — 'There's nae luck about the house.' The farmer through the winter toils, And sows his seed in spring, The summers yield their grassy spoils, And sheaves the autumns bring ; ' And Heaven has bless'd my store,' he cries ; ' Come one, come all, there's room ; Who labours 'neath the sunny skies Shall share my harvest home. I've killed the firstling of the fold, The fatted calf for you ; The ale is just a twelvemonth old, The cakes are fresh and new. So feast right merrily,' he cries ; ' Come, wife and maiden, come ; Who labours 'neath the sunny skies Shall share my harvest home.' Example to his country, thus The grateful farmer stands ; She, comrade, conquers all by us, Yet gives no feast nor lands. And ' Heaven has bless'd my store,' she cries, And lifts her canting prayer ; But 'tis a mocking sacrifice, And not recorded there. Soldier ! no harvest homes for him, For him no votive feast ; Though glory's cup be to the brim, And England's wealth increased. And ' Heaven has bless'd my store,' she cries, And lifts her canting prayer ; But 'tis a mocking sacrifice, And not recorded there. THE SOLDIER'S DEFAULTER-SHEET. 1 6=; HOLY BIBLE. Holy Bible ! mother's gift, When my early home I left ; Fairer books have met my view, None like thee so fresh and new. Holy Bible ! in thy page Weary souls their thirst assuage. Comrade, drink ! 'twill clear thy view; Drink ! the draught is fresh and new. When I pace my measured round, When the battle shakes the ground, Thou, my soul, its theme pursue, Ever cheering, fresh, and new. Holy Bible ! mother's gift, Only relic of her left, Scenes thou bringest to my view, Past and future, fresh and new. Fresh and new, and never old ; Fresh and new, how often told ! Sweet and pure as morning dew, Thou art ever fresh and new. THE SOLDIER'S DEFAULTER-SHEET HIS PASSPORT TO HEAVEN. Air — 'The midges dance above the bum.' Before the Keeper of the keys A sage-like Spirit stood, Claiming admittance ; for his ways On earth, he said, were good. 1 66 the soldier's defaulter-sheet. ' Stand back, thou canst not enter here,' Sternly the Saint replied ; ' For marks upon thy robe appear Of intellectual pride.' Abash'd he turn'd ; and then a priest, Bold-fronted, would have pass'd ; ' Nor thou,' said Peter ; ' here, at least, Know that the first are last. Down, sophist, to the nether deep ; For on thy garb I see The desolate, the widow weep, Uncared, unsought by thee.' Before the Saint a soldier stood, As next upon the roll ; His march on earth had not been good, Nor knew he the parole ; And yet his helm of hope shone bright, His uniform was new ; ' To pass,' said he, ' I have no right ; But you can let me through.' Saint Peter, smiling, tum'd the key, And said, ' Thou enter ? go ! For on thy uniform I see For every crime its throe ; I see thy long defaulter-sheet — A record none has given — With penalties all paid ; 'tis meet The soldier be in heaven.' THE SOLDIER ALL HIS OWN AGAIN. 167 THOUGH YOU ARE POOR, DON'T SHOW IT. Air— ' Cauld kale in Aberdeen.' March, comrade, with your head erect, A man for men to look at ; And let them in your tread detect A guinea in your pocket. A guinea in your pocket, lad, A guinea in your pocket ; Look up, and let your eye reflect A guinea in your pocket And though there be no guinea there, What matter ? who's to know it ? March proudly, keep your shoulders square ; And though you're poor, don't show it. And though you're poor, don't show it, lad, And though you're poor, don't show it ; Step out and keep your shoulders square, And though you're poor, don't show it. THE SOLDIER ALL HIS OWN AGAIN. Air — ' The King shall enjoy his own again.' Jacobite Song. The learned may prognosticate Concerning kings' and kingdoms' fate ; But fools can see with half an eye When kings and states alike shall die — The king when he's old, The kingdom when gold Is prized more than valour of men. If England's to live, Then back she must give To the soldier all his own again. 1 68 THE SOLDIER ALL HIS OWN AGAIN. Fitzroy, without the starry aid, Knew when the storm was finished In Borean forge, and on the mast He signall'd of the coming blast. As surely as he Could troubled winds see, So surely, ye godless in gain, If England's to live, Then back she must give To the soldier all his own again. Before the soldier's sent to fight, He's taught to know the bullet's flight, To study that great mystery, The unchanging law of gravity. As surely as he Can its effects see, So surely, ye godless in gain, If England's to live, Then back she must give To the soldier all his own again. In England Justice held her scales, Till Peace, behind her cotton bales, Stretch'd forth her hand and smote the dame ; Blinded by power she sees no shame. As surely as we Her infamy see, So surely, ye godless in gain, If England's to live, Then back she must give To the soldier all his own again. THE CAPTAIN OF GOD'S HOST. 1 69 THE VETERAN VISITING HIS CORPS. Air — ' Miss Forbes' Farewell.' My own old flag, why droop in shame ? Is this a welcome to thy son, Who oft has cheer'd thee on to fame, And shouted when the fight was won ? Droop not for me thy silken fold ; These tatter'd garments but reveal How much more England values gold Than she regards her veteran's weal ; Whose foot ne'er falter'd in the strife, Whose arm ne'er fail'd her in the throng, Who spared the yielding foeman's life, And helpless woman saved from wrong. O, let me see thee floating free, As in my manhood's pride and prime, Nor droop in shame ; my poverty Is not mine own, but England's crime. There, there ! my old heart proudly swells To see thee on the breeze once more ; It wakens scenes where memory dwells, On battle-field and sunny shore. With thee again I'd meet the throng, Beneath thy folds the wine-cup fill, And banish from my heart the wrong, And fight for England's glory still. THE CAPTAIN OF GOD'S HOST.* All Israel stood array'd, when, lo, An angel spake, and said, ' The foe Shall bow to all who dare and do ; With you I go as captain of God's host, In His great name we boast. * Joshua v. 13. ■7° COME, SOLDIERS, BE JOLLY. Turn not to left or right, but on In the Almighty's might as one, Renown then win and glory's crown. To flee shall be contempt and scorn and shame Heap'd on his father's name.' England but gives her nod, and so With one short prayer to God we go, And know in His right hand's the throw ; The fall* to all He gives in war's red game Who call upon His name. COME, SOLDIERS, BE JOLLY. Air—' The Stable Call.' Come, soldiers, be jolly, And scare melancholy ; Be it wisdom or folly, we follow the times ; Be it wisdom or folly, we follow the times ; Be it wisdom or folly, we follow the times ; At aldermen's dinners Saints gather with sinners, And feasting and fuddling are scouted as crimes. Our own and Rome's bishops Are fond of such dish-ups, And sages and senators scout them as crimes ; And sages and senators scout them as crimes ; And sages and senators scout them as crimes. So we will be jolly, And scare melancholy ; For where are the men who are not so at times ? * In wrestling, the ' fall' is claimed by the victor. PHILOSOPHERS, PHILOSOPHERS ! 171 A truce to all thinking, So let us be drinking ; No matter if mountain-dew, ale, or sweet wines ; No matter if mountain-dew, ale, or sweet wines ; No matter if mountain-dew, ale, or sweet wines ; For we will be jolly, And scare melancholy ; Be it wisdom or folly, we follow divines. PHILOSOPHERS, PHILOSOPHERS ! Air — 'Alley Croker.' Philosophers, Philosophers ! And all who spend your leisure In reading books In quiet nooks, For profit or for pleasure ; What noble themes, What happy dreams, What castles built on bubbles, Are yours to cheer, To banish care, The world and all its troubles ! O, Philosophers ! say, is it wise, Philosophers, So to condemn, So to contemn Unletter'd men, Philosophers ? Did ancient sire Of yours retire From winter evening's dreariness, And find in books And quiet nooks A solace in his weariness ? I7 2 PHILOSOPHERS, PHILOSOPHERS ! No books had he To wile away The loneliness of leisure ; So now among The jolly throng, And now in wine sought pleasure. O, Philosophers, and found it too, Philosophers ! As soldiers now So often do, Not bless'd like you, Philosophers ! O'er leisure's hour You have a power, Denied to the unthinking ; A higher gift The soul to lift Above the joys of drinking. Yet as you find You cannot bind The masses to your measures, The soldiers feel Your iron heel, To crush out their rude pleasures. O, Philosophers ! say, is it wise, Philosophers ? Beyond to-day What thought have they ? This hour's their all, Philosophers ! 'Tis Bible true, Shown forth in you, Man's tyrant o'er his fellow ; The soldier now Is fined 'by you, hxiA punisN d if he's mellow. In savage climes The greatest crimes WHAT, SOLDIERS NEVER WISH TO DIE? I 73 Are compromised ; but never Did savage men With iron pen Blot man's good name for ever,* O, Philosophers ! as you do now, Philosophers ! Beyond to-day What thought have they ? This hour's their all, Philosophers ! WHAT, SOLDIERS NEVER WISH TO DIE?t Air — ' O, 'tis not on the battle-field.' What, soldiers never wish to die Upon the battle-field, But on a couch of down to lie, And there their spirits yield ? A soldier ask no laurel wreath To twine his humble name ? No deed in battle seal'd by death To wake the trump of fame ? Did Abercrombie wish to die, Save on the hostile heath ? Did Wolfe, or Moore, or Picton sigh, When grappling there with death ? Would Shaw the humble Guardsman's name On fame's bright page appear, Had he a spirit breath'd so tame As shunn'd a gory bier ? * Every trifling offence committed by the soldier and every punishment inflicted is recorded against him, and the amount of his pension, for length of service, is decided by that record. Thus the soldier is the only man in the community who is made to suffer, by law, in decrepitude and age, for the errors of his youth, although they militate neither against religion, mo- rality, or the rules of refined society. -f Written in reply to ' O, 'tis not on the battle-field. ' 174 THE RIFLE-PITS. No ! soldiers hail the hostile heath With joy, without a gloom ; For deeds in battle seal'd by death They know will brighter bloom. When those who're living now are gone, And others up have sprung, The soldier knows by sire and son His praises will be sung. THE RIFLE-PITS. Air — ' Hearts of oak.' The trench advanced slowly through rock and through clay, While the guns from the ramparts kept blazing away ; The game was against us ; so just to be quits, A dozen stout hearts volunteer'd for the 'pits.' We chose our own comrades ; So Notley and I, To the wild serenade, March'd with pickaxe and spade, And of good ammunition a double supply. We pare off the sod as a top for our ramp ;* In silence we shovel, in silence we tramp ; Leave a nick like a back-sight, through which we may aim, Taking care it is train'd on the cannons' red flame. And thus in the darkness Joe Notley and I, To the wild serenade, Work'd with pickaxe and spade, And wished for the morning our rifles to try. * Soldiers' contraction for rampart. OUR COUNTRY, MY COMRADES. We place the sod sloping the grass to the sky, The green, 'gainst the green field, deceiving the eye ; Make a rest in the nick for the rifle, that so Our shot may be truer to bring down the foe. We cheer'd as we finish'd, Joe Notley and I, Shook hands — gave another ; Look'd up — gave another ; And swore on our rifles, ' We'll never say die.' Right into a 'brasure we looked from each pit ; Click ! click ! half a dozen stout gunners are hit ; Click ! click ! half a dozen again, till not one Of all their stout gunners would stand to his gun. We gave them three cheers, But no cheer in reply; Cries Notley, ' Another ! Cheer, cheer, boys, another ! 'Tis Britons who win ; for they never say die !' OUR COUNTRY, MY COMRADES. Air — ' My lodging is on the cold ground.' Our country, my comrades, we'll never forget, Nor the crown we have sworn to defend, And now on the brow of fair woman 'tis set, For her the last throb we will spend. Each heart as a rampart, each arm in its power Will draw the bright sword from its sheath, To defend from her foes our loved Royal Flower, And smite every traitor with death. When a king sways the sceptre, our duty we owe To him, as our sov'reign and sire ; But in woman's a charm that makes ev'ry heart glow With a flame that can never expire. 176 THE BILL, THE BOW, AND THE RIFLE. May Victoria be happy, and over our isles The olive, sweet emblem, repose ! No faction can rise when Victoria smiles, And we will defend her from foes. EPIGRAM. Why the Tenth Legion Caesar loved ? Go, ask at C — U's door ; Mid war-decrees he sits kid-gloved, The mighty of the hour. Chief of an army — gods and grief ! To never hear before, That love 'twixt soldiers and their chief Forms that esprit de corps Which he is stamping out of life, By loosening the tie That wins the soldier to the strife, To dare, though 'tis to die. THE BILL, THE BOW, AND THE RIFLE. Air — ' Alley Croker.' Our third King Ned To battle led His billmen and his bowmen ; The clothyards flew Right through and through, Before them stand could no men. The bows ring out Their battle shout; In dash the billmen slashing, Now right, now left, Now helms are cleft, Now cloven heads go crashing. THE BILL, THE BOW, AND THE RIFLE. 1 77 O, the bowmen, the billmen, and the bowmen ! All Europe cried, ' They're manhood's pride, These English bill- and bowmen.' With Hal the Fifth They proved their pith, With him they live in story ; For, as of yore, At Agincourt Theirs is old England's glory ; And lord and squire, And knight of shire, The burgess and the yeoman, Would bare the brow In homage to The billmen and the bowmen. O, the bowmen, the billmen, and the bowmen ! All Europe cried, ' They're manhood's pride, These English bill- and bowmen.' Though bill and bow Are ousted now By rifle and by bay'net, The heart's the same, And in war's game 'Tis manhood that will gain it. Some win by luck, But British pluck Has ever march'd to glory ; And gallant men At Inkerman With rifles wrote their story. O, that story ! that day of deathless glory ! Fame's brightest page ! Yes, age to age Shall, wond'ring, tell that story. 178 UNTO THE LAST. AWAKE, AWAKE! Awake, awake ! the sun when setting In ling'ring sadness left this hill ; And now he shines, as if regretting That we, outnumber'd, linger still. The foe comes on ; but Britons ne'er Confronted foe with eye of fear ; Their freeborn souls alike disdain The fear of death and tyrant's chain. Then let each heart with hope be lighted, Victory yet may crown our arms ; 'Tis but when freedom's cause is blighted, That life, so sweet, can lose its charms. The foe comes on ; but Britons ne'er Confronted foe with eye of fear ; Their freeborn souls alike disdain The fear of death and tyrant's chain. UNTO THE LAST. Air — ' The Captive Huntsman.' ' Unto the last !' the Senate shouts ; ' Unto the last !' cry rabble routs ; And cotton lords still louder cry, ' For trade we'll fight, for trade we'll die.' The shopman from behind his till, ' Unto the last !' cries with a will ; And merchants chime, ' Unto the last, And nail the colours to the mast.' MY DUTY I HAVE DONE. 1 79 The politician seeks for ' place,' Depending on the traders' grace ; In their decree his lot is cast : He lives enslaved unto the last These heroes over beer and wine, These worshippers at Mammon's shrine, The veteran leave to want's rude blast, And heap their scorn unto the last. MY DUTY I HAVE DONE. Air — 'The Maid's Complaint.' The burning, bitter, taunting thought, That ever will intrude, And ask, ' Is this for what you fought ? This England's gratitude ?' Is't thus the soldier she repays, For marching with a power, To trample upon dynasties, Each one to her a dower ? Richer by far than mines of gold, Dowers that commerce brings ; And all those energies unfold, From whence that glory springs ? And is it thus that she repays The men who serve her well ? To let Age linger out his days In lonely garret cell ? Once honour'd most, now most despised, Neglected and unknown ; Yet this the thought most dearly prized, ' My duty I have done.' J 80 THE PLAGUE OF EDUCATION. THE PLAGUE OF EDUCATION. Air—' The girl I left behind me.' What murrain, comrade, 's o'er us now ? The plague of education ; And jobbing pedants swear and vow They'll aid its propagation. It runs and spreads, and, mark it well, The pest is sentimental ; The learned blow, the bubbles swell, And then it grows regimental. The bearded soldier must be taught His ABC, and summing, By classic men, who scorn the thought Of dog-ear'd leaves and thumbing. The wily chaplain gives it wings, To make it spread the faster ; And ' education' loudly sings, Yet leaves it to the master. He's far too proud to train the mind, To fit the soul for glory ; So leaves Sir Classic, if inclined, To tell the heavenly story. The only way to stay the pest — A certain disinfector — Would be to make each martial priest A daily school inspector. RETURNED FROM WAR. l8l RETURNED FROM WAR. Air — ' Alley Croker.' Return'd from war, With many a scar, Three soldiers met together; A Catholic one, A Churchman one, A Wesleyan the other. Says he of Rome, ' I'm quite at home With Churchman and Dissenter, Nor ask them why They do not try The same way heaven to enter.' O, the soldier, the tried, true-hearted soldier, Talks not of creeds ; But drinks or bleeds With every comrade soldier. The Churchman said, ' Though I was bred To think all Rome in error, Yet friendship rests In their brave breasts Without a shade of terror. Yes, /have found It so abound, So pure, so bright, so sparkling, A beauteous ray Of gladsome day When clouds of life were darkling.' O, the soldier, the tried, true-hearted soldier, Talks not of creeds ; But drinks or bleeds With every comrade soldier. MORAL COMMAND. The We'sleyan said, ' And I have bled With Churchman and with Roman, And ever knew Them friends and true, And always beat the foemen ; And when the brave Sink to the grave, Their spirits, bright and sparkling, In fonder love Shall meet above, Where nothing round is darkling.' O, the soldier, the tried, true-hearted soldier, Talks not of creeds ; But drinks or bleeds With every comrade soldier. MORAL COMMAND. Air — ' Lillibulero.' When moral command is the rule of a corps, Moral courage is wanting we are very well sure ; 'Tis the devil's own text, this same moral command, To palsy the power of discipline's hand. Of discipline's hand, of discipline's hand, &c. When rough men are gather'd in cloister or coips, The thoughtless and reckless are push'd to the fore By those cunning scorners of moral command, And all just to paralyse discipline's hand. Discipline's hand, &c. The ' reasoning' monk was the first one to stray ; Nor would he have trod in the libertine's way, Had his house been govem'd by discipline's hand, And not by the driveller's moral command. Moral command, boys, moral command ; And not by the driveller's moral command. THE GRAVE OF HOPE. 1 83 The lawyer's black leaven through regiments will run, Till orders are question'd before they are done ; Disaffection's engender'd by moral command, Which withers the power of discipline's hand. Discipline's hand, &c. When moral command is the rule of a corps, Moral courage is wanting we are very well sure ; Wise chieftains all govern by discipline's hand, Whilst foolish ones fail in their moral command. Moral command, &c THE GRAVE OF HOPE. Air — ' Lillibulero. The storm-cloud is rising; now meet it like men, Keep together, and one is a match e'en for ten ; Only cowards, desponding, will stand still and mope, And see in the storm-cloud the grave of their hope. The grave of their hope, O, the grave of their hope, And see in the storm-cloud the grave of their hope. With colours still flying was hope ever lost ? Shall soldiers, with sword in hand, count on the cost ? No, none but the fool when he's aught with to cope, Flings his colours away on the grave of his hope. The grave, &c. Don't march to meet trouble as though 'twere the foe, A craven heart is but a knapsack of woe ; Be brave ! spum the load ! scorn those cowards who mope, And with their own hands dig the grave of their hope. The grave, &c. 184 TRUE GLORY. 'Tis the heart in the battle that strengthens the hand ; Though few dare the odds, it is Duty's command ; Through the cloud in her path e'en the truest must grope, But the cloud in her pathway is gilded by Hope : Yes, gilded by Hope, yes, gilded by Hope, The cloud in her pathway is gilded by Hope. TRUE GLORY. Air — ' Hymn to Cynthia.' Soldier ! onward be thy tread, / am with the stout of heart ; T the conquering Joshua led, To do the hero's part. Shout ! defy ! an angel 's near, Noting every battle-cheer. / the God of battle am ; / the sword of Gideon drew, Cloth'd the Midianite with shame, And Syrian overthrew. Shout My name ! an angel 's near, Noting every battle-cheer. First in deed, in favour first ; First, those patriots who fall ; First, who tyrant's chain shall burst ; These first, not one, but all. Glory is theirs ; and angels cry, ' Theirs is immortality.' Thirst for glory 's given by Me ; Drink the draught the way / give ; Fighting, falling, fearless be, And then thy soul shall live. E'er so faint, thy battle-cry Echoes through eternity. THE RIDING-MASTER. 185 THE RIDING-MASTER. Air— ' The Sheriff Muir.' O, came ye here the ride to see, Or merely speak with me, man ? To see the ride ? Then presently My method you shall see, man. ' March !' ' Leading file, circle right !' ' Trot !' Jones, your inward rein's too tight ; Just bring the inward eye in sight, And ease the rein, And feel't again ; Support them with the leg, and then Your horses will go free, men. ' Go large !' Now make the corners square. ' Halt !' 'Fore you farther go, men, Take my advice, just say a prayer, Or mind well what you do, men. ' March !' Mind your necks ; bring me the whip ; ' Halt !' Down already, Jacob Trip ? You ride more like a helpless snip Than a dragoon ; You're down so soon, And grin and stare, like a baboon That's caged up in a show, man. ' March !' ' Trot !' — together, front and rear ; Your distance ' down the centre ;' You'd make a parson curse and swear ; I'll make you mind me ! ' Canter !' Your necks again ; ' Increase your pace !' Roughs, at the corners take your place, And help them in this wild-goose chase ; Don't spare the whip, And if they trip, They'll only go head-over-tip ; 'Tis work for Doctor Banter. 1 86 THE FRENCH TREATY. ' Canter short !' I'll make you ride, Or know the reason why, men ; Your riding now has proved to me That first you did not try, men. Press in the loins, swell out the chest, Turn in the toes, turn out the wrist, And never let your horses rest ; But ease the rein, And feel't again ; Nor roughly ply the heel, or then You're sure to make them shy, men. 'Walk !' 'Walk out !' no distance lost. Smith, mind what you're about, man ! You're surely stupid as a post ; You've thrown the rear files out, man. ' Halt !' bend your horses ; sit at ease. Say, does my mode of drilling please ? Or is it sharp for such as these ? For my own part, It grieves my heart, Should ever a recruit get hurt ; But many this will scout, man. THE FRENCH TREATY. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' Mr. Speaker and gentlemen, why should we fear ? Would France break a treaty we've paid for so dear ? We've purchased her good-will, and would pay much more To keep the fierce Zouave away from our shore. The Opposition, in chorus. What ! Britons pay tribute ? The lords of the sea Pay gold to the Gaul ? and for what — to be free ! O, shade of great Chatham, rise up and behold The sword of the Gaul turn'd from Britain by gold ! we'll meet the loved one again. 187 The coals of our children ? Pshaw ! sell them to France, 'Twill dull their sharp sabre and ba/net and lance ; Give gold and live quiet, and work at your trade, Spin cotton, make buttons, and forge the knife-blade. The Opposition, in chorus. Shall Britons pay tribute ? The lords of the sea Bow down to the Gaul, and not dare to be free ? O Chatham and Nelson, awake from your shrine, And weep o'er the first step in Briton's decline ! What though the French Eagle the Channel should sweep ; Though mothers should tremble, and maidens should weep ; Though fathers' lips quiver to think of their shame : What are these, when compared to our trade and our gain ? The Opposition, in chorus. What ! Britons pay tribute, with shame for make-weight ! May mothers' and maidens' love turn into hate ! May the good and the brave and the dead from their graves Come hither to scorn and to brand you as slaves ! WE'LL MEET THE LOVED ONE AGAIN IN HEAVEN. ArR — ' Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff Old comrade, now the campaign's o'er, And Victory smiles within the cup, Give song the rein, and bring once more Those scenes which Memory treasures up. we'll meet the loved one again. Dear Memory, brighter made by song ; Loved song, thy charms to Memory lend, And as the cherish'd thoughts do throng, Let mirth and sorrow sweetly blend. Bring back again those happy hours When I embraced my mother's knee, All garlanded with sweet wild-flowers, That my sweet sister cull'd for me. Bring back the comrades of my youth, Whose ringing laughter still I hear, And she, the girl of trust and truth, Whose image to my soul is dear. That strain again ! O, blissful time ! To live and love the hours away, In hope the joy-bells' merry chime Would usher in our bridal day. They chimed not for my own dear Nell ; To me the joys of life were past ; And in the deep-toned passing-bell The future of my life was cast. Deceived, I found Life still could charm, Though Death intruding oft would .come, And bear with his resistless arm A comrade to an honour'd tomb. Sweet are our sorrows for the lost ; But sweeter far the joy that's given To know, on earth though tempest-toss'd, We'll meet the loved again in heaven. there's pleasure round the social board. 189 GOD OF THE SOLDIER : PRAYER. AlR — Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, No. iii. book 2. God of the soldier, hear us, Lord : they come ! Hear now our prayer, while yet the lip is dumb ; Each right arm strengthen, brace the feeble knee, And make each heart, O God, be brave in Thee. God, how they thicken — shouting as they come ! The trampling steed, the leaden iron hum ; How helms are crashing ! how steel rings on steel ! God, give Thine aid, make us Thy presence feel ! God of the soldier, whence shall succour come, But from Thy mighty arm, whose frown can doom The many to defeat and death and shame ? God of my country, 'stablish Thou her fame ! God of the soldier ! ' Comrades, onward tread ; The mighty God hath bow'd the foeman's head ; Though few, we triumph ; they, the many, flee :' Great God of armies, be all praise to Thee ! THERE'S PLEASURE ROUND THE SOCIAL BOARD. Air — ' Bright chanticleer proclaims the dawn.' There's pleasure round the social board, When crown'd with sparkling wine ; But these how cold when lance and sword On battle-field doth shine ! 190 THERE S PLEASURE ROUND THE SOCIAL BOARD. When piquets gallop in in haste, And foemen we descry, What ardour swells the soldier's breast, What daring lights his eye ! With their sabres flashing, Now forward, now forward they're dashing ; And ardour swells the soldier's breast, And daring lights his eye. The excitements of the hunt surpass By far what wine affords ; But merry hound and sparkling glass Must yield to clashing swords. A Briton's heart for glory burns, He mingles in the fray ; Nor from the battle-field returns Save crown'd with victory. With their sabres flashing, &c. Hark ! ' Forward, forward !' joyous sound, Now gladdens every heart ; The foe is near'd at every bound, And each will do his part. O, who can tell the mighty charm — The brave heart only knows — When man with man, strong arm with arm, Are grappling in the close ! With their sabres clashing, Still forward, still forward they're dashing ; There's naught can check the wild career Of Britons in the close. SIEGE OF BADAJOS. 191 THE NINETY-FIRST (ARGYLESHIRE) REGIMENT : CAMPBELL CLAN. Air — 'The Campbells are comin'.' Chorus. The Campbells are comin', make way, make way; The Campbells are comin', make way, make way; The Campbells are comin', the dread of the foemen ; The Campbells are comin', make way, make way. Like their own native torrents wi' winter rains flush'd, The brave Ninety-first on the Gallic foe rush'd ; They storm'd every mountain-pass, won every glade, And the Pyrenees echo'd the tune that they play'd — 'Twas : The Campbells are comin', &c. Triumphant they cross'd over Neville's wide stream, And the swift Nive reflected their bay'nets' red gleam ; At Orthes, Toulouse, the proud foemen gave way ; But what foe can stand when the merry pipes play — The Campbells are comin', &c. As swift as the mountain flood sweeps through the glen, So swift to the fight rush the Argyleshire men ; The pibroch is sounding ; on, lads ! while ye may ; There's no foe can stand when the merry pipes play — The Campbells are comin', &c. SIEGE OF BADAJOS. Air — ' British Grenadiers.' 'Twas on a gloomy April night, and all around was still, Save stealthy step, and whisper low, and distant murmuring rill; Or when the sentry on the tower that frown'd above the fosse Made known to friend and foe that all was well in Badajos. 192 SIEGE OF BADAJOS. Five thousand Frenchmen crown'd the walls, defiant, though so still, Confiding in their towers and guns and their commanders' skill ; But what avail e'en towers and guns, or all that art can boast, When spirits from the British Isles are the assailing host ? Full eighteen thousand gallant hearts stood round those walls that night, With knapsacks piled and arms all bared for freedom in the fight; On many heads were kerchiefs bound, and many brows were bare, And spirits fierce and dauntless burn'd that they might glory share. The Divisions now, in silence, try their destined posts to reach — The Third the castle wall to scale, the Fourth and Light the breach ; The Fifth 'gainst the Pardalares and San Vincente were led, And General Power's Portuguese attack'd the strong bridge- head. A lighted carcass falling where the third division stood, Show'd their array, and then the fire pour'd on them like a flood; Unheeding all, Rivillas' stream in single files they pass'd, And raised the ladders 'gainst the walls despite the wither- ing blast. Despite the falling rocks and beams, of shot and bursting shell, Of musket peal, of sword and spear, and Frenchman's savage yell; Despite of all that Art could bring — and here her power was strain'd — Despite of death in every shape, the castle wall was gain'd. TRUTH. 193 And San Vincente's high walls were scaled, though thirty feet in height — The French were driven from their guns, though stubborn was the fight ; The breach was taken in 'reverse,' our soldiers raised the cry Of victory, and proudly then our banner waved on high. Meanwhile, in all the pride of war, the breaches were as- sail'dj Beneath that fire any heart but Britons' would have quail'd : The springing mine, the liquid fire, brought death in every form, Yet dauntlessly they waded through the furnace of the * storm.' And though there in that furnace fell two thousand men, as true As ever in the battle-scale their lives for England threw ; The Fourth and Light, untamed and fierce, the battle still waged on, When o'er the din a joyous shout told Badajos was won. The mural crown by Canch* was gain'd, though many a gal- lant name Is writ with golden pen as bright upon the page of Fame ; Old England's sons in all the pride of battle rule the wave, And Badajos has proved, on land, they're bravest of the brave. TRUTH. Air — ' The Field of Bannockburn. When poets sing, their song should teach, As well as when the parsons preach ; And, comrade, now my song shall be Of Truth, which I commend to thee. * Lieutenant in the Fifth. 194 WELL, TOM, MY OLD FELLOW. Who truly thinks, the Truth must tell, And Truth in every deed shall dwell His star of day, with sheen so bright That Folly pales before its light. Cherish Truth as thou dost life, Cherish it most when storms are rife ; For doubly sure will Truth prevail When venom'd slanders shall assail. Truth is the bold determined guide By valour and by honour's side ; Strength'ning courage, bright'ning life, Marching, toiling through the strife. Truth's the stronghold of the heart ; Truth bids manhood do his part ; Sword and shield to soldiers given Polish'd as it comes from heaven. Truth is mirror'd in the sky, Mirror'd in the soul — the eye ; Sparkling there the purest gem Glowing in thought's diadem. WELL, TOM, MY OLD FELLOW. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' Well, Tom, my old fellow, how many days' drill ? How many to barracks for one day of ' swill' ? You're not at your trade now, a-drinking of rum, All Sunday till Tuesday, with pal or with chum. No, no, my old fellow ; the Army's the place Where discipline reaches who kicks o'er the trace ; Where tricksters and dicers, when once they enlist, Soon leam the sharp lesson to grind their own grist. EPITAPH ON LORD HILL. 1 95 You cannot from master or landlord decamp, And pay off your reckoning by going on tramp ; You can't snap your fingers in Discipline's face, And say, ' Get another to work in my place.' The barrack-room teaches, the camp is a school, Where readers, when running, may learn this good rule : That they who are tricksters before they enlist, Are taught the sharp lesson to grind their own grist. EPITAPH ON LORD HILL. O thou who boast'st a Briton's name, Whose breast burns with a patriot flame, Here rest and shed a tear For one who fought in freedom's cause, Who aided to give back her laws — The gallant Hill lies here. Hast thou wept o'er a nation's throes, The widow's, maiden's, orphan's woes ? Then stay — here shed a tear : A heart congenial once with thine Now rests within this hallow'd shrine — The good Lord Hill lies here. Art thou a warrior ? Bow thy head In sorrow o'er the lowly bed Of him who claims thy tear; Nor let thy foot profane his grave, Who lived the bravest of the brave — The gallant Hill lies here. Art thou a Christian warrior, thou Who readest this ? Then lowly bow Thy knee in humble prayer ; That life's campaign like his may end, With heaven thy hope, and Him thy Friend Who makes the good His care. I 96 GENERAL MACKINNON. GENERAL MACKINNON. Air — ' O Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me ?' Return'd from war, with honour crown'd, Mackinnon sought his lady's bower, Where, mid the roses clustering round, His sweet Kate bloom'd a peerless flower. In all the pride of woman's love She pointed to the laurel-trees, And said, ' See how I've deck'd my grove With emblems of thy victories !' ' These tokens of thy pride and love Tell me, my Kate, I'm dear to thee ; But soon, alas, there may be wove With these the mournful cypress-tree. Kate, why these tears ? Shall I remain At home when England claims my aid ? Mackinnon's brow ne'er wore a stain : Wouldst thou place one upon his head ?' ' Thy wife ? No, no ; yet why again Leave thy dear Kate to meet the foe — To meet death on the battle-plain ? But go, if duty bids thee go : Dearly I love thee, yet more dear To this fond heart is thy fair fame. May Heaven avert the foeman's spear, And honour still Mackinnon's name !' Spring came — he sail'd — Ciudad* was won, But there he met a soldier's fate ; His last words, ' I've my duty done ; I die in peace ; God bless my Kate !' Now round her bower the cypress-tree Entwined with laurel's seen to grow : One, emblem of his victory ; The other, record of her woe. * See Napier. HALF-YEARLY INSPECTION. 1 97 HALF-YEARLY INSPECTION. Air — 'Young lambs to sell.' Inspecting General, very invitingly. Complaints to make? Complaints to make ? Step out to the front, men, and fearlessly speak, All you who have any complaints to make. My duty's to ask, Is there any complaint ? Has your bread been well baked, and your meat without taint? Step out to the front, and your grievance express ; The country is anxious each wrong to redress. The men all step out one pace to the front, and sing in chorus. Our wrongs are great, Our wrongs are great Respectfully, General, we will relate Our wrongs, that are many, and grievances great. We listed for twelve years, as soldiers of yore, And who, if they wish'd, reengaged for nine more ; Then, like civil servants, were sent on half-pay. But now we've no right to a few pence a-day. Our wrongs are great, &c. Though we give to England the years of our prime, And beat all her enemies, battle with clime ; Though we guard her honour and exalt her fame, She sends us back home far worse off than we came. Our wrongs are great, &c. She saves from our pittance what pays for all schools, For chaplains and schoolmasters,* working men's tools ; * The savings of six years, as stated in the preface, amount to 1,629,382/. : this, exclusive of the reduced rate of pensions. 198 THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. From our pittance she's paying for these and much more, Although she is richer fourfold than before. Our wrongs are great, &c. This England's good maxim in days that are gone, ' The soldier's my care when his service is done / Now this is her rule, and his blood mock that cry, ' Let the poor devils go and in poverty die.' Our wrongs are great, &c. The General, greatly excited, standing in his stirrups and shaking his fist. You scoundrels all ! 4 You scoundrels all ! Step back to your place — do you hear when I call ? You mutinous grumbling scoundrels all ! 'Tis a crime to make groundless and frivolous claims ; 'Tis worse when a soldier his country defames. I'll try every man, by the Lord — by my sword — By a drum-head court-martial, you mutinous horde ! The regiment marches off, the band playing the ' Pearl of great Price? THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. Air — ' The king shall enjoy his own again.' The parson tells of things to come ; He just as well might crack his thumb To men whose creed is, ' Fill your store, Though you should rob the poorest poor.' Our traders thus preach, And senators teach, THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. 1 99 That straightforward honesty's vain ; The pearl of great price Is won by device, And the jewel of wisdom is gain. These precepts, graven line on line Upon the heart, in practice shine, Till all the people bow the knee To his Mammonian majesty. Their creed's to o'erreach ; And senators teach That pricks of the conscience are vain ; The pearl of great price Is won by device, And 'the jewel of wisdom is gain. The Senate, just to prove their rule Learnt at the Manchester high school, Took from the hoary veteran's pay, When want assail'd, a groat a day. Then proudly each one Cried, ' See what we've done ! The pricks of our conscience were vain. We've won by device The pearl of great price, Made precious by poverty's pain.' Woe to the spoiler ! Thou hast spoil'd The loyal heart that for thee toil'd, And treacherously with him hath dealt, Who never to the foeman knelt ; Who murmureth not, Though hard be his lot, His duty he does not in vain ; His soul's paradise, The pearl of great price, Is the honour of England to gain. 200 THE TORY, LAD, IS THE SOLDIER'S FRIEND. THE TORY, LAD, IS THE SOLDIER'S FRIEND. Aik — ' Gie me a lass wi' a lump o' land.' The Tory 'twas who increased our pay ; And this too let each heart be noting — Our right to pension's taken away By Whigs and Reds, our friends outvoting. The Tory, lad, is the soldier's friend, Or in or out no matter whether ; So down below with a kick we'll send The cad of a Red and Whig together. The Reds are treading the Whiggish skirt ; In for the whole, you'll get the sleeving ; They've left them naught but a tailless shirt, As emblem of their self-deceiving. Now the Red is their masterful friend, Or in or out no matter whether ; And may the devil their friendship end, By smothering both below together ! There never was yet a rumour of war, But the Whigs were all in a flurry ; And when they for battle prepare, All is done in a hurry-scurry. But ready, aye ready's our Tory friend, In peace or war, no matter whether ; So down below with a kick we'll send The cad of a Red and Whig together. Of generous deeds they loudly boast, Yet give but tenpence for the shilling ; And say we serve at too dear a cost, Though our best blood for them we're spilling. The Tory, lad, is our only friend, In peace or war, &c. king Arthur's seat. 201 KING ARTHUR'S TOAST. OR THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE QUEST FOR THE HOLY GRAIL. Air — ' Lillibulero.' King Arthur encircled his table with knights, Whose duty it was to set all things to rights ; If a shrew gave a scream or a wench gave a wail, Off gallop'd a knight the oppressor to flail : Then told at the cross to the wondering wights, How good was the king, and how brave were his knights. They thrash'd all the roughs, thieves and vagabonds slew, Won sheaves of white favours and bundles of blue ; Till burden'd by Fame, and by wassail much more, These Knights of the Round Table stood up and swore : ' The bowl at this board we will no more assail, Till we have been bless'd with a look at the grail.' Recitative. (This Holy Grail, Joseph of Arimathea Brought over, good man, from the land of Judea ; 'Tis the Passover cup, with so potent a charm, Whoever looks on it can never know harm. Stolen away by the priesthood, and hence the knights' vow To win back the treasure, or kick up a row.) Not waiting for daylight, each mounted his steed — One always stood saddled in cases of need — And rode away muttering, half vow and half wail, ' We'll never go back till we look on the grail.' Then bursting in chorus, they made the woods ring In praise of strong drink more than grail or the king. The way was so weary, the flagons so deep, The morning sun blush'd on the twelve fast asleep ; And the waving woods echo'd their low dreamy wail, ' We'll never go back till we look on the grail / Whilst their steeds in their trappings roam'd off at their will, To graze on the glade or to drink at the rill. 2 02 KING ARTHUR'S SEAT. A year and a day was the time set to seek ; But now, round the table, in less than a week, Sat the knights and the king, who said, ' Sirs, without fail, Tell truly, as knights, have you look'd on the grail ? That I from the priesthood may wrest back this thing, They hide from the people and keep from the king.' One saw it a sparkle ; another a pearl ; Sir Gawain declared 'twas a locket and curl ; As a boat that had wings ; as a star with a veil ; As a cup in a moonbeam ; a cloud was the grail ; Sir Percivale saw it a city with spires, All glist'ning and glowing, a forest of fires. ' Enough,' cried the king, ' about this holy grail ; Not two of you, gentlemen, tell the same tale ; I fear that you drank till more jolly than wise, As none of you saw it as two pretty eyes. The grail, my good knights, where true witchery lies, Is woman's fair face with two sweet pretty eyes.' So, taken aback at the taunt of their chief, And stung by its truth, these bold knights sought relief With feet on the table round, till it went ' crack,' Or by kicking the legs, or else leaning aback, To write on the table-top with the spilt liquor, All looking as grave as a friar or vicar. ' Cheer up,' cried the king, with his good-humour'd smile, ' There's many a grail in our own lovely isle ; Fill the cup — fill it high — and know this my decree, The toast of the Round Table henceforth shall be : The lips we may kiss; and the heart that replies, In flashing approvals, through two pretty eyes!' SOLDIER'S TRIBUTE TO FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 203 THE SISTER OF MERCY. Air — ' Gentle Zitella.' Fra Diavolo. (Slow and with feeling. ) Sister of Mercy, crown'd from above, Breathing so kindly words rail of love — Back to my mother how my thoughts fly, Wing'd and awaked by thy sympathy ! Round her knees clinging, lisping my prayer : God, in Thy kingdom, may we meet there ! Sister, sweet Sister, blessings be thine ! Angels, approving, own thee divine ; Wounds are forgotten when thou art by, Death's march looks brighter cheer" d by thine eye, Cheer'd by thy whisper, soothed by thy prayer : God, in Thy kingdom, may we meet there ! THE SOLDIER'S TRIBUTE TO FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. Air — ' Go where glory waits thee.' When the wine is flowing, When all hearts are glowing, O, we'll remember thee ! When the battle's nearing, When the victor's cheering, Still we'll remember thee. When around are lying Comrades dead and dying, When brave hearts are sighing, In hope all turn to thee. On our arms reposing, When life's march is closing, O, we'll remember thee ! 204 THE SENTINEL. Florence ! every soldier, Till his heart shall moulder, Will cherish thoughts of thee. When the sword's forsaken, When from death we waken, Sister, in heaven we'll see, Adorning thy pure spirit — God will give to wear it — Crown and cross of merit, So humbly won by thee. Saints shall hear our story ; Angels, in their glory, Echo this song of thee. THE SENTINEL. Air — ' Roslin Castle.' When marching on my weary way, Or carelessly from camp I stray, Or sail upon the distant tide, Thy form, dear maid, is by my side. No passing hours seem so sweet, No moments, as they glide, so fleet, As when, upon the embattled wall, I lonely walk as sentinel. Oft there I snatch, in fancy's bliss, From thy sweet lips the dewy kiss ; And press thee in these longing arms, And gaze upon thy hallow'd charms — Thy witching smile, the blush which shone Upon thy cheek, 'twas love alone. But O, 'tis fancy, fancy's spell — I'm still a lonely sentinel. WILL THE PRIEST LABOUR MORE ? 205 Heed not what rival suitors say — ' No soldier loves when far away' — ■ For though our eyes o'er beauty roam, The brave heart never finds a home, Except with her, his soul's delight, His joy by day, his dream by night, His thought — that binds him as a spell When lone he walks as sentinel. WILL THE PRIEST LABOUR MORE? Air—' Lillibulero.' Will the priest labour more for the good of his flock, When clad in red stockings and cardinal's frock ? Will bishops or rectors or vicars do more Than when they were curates, and work'd for the poor? And work'd for the poor, sick, aged, and poor ; Than when they were curates, and work'd for the poor ? Will the scholar give more for the good of his kind, Because he's paid more for the wealth of his mind ? Crude ore he will sell ; but the gem of his thought Springs only from love, for it cannot be bought. It cannot be bought, O, cannot be bought ; It springs but from love, for it cannot be bought. When Britain is lab'ring in war's bitter throes, And homesteads are threaten'd with footsteps of foes, The rich from their riches give largely ; but then Are riches the all of true patriot men ? True patriot men, of true patriot men ; Love and life are the all of true patriot men. Will the soldier fight better the better his pay ? For money be first in the breach or the fray ? 206 WORK VERSUS WAGES. No ; only for love of his dear native land Will he seek for the foe with his life in his hand. His life in his hand, with his life in his hand ; Will seek for the foe with his life in his hand. We love the good priest who is loving and kind, We honour the sage for the gem of his mind ; But he on the throne of affection shall stand, Who seeks for 'the foe with his life in his hand. His life in his hand, with his life in his hand ; Who conquers or falls with his life in his hand. WORK versus WAGES. Air — ' Tom of Bedlam.' O, when there is work to be done, A work that the whole heart engages, How earnest we get as new troubles beset ! 'Tis the work that we love, not the wages. Yet learned men say, And the parsons all pray The length of their days may be longer ; They clutch the fond prize, Palsied limbs and dim eyes, And a mind that is curtain'd in languor. O, when there's a battle to win, The work in the winning's the pleasure ; The drum and the fife stir the soul for the strife, And we charge to the trumpet's glad measure. Though manhood and pluck May not bring us good luck, In manhood and pluck is our glory ; We live half a life In one short day of strife ; Ye sages, then, envy our story. HER SPIRIT S EVER XEAR. 207 O, when that the battle is won, And victory rides on our banner, Upon its broad hem we deposit the gem, Then listlessly look on the honour. But trumpet and fife Give fresh vigour and life, We march, in our manhood's own glory ; We live half a life In one short day of strife ; Ye sages, then, envy our story. HER SPIRIT'S EVER NEAR. Air—' The Mill-wheeL' When by the watch-fire slumb'ring, My Mary's spirit came In robes of heavenly brightness, And soft she breathed my name ; Her wonted kiss she gave me, In token of her love, And pointing upwards, smiling, said, ' We'll soon embrace above. Dread not the coming fight, love, Dread not the foeman's spear, Dread not the bullets' flight, love ; Thy guardian angel's near ; And / am ever near, love, To bear thy soul away, Swift on the bright sun's mid-day beam, To love and endless day.' That night was worth a thousand Long years of earthly bliss ; I feel my lips still burning With that sweet hallow'd kiss ; 208 MAJOR HODSON, OF HODSON'S HORSE. I still feel on my bosom Her snowy temple rest, And hear her last kind cheering word, ' The brave are ever blest.' Morn came — the battle round me In all its fierceness raged, And death I fondly courted Where man and man engaged. 'Twas vain ; but still that vision My drooping heart shall cheer, It soothes the cares of life to know Her spirit's ever near. MAJOR HODSON, OF HODSON'S HORSE. Air—' The Harp of Tara.' Sleep, Hodson, sleep ; thy march is o'er, Thy turn of duty's done, The trumpet's clang shall wake no more, No more the morning gun ; No more the squadrons shalt thou guide, As on to fight they go, Nor e'er again the bloody tide Hurl back upon the foe. How few were brave compared with thee, Though all around were true ! Each man his eye would lift to see Where thy bright sabre flew. Sleep on, sleep on; nor wake again Until the last great chime Shall tell to dead and living men The ' route' is given to Time. THE DIRGE OF NIGHT. 209 Close by the dark stream's pebbled side We'll make thy lowly grave, That wavelets, as they murmuring glide, May sing ' Here rests the brave.' And as the rippling waters run To join the ocean's swell, They'll sing of England's noblest son, Who in the battle fell. OLD FAMILIAR FACES. Where are they now, those old familiar faces, The trusty comrades of my early years ? They're living but in memory's embraces, That fills my heart with joy, my eyes with tears. Hail, temper'd Sorrow, chief of heavenly graces ! And thy twin sister holy Joy subdued ; Through you we gaze on those familiar faces Of our old comrades in our solitude. THE DIRGE OF NIGHT. Air — ' I.ochaber no more.' Recitative. To friend and foe the kindly Night Thus spake — half pity, half command : Ye fugitives, stay, stay your flight ; Ye slayers, hold your weary hand ; While I my deepest shadows throw O'er Salamanca's vale below, And sing my dirge — to you I sing Of comrades' woe and suffering. THE DIRGE OF NIGHT. As the moon, wan and pale, Looks down on that dale In sorrow, She'd borrow A cloud for a veil ; For from bottom to brim Men lie stark and grim, Some groaning And moaning Their last pray'r or hymn. There the slayer and slain Lie stretch'd on the plain ; Hands clasping, As gasping Their life out in pain. For the truly brave bear No hate ; all their care, That glory Which story Gives all men who dare. At his master's deep sigh The steed turns his eye ; It glistens, He listens — One pat, and they die. Though still spur and rein, That hand's on the mane, Last caress To express The love 'twixt the twain. THE SEVENTH HUSSARS. 'Neath the moon's temper'd beam Proud eyes catch a gleam Of mother, Home, brother, And die in their dream. Soon will both pass away, And leave to the day The horrors And terrors Which spring from the fray. THE 7TH (QUEEN'S) HUSSARS. Air — ' The Hnnter of TjtoV Rouse, rouse, my gallant men, Welcome's the battle-day! Soon shall the sun again Witness the bloody fray. Soon, soon in victory Shall our bright sabres flash ; Mount, mount, boys, and forward, Into their columns dash ! Chorus. Bright glory's wreath's o'er us, Xot a blade will we sheath Till the foe that's before us Lies low on the heath ; Till we shall shout ' Victory ! victory ! victory !' Or grasp our hilts in death. Think of our deeds in Spain ; How Orthes' fight was won ; How from the Belgic plain We drove Napoleon. THE SOLDIER S COMMENT. On, on, gallant Seventh ! Strike as if you alone Were freedom's last rampart Around England's throne. Bright glory's wreath's o'er us, &c. THE SOLDIER'S COMMENT ON LORD H— 'S SPEECH IN PARLIAMENT ON THE ARMY ESTIMATES, WHEN SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR, 22D FEBRUARY 1865. Air — 'Alley Croker.' 'Tis terrible — Yes, very, Bill — To feel how thick the scoff falls From H — , The great duke's son ; Who says we are the off-falls Of sinks and stews And tap-room crews, The very limbs of Satan ; Who, drunken, reel, And never kneel At vesper or at matin. O, young noble in name, in heart ignoble ! The rank is yours, The deeds are ours That do the man ennoble. 'Tis terrible — Yes, very, Bill — To see this Secretary Stand up and say, That the army Is a reformatory For pimps and scamps And ragged tramps, THE MOUNTAIN FERN. Of England's vagabondage ; That discipline Makes all within The soldiei's house of bondage. O, young noble in name, in heart ignoble ! The rank is yours, The deeds are ours That do the man ennoble. It would be, Bill, Most terrible Did wise men so revile us : Their praise we share ; Then devil may care Whatever fools may style us. I 'listed when They, wanting men, Call'd on the fighting masses ; But now they cry- That you and I Are cities' sweepings, — asses ! O, young noble in name, in heart ignoble ! Our deeds we fling In glory's ring, And brave men say they're noble. EPIGRAM : THE MOUNTAIN FERN. The mountain fern is least in worth Of all the plants which grace the earth ; By Nature cultured as a duty, To give the hills a greater beauty, And emblem be of H — ton, The secretary and duke's son ; Whose only claim to power and place is, That rank, though worthless, has its graces. 214 i'm proud, mothers, proud of my dead. THE MOTHER'S BLESSING. Air — 'Love not.' Good-bye, good-bye ; may God bless thee, my son, And give me grace to say, ' Thy will be done !' When thou art gone, there's none to fill thy place : My boy, my boy ! is this our last embrace ? Good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye. I cannot let thee go, My heart is bursting with its weight of woe ; Fearful forebodings to my spirit call, ' As fell the father, so the son shall fall.' Good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye ! No, no, and yet — consoling thought — The son will battle as his father fought. Be like him, boy ; march at thy country's nod ; And if thou fallest, 'tis the will of God. Good-bye, good-bye. Good-bye, good-bye, his last words were ; and mine, ' Remember that thy country's cause is thine.' God grant thee strength, and bless thee, O my son, And bless me also, — Lord, Thy will be done ! Good-bye, good-bye. I'M PROUD, MOTHERS, PROUD OF MY DEAD. Air—' The Song of Death. ' Burns. ( With feeling) Dead, dead ! what, my darling boy ? God ! can it be ? As a soldier laid low in the strife ? O, talk not of victory ; what's that to me ? Now sunk is the sun of my life, Ne'er to shine on me more ; for the morn shall return All veil'd in the cloud of despair ; The lamp of my heart little longer can burn ; He's in heaven, and I'll follow him there. COME BACK TO DIE. 215 Forgive, British mothers, this passionate wail ; Look not on the tears that I shed ; Affection one moment will duty assail ; Yet, mothers, I'm proud of my dead. Yes, proud of my dead, though 'tis mingled with pain ; For freedom and England he bled ; I taught him to love her, and taught not in vain : I grieve, but I'm proud of my dead. In boyhood and youth I would kindle his soul By telling the deeds of the brave ; ' With them write thy name upon history's scroll, And heroes shall point to thy grave.' Grave, evergreen grave ! hence my tears I'll restrain ; My boy to his glory has sped ; He fought for his country, he fell not in vain : I'm proud, mothers, proud of my dead. COME BACK TO DIE. Air — * The Irish Emigrant.* Dear mother, I'm come back again, Though death was often nigh ; And then my prayer to God has been, To bring me home to die. To bring me home, my mother dear ; For, pillow'd on thy breast, Methought some angel would be near To bear me to my rest. Alas, how many sink in death Far from a mother's care ; No sister watching their last breath, Or soothing with her prayer ! No comrades their last moments cheer With one faint ray of joy; But I have you, my mother dear, To bless your soldier boy. 2 1 6 THE SOLDIER'S REVERIE. Dear mother, mother ! grieve not so ; I did my duty well ; My comrades, ay, and many a foe, If living yet, can tell. I never shamed you, mother dear, Nor was a coward's son ; The noblest badge that man can wear, Victoria Cross, I won. Take it, dear mother ; 'tis a prize I value next the crown That God doth keep above the skies For those He calls His own. Keep it till you shall meet me there — The day methinks is nigh ; And praise that God who heard my prayer, And brought me home to die. THE SOLDIER'S REVERIE. AIR — ' The Maid of Llangollen.' O England, dear England ! can I e'er forget The land where my eyes the bright sunbeam first met ? Thy name, beloved country, like some hallow'd charm, Gives life to my heart and fresh strength to my arm. O England, &c. The arm of my strength shall be thine whilst I live ; And in thy hallow'd service, O, who would not give The last drop of his life's blood to keep thee unchain'd, Thy honour unsullied, thy glory unstain'd ? O England, &c. Thou birthplace of liberty, home of the free ! Enthroned on the blue wave as queen o'er the sea, O'er whose spacious bosom thy flag is unfurl'd, The beacon of freedom, a light to the world. England, &c. THE END OF CARE. 2 I J HEALTH TO THE SOLDIER. Air — ' British Grenadiers.' Health to the soldier, England's boast, Her pride, her hope, her stay, When traitor-hands their banner hoist, Or foes stand in array ! From them the soldier never turns, But feels a fierce delight, A glow within that brighter burns, To try the battle's might. The stern dark frown, the daring eye, Bespeak the haughty soul That will not yield, that will not fly, That foe can ne'er control. There's bold defiance in his tread, There's victory on his brow ; His strong arm bows the foeman's head, There's death in every blow. Health to our soldiers ! brave and free, No tyrant rule they own ; But all with willing hearts obey The call of England's throne. And why ? The light of Freedom's there And whilst her ray shall shine, The soldier's arm the sword shall bear Which guards her hallow'd shrine. THE END OF CARE. Air — ' British Grenadiers.' Ye sons of war, tell me why Care Sits never at your board ; Say, does he fear the men who bear The rifle and the sword ? 2l8 THE END OF CARE. Why turn his back on bivouac, And never dare presume To haunt the ring where soldiers sing In tent or barrack-room ? The reason hear. Once wrinkled Care Enlisted in our band, And cloud-like hung on heart and tongue, And on the ready hand ; And when the cup we would fill up, The flagon he would stay, And dare to cloy the wheels of joy, And pleasure keep at bay. The fool ! to think that soldiers drink To banish him alone, When foes are near, when friends shall cheer, And song and toast go on ! We knew him by his evil eye ; So bound him in a cell ; And never more within our corps Shall he have leave to dwell. To the drum-head a prisoner led, Arraign'd and guilty found ; The sentence ran, that in a can Of wine he should be drown'd. We plunged him in the foaming linn ; And now his troubled soul Flies off in fear, when the soldier's cheer Rings high above the bowl. FREE-TRADE APOSTLES. 219 FREE-TRADE APOSTLES. Air — ' Nobody can deny.' We march'd up to Pekin a-preaching free-trade, With the bay'net to prove, if it did not persuade ; And the Chinamen bow'd, and the Chinamen pray'd. Which nobody can deny, deny ; Which nobody can deny. The doctrine was holy, our banner was blest, Which set us with God and our conscience at rest ; As free-trade apostles we all did our best Which nobody can deny, &c. The working apostle may spend and be spent In preaching the doctrine for which he is sent, Yet never get canonised as a true saint. Which nobody can deny, &c. We did England's bidding — establish'd her right On the best of all titles — the strong arm of might ; And free-trading saints sang their hymns of delight. Which nobody can deny, &c. They hymn their rejoicings, they sing all the day, ' Though countless our profits, no tithe will we pay f And the devil stands by just to chorus their lay. Which nobody can deny, &c The war, God be thank'd, is over, and now We may go back again to the loom and the plough With a knapsack of thanks, which is all they allow. Which nobody can deny, &c. 2 20 O, SUCH A LIFE AS WE HAVE LED. 0, SUCH A LIFE AS WE HAVE LED. Air— ' Sic a life as Titus led.' Jacobite Song. O, such a life as we have led, As we have led, as we have led ; That England, blushing, hangs her head For what we did campaigning. We march'd all night, we march'd all day, We toil'd knee-deep in mire and clay, And forded rivers on our way, And all without complaining. We battled on, ne'er counting odds, And dared such deeds as shamed the gods ; And blood of friends and foes in floods Ran down in our campaigning. O, such a life as we have led, As we have led, as we have led, Midst comrades dying, comrades dead, When we have been campaigning. We dug the trench, we storm'd the breach, With bloody steel would free-trade preach, And every sin that we could reach We revell'd in, campaigning. We even stamp'd the British seal On treaties with our iron heel, And made the humbled nations feel 'Twas little use complaining. O, such a life as we have led, As we have led, as we have led, In others' stead we fought and bled, And conquer'd when campaigning. And yet our very deeds are lies, In sentimental England's eyes So bad, she blushes as she cries For better men campaigning. WHAT IS THE SOLDIER'S HERITAGE ? 221 0, should not Fame that shame repel, And does not Victory's paean swell, And Glory from her bright throne tell Our prowess when campaigning ? O, such a life as we have led, We still will lead, we still will lead, And dare opinion in the deed, Again when we're campaigning. WHAT IS THE SOLDIER'S HERITAGE? Time, 1870. ' How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ?' Collins (time, 1750). What is the soldier's heritage In this cold calculating age ? Go thou, and ask the frost and snow, And they will answer, ' Want and woe ;' And wind and rain's reply will be, ' His heritage is poverty.' How sleeps he when he sinks to rest, Thus all uncared-for and unblest ? Honour and Fame hymn o'er his deeds, And Valour, dress'd in pilgrim weeds, Leads Justice, weeping, to his grave, And all pay homage to the brave. All but the country of his birth. E'en history records his worth ; But history will never show His want, his weariness, and woe, Or how he sank to his last rest Unknown, uncared-for, and unblest. THEY WANT US, TOM, TO RE-ENGAGE. THEY WANT US, TOM, TO RE-ENGAGE. Air — ' The Admiral.' 'Tis ten years since we 'listed, Tom ; And now the time is come When you and I must re-engage, Or march away for home. But where is home at this time, Tom ? The cottage still is there ; But 'tis alone in memory Those live we love so dear. It is no good lamenting For a home we'll see no more ; We've comrades true, and, if we like, A home still in our corps. The work is light, our cares are less, We've rations every day ; But would the pittance we should get Make it worth while to stay ? If we should re-engage, 'twill be For long eleven years, When we should children be again To fight a world of cares ; And burning climes, and climes of cold, And night patrols and camps, Would make us old before our time, And stiff with aches and cramps. 'Tis little work we then could do ; But now we're strong and hale, Could lay a swath as once we did, Or swing the heavy flail. And though my heart is here, I'll go ; For we as well have fought As they who served before us, Tom, Who got the extra groat. THEY WANT US, TOM, TO RE-ENGAGE. 223 Too young to think before us then, Too strong to think of want ; The future hung back in the rear, The present kept the front ; But ten years in a lifetime, pass'd In tent and barrack-room, Changes the line of thought to where Will be the future home. Where that may be, such happy days Will never come again ; Instead of comrades warm and true, We'll find but selfish men. And many comrades feel as we, A full and heavy heart, To shake the hand as, maybe, 'tis For ever that we part. It is no good repining ; But it riles one through and through, That our short-sighted Government Should lose a man like you : A dead shot at three hundred yards, A section sure at ten, You're worth a score of youngsters, Though they the pick of men. In skirmishing, these twenty would By your good rifle die, As certain as you'd be unscathed By their untutor'd eye. Strength may be bought ; but time it takes, And that they'll one day find, To form the skilful hand and eye, And discipline the mind. 224 THE WARNING. THE WARNING. Air— ' A famous man was Robin Hood.' ' On to the Rhine !' the Emperor cries ; ' On to the Rhine !' the Press replies ; And soldiers of the Guard and Line Shout, as they march, ' The Rhine ! the Rhine !' All France is up, and madly cries, Drunk with imagined victories, ' 'Tis ours !' and yet they often flee Before the men of Germany. Another army's in array, And drums and fifes and trumpets play. ' On to the Meuse !' the Emperor cries ; ' On to the Meuse !' all France replies ; And vows are made to dare and die, Ere from the Germans they will fly. They march, they fight, and at Sedan Are taken prisoners to a man. At Metz, two hundred thousand more Capitulate, with all their store ; And scarce a soldier 's left to France To point a gun or wave a lance. Her eagle cowers with broken wing, Imprison'd by the Prussian King ; And all of glory, all of fame, Lies hid beneath the blush of shame. The foremost step in their decline, They laugh'd and jeer'd at discipline ; Took sides in party strifes, and then They sunk to be a mob of men. Their fate should, comrade, warning be To England and her soldiery ; For valour, though a gift divine, Dies with the death of discipline. THE GLITTER OF THE SHILLING. 225 THE GLITTER OF THE SHILLING. AS REFLECTED IN THE ARMY ENLISTMENT ACT OF 1870. Air — ' The girl I left behind me.' Throughout the land, from north to south, Are towns placarded over With news to all our daring youth, How they may live in clover. And sergeants deck'd with ribbon-wreath Cry, ' Come, my lads, who's willing ?' And yet there is a he* beneath The glitter of the shilling. * ' The soldier has no claim to re- engage." — Mr. Secretary Cardwell. The word 'pension' is designedly omitted from the Act. Mr. C. was pressed to insert it, but declined. * He' (the soldier) ' may enlist for twelve years ; at the end of which time he may re-engage for nine years more ; after completing which he will receive a pension for life.' — Recruit- ing placard, published by authority. ' From the be- ginning of his ser- vice he may, with care, have three shillings a week to spend, after pay- ing all expenses. . . . He gets bet- ter and cheaper food than he could in civil life.' — Re- c ru iting placard. EXPENDITURE OF A SOLDIER'S DAILY PAY. d. Compulsory payments : for 1 lb of bread, j lb. of meat (including bone, udders, and shins, and be- fore being cooked — this the Recruiting Commis- sioners condemned as being insufficient), vege- tables, coffee, sugar, keeping up of kit, barrack damages, sheet washing, blacking, soap, &c, about o 9I Payments not compulsory — but the little comforts they provide are within the reach of every hale and hearty young labourer, viz. tobacco, and butter, or cheese, or herring for breakfast and supper ; otherwise he has bread only . . . .02^ To make up for the deficiency of meat-ration . .01" Remaining to the soldier after paying all expenses for his actual living and keeping up his kit . 01} Total daily pay ,• 13 The weekly sum to spend being only one shilling and one farthing instead of thru shillings, as stated in the opposite column. 226 THE GLITTER OF THE SHILLING. And then, besides the sumptuous fare, There's cash to spend in plenty, For Allsopp's ale or Bass's beer, To make the soldier jaunty. And sergeants deck'd with ribbon-wreath, &c. At twelve years you may re-engage, Should that be your intention, And make secure in your old age A competency — pension. And sergeants deck'd with ribbon-wreath, &c. The sumptuous fare — don't toss your head, And curl your lip in scorning — Is tea or coffee and dry bread, Both evening and morning. And sergeants with the ribbon-wreath Cry, ' Come, my lads, who's willing ?' But hide the truth that lies beneath The glitter of the shilling. For kit and kitchen you must pay, For kit and clothing mending, Out of the cash the placards say For beer you may be spending. And sergeants deck'd with ribbon-wreath, &c. Your right to pension's all a fudge,* Be wiser by the knowing ; For if recruiting's brisk, you'll budge, By Mr. Cardwell's showing. And yet he sends with ribbon-wreath Sergeants to cry, ' Who's willing ?' Although there is a lie beneath The glitter of the shilling. * See Appendix No. II. THE SOLDIERS WIDOW. 227 SHAME ! SHAME ! SHAME ! Air—' Break ! break ! break !' Tennyson. The soldiers march along As they come from the field of fight ; Yet where's the welcoming cheer from the throng, As when they embark'd in their might ? Shame ! shame ! shame ! O England, ever to thee ! Thy welcome's as cold as the wintry blast When it sweeps o'er the northern sea. Shame ! shame ! shame ! Though weary and worn from the fight, Their duty they've done, the victory's won, And stronger art thou in thy might. There's sadness in their pride, Uncheer'd by the clang of the chime, For dear the comrades who fought by their side And who sleep in a distant clime. Shame ! shame ! shame ! O England, ever to thee ! Thy silence is scorn to the glorious dead, And a stain on their own chivalry. Shame ! shame ! shame ! Though haggard, and weary, and worn, Their duty they've manfully, nobly done, And yet thou requitest with scorn. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. She was a soldier's widow, and her woe Was deep indeed ; On battle-field they laid her husband low Among the dead. 228 BALACLAVA. Helpless her babes — her cruse of oil run dry — Empty the bin — The faggot-pile grown low — the rent-day nigh ; Nor hope from kin. I gently lifted up the latch, and said, ' May peace be here ! That peace which God Himself alone can shed To stay the tear.' Her tongue was mute ; but in her swimming eye The full heart said, ' Those who come round me in my misery Are friends indeed.' We knelt together, and in answer came A still small voice : ' When in distress, call thou upon My name, And so rejoice.' And truly when I left, she calmly said, ' Sweet peace is here ; That peace which God Himself alone can shed, To stay the tear.' BALACLAVA. ANNIVERSARY SONG. Air — ' Hearts of oak.' Now we've drunk to the Queen, let the toast of the night Be the name of the hero who led in the fight ; Though he slumbers in death, yet he speaks from the grave In the blast of the trumpet and flash of the glaive. And he ever will speak To the bold Light Brigade, Whilst a hand grasps a hilt, Or there's ring in the blade ; Whilst a hand grasps a hilt or there's ring in the blade. BALACLAVA CHARGE. 229 A bumper ! a bumper ! fill high and fill up, There's homage to valour in each crystal cup ; Together ! all standing ! ' To Cardigan's name !' Who lives in each heart as he's living in fame. And he ever shall live In the bold Light Brigade, Whilst a hand grasps a hilt, Or there's ring in the blade ; Whilst a hand grasps a hilt, or there's ring in the blade. We see him in front as he points to the foe, 'When the flash of the cannon laid so many low ; The first through the guns in that death-ride was he, And aye Balaclava a beacon shall be To light us to fame ; Whilst our Cardigan's shade Will still hover over His own Light Brigade ; Will still hover over his own Light Brigade. BALACLAVA CHARGE. Air — ' Hearts of oak.' On the right of the squadron and centre by ' threes,' With Blunt on my right, on my left Harry Lees, The whole Russian army we knew were ahead ; ' Now, easy !' cries Harry ; ' the centre must lead ; Neck and neck, knee and knee, With six inches to spare, That our tits may work free, And their trot may be fair / That our tits may work free, and their trot may be fair. Blunt patted his mare as she broke in her pace, ' There's a mile yet, lass, ere we try the death-race j' 230 BALACLAVA CHARGE. Then turning, said, ' Hal, lay your sword across mine, It braces the heart when we look on the sign ; It bears the thoughts homeward, Ay, upwards ; for there Lies the strength of the hand, And the heart that will dare ;' Lies the strength of the hand, and the heart that will dare. Whilst riding in silence, thoughts far, far away, The hilts were gript tighter, the spur prick'd my bay, — The lifted blade flashes, the heart feels its glow, ' Hurrah !' shouted Harry ; ' we're close on the foe.' Neck and neck, knee and knee, Give the point when you can ; Cool, but quick the return, And you're sure of your man ; Cool, but quick the return, and you're sure of your man. The round-shot came pounding, the volleys rang fast, Death rode on the storm, there was blood in the blast ; Blunt groan'd, as his mare gave a stagger, ' She's done !' But cheer'd as the squadron went galloping on. Neck and neck, knee and knee, Lift them on in their stride ; Lean well to the shock, With the spur in their side ; Lean well to the shock, with the spur in their side. We sabred their gunners, broke column and square, Charged right through the cavalry posted in rear ; When Cardigan, waving his plume, cried ' Well done !' We're too few to hold what we've conquered and won. Charge through back again, Deal out death with each blade, That Russia may tell Of the British brigade ; That Russia may tell of the British brigade. EPIGRAM. 231 One cheer, and the rowels went home to the head, The Cossacks reel'd back, not a blade but was red ; Blunt joined us re-horsed — ' What d'ye think of my roan?' — When down went my sword-arm, laid bare to the bone ; Then cleaving the Cossack From crown to the teeth, He brought me safe out From that gallop of death ; He brought me safe out from that gallop of death. With our own gallant Cardigan riding in front, With true-hearted comrades like Harry and Blunt, With my own mottled bay, quick to rowel and rein, — I'd ride Balaclava again and again. Though the pick of the North And the pride of Ukraine Be there, we are ready, Ay, ready, boys, ready, To ride Balaclava again and again. EPIGRAM. MEDALS VerSUS COTTON RINGS. ' Why, Colonel Sentiment, I thought to see One half your men with medals on their breast ; For none could have behaved more gallantly At Inkerman or storming Alma's crest.' ' I've placed them in the rear-rank out of sight ; Medals are really secondary things — Merely the badge of valour ; my delight Is in a front rank all with cotton rings.' 232 THE RELIEF. THE RELIEF. Air — Hymns Ancient and Modern, No. 297. Oft on my post while marching to and fro, Watching the crescent voyaging how brief ! I've thought an angel whisper'd, ' Sentry, go,' And darkness to her challenge, ' The relief.' Source of reflection, thou, O moon, shalt be, When on life's beat we're pacing to and fro ; We too must sink behind the darkening sea, , When the relief turns out to ' Sentry, go.' Life's ' Sentry, go,' the great hereafter then, Shall waken some to gladness, some to grief; So, comrades, watch and war as faithful men, And angels shall march up with your relief. When on your fever'd bed, far, far from home, And dear affections fill the heart's deep hold, They'll come as softly as the zephyrs come, When our proud banner droops its silken fold. They hover round our footsteps by the way, Circle the watch-fire when the moon's above; And in the trench, or marching to the fray, We're guarded by those messengers of love. Heed not the bullet in its treacherous flight, Although the bosom, comrades, be its goal ; They're ever by, though absent from our sight, To write our names on God's own muster-roll. Then, upward borne on their exulting wing, We'll join the column of the heavenly choir, Lift our glad voices to our God and King, Receive the crown, and tune the golden lyre. THE BIVOUAC. Retired from off the mountain ridge To where the roads lead to the bridge, The vedette* takes his stand ; The better that his watchful eye May see an object 'gainst the sky, And all around command. Here, shelter'd from the foeman's sight, He deeper peers into the night, And better hears the sound Of coming horsemen on patrol, Or distant squadrons' gun- wheels' roll Along the hollow ground. The sleeping host on him relies To warn against a night surprise, Or tell of moving foe ; Ready to give the beacon flash ; Ready with piquet on to dash, Or hold the road below. My martial Muse, canst thou explain Why he's neglected, who shall gain A fortune by his trade, * The outpost sentinel nearest the enemy ; usually doubled at night. 234 THE BIVOUAC. When in comparison he stands With the rough soldier who commands No fortune but his blade ? The reason's clear : By toil and pain A man by trade may riches gain, And revel in his pelf; The world, though envious, sees his goal, The object of his narrow soul — He gains but for himself. Where is the sacrifice that trade For home or country ever made, Except by law compell'd ? And when was Commerce known to spare To those who death and danger dare, And her trade-rights upheld ? Thus is the trading class despised, Or less esteem'd ; the warrior prized For his self-sacrifice ; Ere he engaged, he chose his part, To serve his country hand and heart In any enterprise. Though Pleasure twines her silken fold, Though mirthful Revelry lays hold, To keep him in her haunt, From both he turns with scornings when There's danger in the shock of men, And rushes to the front. His life is in his right hand stored, And held, a treasure with his sword, Devoted to the State ; And when the steel shall flash and ring, His life into the scale he'll fling, To give the battle weight. THE BIVOUAC. 235 The world, impartial, decks his brow, Or all her warm affections flow In honour o'er his bier ; But when was trader crown'd with bay, Or when from earth he pass'd away Paid homage with a tear? This world's ' forever" truly lies Within the soul's deep sympathies Enthroned upon the heart ; Then with thine own sword write thy name On that ' forever' — 'tis his fame Who nobly acts his part. All hail, thou valiant lonely man ! Of that proud host thou art the van, And danger's in the front; Be watchful while the many sleep, And whilst the few their vigils keep, Or revel as they're wont. Recitative. Back from the lines within the wood's recess A band of lowly warriors kneel in prayer ; Its solemn shade more solemn thoughts impress, And each heart feels the God of Battle's there. They never yet had fear'd their country's foe ; Had never turn'd, but gather'd to the strife ; Knowing that courage but alone can flow From Him who bears the scales of death and life. 236 THE BIVOUAC. HYMN OF THE BATTLE EVE. Am— ' Lo, He comes !' Comrades, round us night is closing ; See, yon star illumes the west, Emblem of that hope reposing Calmly on the soldier's breast ! For we trust in God who bows the foeman's crest. Hear us, Thou great God of armies, List'n to a soldier's prayer ; With Thy strength to-morrow arm us, Make our cause Thy special care ; Then shall foemen Know Thy venging sword is near. With Thy power, O Lord, protect us, Guard our dear ones and our isle ; In the coming fight direct us, Crown us, Lord, with victory's smile. Cheerful in Thee, We will meet the coming toil. Fearless he whose heart's relying, Lord, upon Thy strength alone ; He fears not the hour of dying, 'Tis the portal to Thy throne. God of Battle ! We Thy Almighty pow'r own. Sweet solemn sounds arrest the list'ning throng : Now in the tall tree-tops, now high in air The spirits of the slain, in farewell song, Their comrades for the coming fight prepare. SONG OF THE SPIRITS OF THE SLAIN. 237 SONG OF THE SPIRITS OF THE SLAIN. Air—' The Vale of Strathmore. ' Farewell, beloved comrades, companions in arms, The life once so sweet to us now hath no charms ; A band of sweet cherubs awaits in the skies, To welcome the brave as to glory they rise. No distinction in heaven of nation or tongue, No upbraidings of whose earthly rulers were wrong ; Love the purest now reigns in the spirits of those Who just parted on earth as the deadliest foes. Then on, beloved comrades ; in battle be brave, For here dwells no spirit of recreant slave ; This happiness only the true soldier feels, Who shrinks not in death, but may die ere he kneels. O, who would not thus deprive death of its name ! O, who would not breathe out his last breath in fame ! A crown wreathes .the brow of the spirit thus riVn — 'Tis the portal' of life, 'tis the entrance to heav'n. The sleepers heard the music, and awoke ; Again they slept and heard it o'er again, As trumpet sounds the battle to evoke, Or check pursuing squadrons on the plain. Wrapp'd in his cloak a youthful warrior lay, Communing with himself on days gone by ; And then the future of the coming fray — Should he be spared to live, or, stricken, die ? Indignant at the oft-intruding thought, He half arose in his soliloquy ; ' This life is a reality, and naught Can break the link that binds it to the sky. 238 THE BIVOUAC. But, Death ! thou art life's shadow, only seen When panting fear hangs on the coward's skirt ; Fain wouldst thou, but thou canst not, stand between, And make the brave the path of fame desert. No, not for thee will soldiers turn aside, When duty bids the doing ; know thou this — Who trusts in God may well thy power deride, His last footprint's on thee — then all is bliss.' And thoughtfully many peer'd into the night, And peopled their brain with the scenes of the fight — The dash of the squadrons, the crash when they meet, The grapple, the rally, the foe in retreat. The thoughtless, the reckless, the roving are there, Adventurous spirits to do and to dare ; Unflinchingly forward they joyously ride, And strike down the foe in the strength of his pride. And many in secret had bow'd at the shrine, Who now join the circle of friendship and wine ; Each heart feels the charm which but perils bestow, And joys in the hope of soon meeting the foe. Around the watch-fire laughter ran, The tale was told, and ev'ry man Must either tell a tale or sing, Or sit without the merry ring. First Elley, he whose iron frame Nor toil nor danger e'er could tame, With stentor voice began his lay — To fight or sing he'd lead the way. THE HOUSEHOLD BRIGADE. 239 THE HOUSEHOLD BRIGADE. Air — ' Bonnets of blue.' Hurrah for the Household Brigade ! Hurrah for the Household Brigade ! When the battle is near, they charge with a cheer, And win with the spur and the blade. At Dettingen boldly they charged, By the dashing Earl Crawford led on : ' Come follow, my lads, Trust alone to your blades,* And the battle will soon be your own.' Hurrah for the Household Brigade ! Hurrah for the Household Brigade ! They charged to the tune of ' Strike, Britons ! strike home !' Which the trumpeter gallantly play'd. The king as they pass'd cried ' Well done ! For the honour of England! y ou n ght > Give them spur — give them rein — Drive the French to the Maine — Hurrah ! see, they yield to your might' Hurrah for the Life Guards and Blues ! Hurrah for the Life Guards and Blues ! The pride of Napoleon's cavalry Guard Were beat by the Life Guards and Blues. And we too, my boys, will strike home, As have ever the Household Brigade ; Charging on with a cheer When the battle is near, And winning with spur and with blade. * History of the Brigade. + The King's address at the battle. 240 THE BIVOUAC. He ceased, midst plaudits from the merry throng, And called on Hodson for his tale or song : He oft had stemm'd the battle's fiercest tide, Would cheer the drooping or the dauntless guide ; His skilful arm thrice saved a comrade's life ; His sabre bloodless never left the strife ; He loved his comrades, and was loved by all, And every heart responded to the call. COMRADE, DRINK, AND FILL THE BEAKER. Air — ' Proudly and wide my standard flies.' Comrade, drink, and fill the beaker ; Life is but a marching day ; Fools may shun the glowing liquor, We'll be merry while we may. Long before the sun is shining, We shall see the vedette's flash ; Long before he 'gins declining, We shall meet the battle crash. Meet it, ay, as true men meet it, Hand to hand, and face to face ; Square or squadron, we will greet it, Death may come, but not disgrace. Drink again, and fill the beaker; Red wine makes the heart to glow ; But the pulse of life beats quicker When we march to meet the foe. Drink again ; the sage's story Takes him threescore years to weave ; Soldiers in one deed of glory Flash through ages from the grave. THE DEAR ONES AT HOME. 241 Drink again, and fill the beaker ; Red wine makes the heart to glow ; But the pulse of life beats quicker, When we march to meet the foe. Moore* sat retiring ; yet from his bright eye Flash'd valour's fire in its intensity, And midst its deepest glow his heart would roam To those dear loved ones far away at home. THE DEAR ONES AT HOME. Air — 'Bonnie Dundee.' (Slowly.) Fling on a fresh fagot, the flagon refill, Be it Burgundy's grape or the growth of Moselle ; None sparkles so brightly, so rich in its. foam, Befitting to pledge the beloved ones at home. In their watchings they're with us, they're here in their dream, Our prowess their glory, our glory their theme ; They cherish a love nothing less than divine ; For we live on their lips, as they kneel at the shrine. And long of the morrow they proudly shall tell — Of fond ones who triumph'd, of dear ones who fell. Then fill up the cup till it sparkle and foam, And drink to the dear ones, the loved ones at home. Fling on a fresh fagot, the flagon refill, Be it Burgundy's grape or the growth of Moselle ; None sparkles so brightly, so rich in its foam, Befitting to pledge the beloved ones at home. * In 1857 Adjutant Moore, 3d Bombay Light Cavalry, jumped his horse on to the bayonets of the square. His horse was killed, the square broken and annihilated ; but he not even hurt. R 242 THE BIVOUAC. The tale had ceased, the health of those away Was drunk, and Radcliffe* then began his lay. From private he had pass'd through every grade ; And now behold him Major of Brigade. Dauntless in fight, as in the barracks kind, 'Tis few commanders like him we shall find. MORDAUNT EARL OF PETERBOROUGH AND THE ROYAL DRAGOONS. Time, about 1706. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' With our horses aboard, we let loose ev'ry sail, And soon clear 1 d the Straits with a westerly gale ; Brave Mordaunt our leader, who never looks back, Though all Europe's navies should lie in his track. Hurrah, boys, for Mordaunt ! come what or come when, Come fleets full of fiends or the bravest of men, He steers through the strife as he steers through the blast, Nor sails but with banner nail'd firm to the mast. He taught ev'ry trooper the topmast to strike, To handle a sail and to board with the pike ; Lash yardarm to yardarm, the grapple to throw ; Then with two half-hitches to make sure- the tow. Hurrah, boys, for Mordaunt ! come what or come when, We'll follow through fiends, we will follow through men ; Man the top, or be ready with sabre in hand To board or charge home at our chieftain's command. We drove the French fleet from the Catalan shore, We took Barcelona and towns by the score ; ' Valencia !' cried Mordaunt, and never look'd back ; There's loot for the trooper who rides in his track. Hurrah, royal troopers ! come what or come when, Come squadrons of fiends or battalions of men, Say, who recks the odds, or would shame Valour so, As to parley with Death when in sight of the foe ? * Served as a private in the Royal Dragoons. LET THEM TALK OF HOME DUTY. 243 With foot in the stirrup and hand on the mane, We spring to the saddle and gather the rein ; The sword in the grip and the foemen at bay, We send the spur home — then away, boys, away ! Hurrah for the Royals ! come what or come when, Come squadrons of fiends or battalions of men, No thought but to charge ; with a cheer it is made, And Luck rides the pommel, and Glory our blade. Tom Sabre next. He left the forest glade, The fold, the plough, to grasp a freeman's blade ; Though humble, he possess'd a soul of fire, And oft essa/d to strike the martial lyre ; Would rouse his comrades on the battle-plain, Or bear them homewards on a plaintive strain. LET THEM TALK OF HOME DUTY. Air — ' Bonnie Dundee.' Let them talk of home duty and garrison life, Of their parks and parades, of the dance and the play ; Give me the campaigning where dangers are rife, When the battle but slumbers to wake with the day. Where, as here, round the watch-fire brave comrades recline, And tell in their war-songs of victory won ; Past ills they forget, as they quaff the red wine, And each heart responds to the sound of the gun. Or, haply, our squadron in ambuscade lies, To cut off a convoy and bear home the spoil ; Or with a wild shout some lone outpost surprise : One such moment atones for a whole life of toil On the field eVry soldier lives joyous and free ; The cup of true friendship he meets only there ; For the hand that presents it to-morrow may be The one that shall guard, that shall victory share. 244 THE BIVOUAC. Bob Hardyman* — who show'd as many scars As any veteran in his country's wars, Who never shunn'd the fight, but where it raged He forward rush'd, nor reck'd whom he engaged — Next raised his manly voice in martial song, And thrill'd the bosoms of the noble throng. THE RAPTURE OF THE STRIFE. What have we to do with rules, With learning, and those letter'd fools Whose teachings would but quench the flame That flashes in the breath of fame ? Be ours the trumpet, drum, and fife ; Be ours the rapture of the strife ! Yes ; fools deny the goblet's foam, Nor have our eyes o'er Beauty roam ; But Beauty smiles and wine-cups ring Where forward soldiers love and sing. Yes, love and wine give zest to life ; But O, the rapture of the strife ! Whilst the dull dotard dreams his dream, Our deeds shall wake man's glorious theme ; And o'er the votive goblet's brim High homage we will pay to Him Who gives the soul its fiery life In the wild rapture of the strife. Last sang young Freer, who shamed a Spanish corps That fear'd to charge on the Bidassoa's* shore : With scorn he waved his sword, a flaming brand, Then singly dash'd against the hostile band. A deed so startling roused the Spaniards' pride, And rushing on, they turn'd the battle-tide. The fight was won ; and midst their shouts of joy, Their highest theme, ' The noble English boy.' * See Napier. AGAIN FILL THE GLASS. 245 AGAIN FILL THE GLASS. Air — ' Hey for a Ia« wi' a tocher.' Burns. Again fill the glass, for the night's wearing fast ; Let this be a bumper — it must be the last. See, the sky to the eastward is now getting gray ; And, hark, there's the bugle. Come, drink and away. Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for battle ! Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for battle ! Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for battle ! So drink, my brave boys, and away. The sun in his splendour shines not like the ray Of Glory that lights on the brave to the fray ; And ere he goes down, the loud trumpet of Fame Shall blazon our deeds and shall tell every name. Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for batde ! Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for battle ! Hurrah ! 'tis the signal for battle ! So drink, my brave boys, and away. Betime the bugle's note had died away, Each stalwart arm was ready for the fray. The mountain-ridge is gain'd, and from its height They rash a river in its gathered might, Hurtling before its waves the broken ranks, And battle -wreck bestrews its crimson banks ; While riding on its flow, in proud array, The British banner lights the onward way. Drunken with Victory's cup the host reels on, Till Fame's loud trump proclaims, ' 'Tis done ! 'tis done !' The sword is sheathed, the lance is in its rest, The ' orde^d' rifle hugs its hero's breast ; Each brow is bared in homage, as they raise The song of triumph and the hymn of praise. 246 THE BIVOUAC. HYMN OF PRAISE. Air — ' Sound the loud timbrel.' ' Soldiers of Britain, now we've sheathed the sword, Come, join the loud chorus in praise to the Lord.' Great God, to Thy name we ascribe all the glory ; With hearts overflowing we give praise to Thee. To Thy throne we come to tell our glad story — Our arms are triumphant and England is free. ' Soldiers of Britain, now we've sheathed the sword, Come, join the loud chorus in praise to the Lord !' Lord, we acknowledge Thine almighty pow'r, Our shield and our buckler in each trying hour ; Thou great God of battle, who went out before us, And scatter'd the foemen with Thy flaming brand, We give Thee the praise — though our banner flies o'er us, The vict'ry was won by Thine own mighty hand. ' Soldiers of Britain, now we've sheathed the sword, Come, join the loud chorus in praise to the Lord.' THE BARRACK-ROOM. The trumpeter his blast has blown, The horses are all ' bedded down,' And fed with corn and hay ; Their heels well rubb'd, the stable swept, Utensils ranged, to see how kept By stableman that day. The next is warn'd, who counts them all — Brooms, buckets, forks in th' empty stall, The shovels and the barrow. ' Fall in ; nor let one word be said,' The sergeant cries, ' till I have read The orders for to-morrow.' Steady and silent now they stand, To hear their honour" d chief's command — A jolly troop are they : No brow is clouded, joy is there ; How little, comrade, is thy care ; Thy morrow's as to-day ! The orders read, the duties told, ' Right — face !' ' Quick — march !' in accents bold The sergeant-major cries ; With measured tread they march along, ' Break-off!' and up the stairs they throng — At that word order dies. 248 THE BARRACK-ROOM. The duties of the day were done, And all agreed to have some fun Within the barrack-room ; Determined 'twas that each should tell A tale, or sing, and thus dispel The winter evening's gloom. Tom Sabre, oldest soldier there, Was promptly voted to the chair, With right to make a call. He call'd on Wiltshire Will to prove How soldiers were esteem'd by Jove In his celestial hall. JOVE AND THE BRITISH SOLDIER. Air — ' Lillibulero. ' Great Jove sat in state to determine the claim Of the orders of men as they jostled for fame ; Though diverse their ways, and so rugged and strait, They all reach'd together the heavenly gate. When the priest, ever bold, cried, ' The prize must be mine ; For I'm your ambassador, Jove the divine.' ' That may be quite true ; but, sir priest, you were paid When you married or buried, anointed or pray'd : You offer'd no sacrifice worthy of fame ; So you may go back e'en the way that you came ; But first doff the mitre, that emblem of pride, And the crosier, the augur once wore by his side.' The poet and novelist — vague and verbose — On mountains of leaves would his own fame propose ; But his godship declared it was really too bad, Out of so many books such small good could be had ; So crumpling the leaves with a critical scoff, Poor three-volume bow'd, then back'd out, and was off. DANDY JACK S SONG. 249 And there was the rich man whose fame was his gold, And the mill-owner's claim was the profits he told ; The merchant's fame rested alone in his ships, And the statesman's in votes he had pandered to whips. Jove gather'd his thunder, prepared for a fling ; And the soldier was all that remain'd in the ring. Jove dropp'd his red bolt, and then said with a smile, 'Your hand, my brave soldier of Britain's fair isle; Fill a goblet with nectar, and drink to his name, So god-like in battle, so worthy of fame. With his sword in one hand, and his life in the other, Out of heaven we surely can't find such another.' Next Dandy Jack, a witty spark — Some say he'd been a lawyer's clerk, While others said a stoker — March'd in with slate and copybook, And sung, with a determined look, To the tune of 'Alley Croker.' DANDY JACK'S SONG. Air — 'Alley Croker." We live and learn How men will turn To follow fear or fashion ; When war breaks out, They loudly shout, ' Come, rally for the -nation, You best and brave ; 'Tis you must save Old England from dishonour ; 250 THE BARRACK-ROOM. Give blood and life To win the strife, And glory heap upon her. Q, the soldier, the patriotic soldier ! Hurrah, hurrah ! One more hurrah ! All honour to the soldier !' Now fear is by, They scorning cry, ' We'll teach you fellows writing j 'Tis slates and books, And strokes and crooks, That make men fit for fighting. A stronger blow You'll give the foe, If fired by a lecture ; Or at the school Have learn'd a rule, Or boy-like thumb'd a picture.' , O, the soldier, of thirty years and older, Must go to school, To learn the rule To be in battle bolder. Old comrade Bill, My blood's a-chill To think, when we're campaigning, How hearts will sink 'Fore pen and ink, And A B C's that's raining. Who ever thought Of battles fought With heffs and hoes and haiches ? With spelling-books, And stops and strokes, With riddles, glees, and catches ? THE CORPORAL'S WIFE'S SONG. 25 1 O, the soldier, of thirty years and older, Must go to school, To learn the rule To be in battle bolder. The corporal's wife upon him glanced, And on her wicked lips there danced The tauntings of her song ; And as she closed the last refrain, The swords and scabbards rang again With shoutings from the throng. THE CORPORAL'S (Abstainer's) WIFE'S SONG. Air — ' There's.nae luck about the house.' You loathe your meat, you cannot eat, Your stomach has no tone ; But come, my dear, I've grill'd you here A juicy mutton bone ; As I'm your wife, your tale of life Will very soon be told : I boil, I roast, I bake, I toast, Yet you can't eat hot nor cold ; But there you pine, and dwine, and dwine, Till your blood runs thin and cold ; While a glass of good beer your stomach would cheer, Whether it be new or old. Are you a Light, a Rechabite ? Will men example take, Think as you think, drink what you drink, All for the fuss you make ? And must you teach, and must you preach 'Gainst whisky, rum, and gin ? Why, in no age, nor in holy page, Is good home-brew'd a sin. Yet there you pine, &c. 252 THE BARRACK-ROOM. Right sure am I, would you but try A glass of home-brew'd ale, From bottle or wood, 'twould rich the blood, And make you strong and, hale. Withdraw the pledge, nor longer hedge Yourself with senseless rales ; They're only made for those decay'd To drunk and driVlling fools. But now you pine, &c. Fired by the loud approving cheer, Yet with the flame half quench'd in fear, ' Sweet Phil,' with modest mien, Seem'd seeking something in his throat ; At last he found the true key-note To sweet ' Kathleen Mavourneen.' KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. Air — ' Kathleen Mavourneen.' Kathleen Mavourneen, is't yet ye are wakin' ? The cock has been crowin' this half hour and more : The pig's gettin' restless, the cratur is squakin' ; Kathleen, get up now and open the door. I hope, if yer slapin', yer dhrames will upbraid ye, For kapin' me shivrin' here wet to the skin ; Or have ye forgot, now, the promise ye made me, To rise in the mornin' to let your Phil in ? Or have ye forgot, now, the promise ye made me, To rise in the mornin', Kathleen Mavourneen ? Kathleen, och, Kathleen ! to love ye I'm thryin', In spite of myself, and in spite of the hail ; "But, troth, I am thinkin' my love for ye's dyin' — I'll lave ye, sweet Kathleen, for Biddy M'Phail. DEFAULTERS ROOM. 253 Though she's not purty, her heart it is kinder — I broke it in two halves by comin' to you ; If s down in her turf-cover'd cabin I'll find her, Forgivin' as ever, and to her Phil true ; It's down in her turf-cover'd cabin I'll find her, My own dearest Biddy, my Biddy M'Phail. A trio, who would often be With ' pall' or ' chummie' on the spree, Now raised a merry song ; All silent sat, as sang the first ; But when the joyous chorus burst, They join'd in loud and long. DEFAULTERS' ROOM. First Defaulter. Here am I, for one day's spree, Shorn of six days' liberty ; Extra drill'd, denied to speak, And this pack my back will break. Second Defaulter. If you find the pack's a bore, Grumble on, but spree no more ; 'Tis but right that you should think Full six days for one of drink. Third Defaulter. Jolly soldiers never care How they live or how they fare ; We'll be merry, sing, and laugh, And the nut-brown ale we'll quaff. 254 THE BARRACK-ROOM. Second and Third Defaulters. Jolly soldiers never care How they live or how they fare ; While a friend the glass will fill, We'll bear the pack with right good will. Next Moralising Will stood forth, And said, ' My song's of priceless worth, Could I but once begin it. Silence, silence ! while I sing ; Then every man around the ring Will see the moral in it.' WISDOM AND FOLLY. Air — ' Contented wi' little.' Burns. As Wisdom and Folly Once met on the way, Says Wisdom, 'What, jolly So soon in the day ?' Quoth Folly, ' I'm merry, To laugh's my delight ; So come, brother Wisdom, Sup with me to-night.' The sage bow'd assenting, But felt rather sore, So brother'd by Folly— 'That Folly's a bore.' However, to supper That night he would go, Determined in Folly Some good seed to sow. A right hearty welcome, And pledged by each guest ; ' From good wine could ill come ?' The thought seem'd a jest. RECRUITING TOM'S SONG. 255 The wine-cup so sparkled, The wit was so bright, That Wisdom and Folly Were brothers that night. Straight under the table The sage his legs flung, And over the chair-back His right arm he swung ; So happy and jolly, So jolly, 'tis said, He was carried by Folly Right jolly to bed. Indignantly Recruiting Tom Stood up, and said, ' Shall I be dumb, When scoundrel I am called In Parliament by burly B , Who preaches peace when we should fight, And kneeling when we're thrall'd ? Scoundrel, forsooth ! take back, Sir B , The name to which you have most right, As chief in scoundrelism ; I'll just rhyme o'er one speech of yours, Made to win artisans and boors To your own ruffianism.' RECRUITING TOM'S SONG. Air — ' Bob and Joan. ' On a stump he stood, And this his oration : ' Trodden ones, I would Make you a free nation ; Crush'd not by the throne, And the privileged classes ; Princes we'll have none, None above the masses. 256 THE BARRACK- ROOM. Shall the artisan Be unrepresented ? Shall the free-born man Bear it unresented ? Shall the lordling bask In the poor man's earning ? To the holy task ! Strike before the warning ! Strike for higher wage — Strike for closing early — This is not the age For the strong to parley. Unity is power, Numbers make a nation ; Rise, and from that -hour, Farewell to taxation.' Just to hear him bray, And to see this go, Men from Edinbrae, Birmingham, and Glasgow, Run to cheer him on, Patting him, and saying, ' Well done, Quaker John, Brightest when you're braying !' ' Scoundrel, forsooth ! Now, with your leave, I'll prove, in a recitative, Clear as a spade a spade is, That he who shall revile us here, Revile the men who conquer fear ! Is rightly doom'd to Hades.' THE REVILERS HEAVEN. 257 THE REVILER'S HEAVEN. Recitative. To the great judgment-seat of Jove The Fates relentlessly pursued A craven spirit, who would prove, With boisterous words and manners rude, From youth he'd been a man of worth, To peace, good-will, and virtue given, And, as a great one of the earth, Claim'd, with the gods, to dwell in heaven. The Hell-queen cried with bitter'st scorn, ' Great Jove, behold the book divine — I've track'd his steps since he was bom, And mark'd him as a soul of mine. Envy his right hand never left ; His left held fast the hand of Pride ; And in his bosom's deepest cleft Hate to the great he'd ever hide. Hating the great, he feign'd a love And fellowship for artisan ; And to defy thee, mighty Jove, Set man against his fellow man ; Deceit, as wisdom, glibb'd his tongue To lure the masses to the creed, That franchise would redeem each wrong, Franchise alone would cheapen bread. As senator he woo'd the strife ; On platform stirr'd the passions up ; Confusion fell, and discord rife, Fill'd to the brim their rankling cup. 258 THE BARRACK-ROOM. In war — the war of words — he stood The bravest of the battle tried ; But in the war — the war of blood — " Peace, peace at any price !" he cried. Peace, traitor ! didst not thou revile, And scoundrel call the daring one Who conquer'd fear — he whom the smile Of Jove will ever shine upon ?' ' Daughter, he's thine ; mid deepest woe, A deeper woe to him be given ; Whilst he who conquers Fear shall know The joy of gods, with me, in heaven.' The Hell-queen, then, on sable wing, The caitiff spirit downwards bore, And hissing laughs derisive ring Along the dismal Stygian shore ; And phantoms in regimentals sweep On blighted winds, by Furies driven ; And as their lips in scorn they steep, Cry, ' This is the Reviler's Heaven.' Dumb on a stump, he'd fain harangue ; Dumb in hell's senate-house is he ; Trades'-union ghosts push out the tongue, And Peace is there in mockery. And round and round the phantoms sweep, On blighting whirlwinds fiercely driven ; And ever, as their lips they steep, Cry, ' This is the Reviler's Heaven.' Tom Carbine caught the chairman's eye, Who bow'd to him approvingly, Though many claim'd their say ; Tom kept his feet, and in the scramble, Sang feelingly the Code's preamble, Granting good-conduct pay. DRINK NOT. 259 DRINK NOT. THE ELEVENTH AND GREAT COMMANDMENT FOR THE ARMY. Air — 'Love not' (Imploringly.) Drink not, drink not ! and though the greatest scamp And disaffected scoundrel in the camp, Be steady, and your character is good, Although the foremost villain since the Flood. Drink not, drink not ! Drink not, drink not ! and though you shun the fight, Give us no trouble, and we'll make all right ; While serving we will give you extra pay, And extra pension when your head is gray. Drink not, drink not ! Drink not, drink not ! and then respected be, Though steep'd in rivers of iniquity ; Though in the brothel every night be spent, The greater debauchee the greater saint. Drink not, drink not ! Drink not, drink not ! seem moral, and we swear, Give us no trouble, and you've naught to fear; Converse in oaths, blaspheme the Holy Spirit, You'll still be worthy of the badge of merit. Drink not, drink not ! Next Joe the trumpeter stood forth, And said, ' My song 's of little worth ; But then to Tom's 'tis equal : He gave you but the Code's preamble (Who keeps its rules must fear and tremble) ; I give you now the sequel.' 260 THE BARRACK-ROOM. THE DEVIL AT FAULT. Air— ' Alley Croker. ' Afore their time, In manhood's prime, Two souls the devil collar'd, And swung his tail Round like a flail, To thrash them if they holler'd. They struggled sore ; But fierce he swore That each of them was his'n ; And to the death He stopp'd their breath With thumb upon their weasan'. O, the bother ! he never had such bother, Two souls to take Below to bake, Or in the brimstone smother. In look allied ; But when he tried To bind them both together, One to the sky Began to fly As lightly as a feather ; While in a funk The other sunk With his good-conduct badges — Each one a mark That in the dark He'd ta'en the devil's wages. ' O morality, they paid me for morality ! I drank and swore, Besides much more ; And that was my morality.' THE DEVIL AT FAULT, 26 1 The other soul Produced a roll Of crimes for which convicted ; And opposite To each was writ The punishment inflicted. Thus, day by day, He wiped away The devil's loathsome leaven, And made secure An exit sure By which to get to heaven. ' O, my passport, I now have got my passport ! My race is run, My penance done, And I have got my passport' TIu Devil, solo. I bribed a priest With promised feast, And that I'd make his nation The first on earth For moral worth, To frame this regulation : ' That soldiers may For G. C. pay Sell me both soul and body.' The mark'd I've got, And yet I've not Got one for drinking toddy. O, he's sold me ! they were all mine, he told me ; And yet that ghost I now have lost Shows how the villain sold me. 262 THE BARRACK-ROOM. Joe said, with his sarcastic smile, ' Ye mark'd, ye devil's own ! in file March round the barrack-room ; And ye who wipe your sins away In painful penance day by day, Now cheer them to their doom.' Loud, long, and lusty rang the cheer ; The pointed finger told the jeer; When Joe, to calm the strife, Proposed that Shifty Dick should tell Of Buffstick and the Norwich belle, And their sweet wedded life. TOM BUFFSTICK AND THE NORWICH BELLE. Air — ' Lothian Lassie.' Tom Buffstick was tired of lying alone, And said the ' nights march'd' past in ' slow time ;' That two in a bed were far better than one ; So he would get married in no time, in no time ; So he would get married in no time. Tom brush'd up his buttons, and polish'd his shoes, Gave each one rub more to look smarter ; He challenged ; the answer, ' Your Poll can't refuse.' My life on't, but Tom caught a tartar, a tartar ; My life on't, but Tom caught a tartar. As he thought of pleasure, and she but of fame, No question was ask'd till they married ; And though Scandal whisper'd that Poll was to blame Her darts she most skilfully parried — yes, parried ; Her darts she most skilfully parried. The honeymoon pass'd as roost honeymoons do, Far brighter when waxing than waning ; Nor long till the last beam was hid from their view. IT SOUNDS — AWAY ! 263 Tom sigh'd, but 'twas no use complaining, complaining ; Tom sigh'd, but 'twas no use complaining. The days pass'd in skirmishing, jealousies, strife ; From marriage no joy could he borrow. With his face to the wall, and his back to his wife, The nights seem'd to ' mark time' in sorrow, in sorrow ; The nights seem'd to * mark time' in sorrow. Sam Sabretasche so fired the throng, As breathless on his words they hung, That, rising one and all, They sang in chorus, o'er and o'er, As chorus ne'er was sung before In barrack-room or hall : • IT SOUNDS— AWAY !' AIR — ' Wreath the bowk' Irish Melodies. Come, quickly pass The sparkling glass, Nor mind though 'tis the last, boys ; A soldier ne'er Should know dull care, Nor think of pleasures past, boys. With morning's light We'll join in fight, Bold front to front opposing ; And where's the foe, When weapons glow, Can stand the Briton's closing? So let the glass Now quickly pass, We've pleasure brighter far, boys ; To mingle in The battle's din, And all the scenes of war, boys. 264 THE BARRACK-ROOM. While others quaff Their wine and laugh, They think not of the tameness Of their dull lives, And though each strives At life, 'tis all a sameness. Wine may impart To each cold heart One ray to soothe its sadness, And for a while Dull care beguile, And wake the song of gladness : But when the morn These joys have shorn, They cannot count the pleasure That soldiers feel When hill and dale Wake to the gun's glad measure. It sounds — away ! O ! who would stay ? E'en wine itself grows darkling, When on the heath, Forth from the sheath The glowing steel leaps sparkling. And when we know That brave's the foe, And bent, like us, on fighting, Can life fill up, In Pleasure's cup, A joy half so exciting ? No, no : the glass Then quickly pass — Three cheers, and then we go, boys, To mingle in The battle's din, To meet and beat the foe, boys. THE BARRACK-ROOM CHORUS. 265 Tom Sabre with commanding air Rose from the presidential chair (In English plain, a bed), Saying, ' Comrades, round in circle stand, In friendship grasp the friendly hand ;' Then he the chorus led : THE BARRACK-ROOM CHORUS. Air — The Bohemian National Air. Solo. What though the barrack-room Humble may be ? Dear as the noble's home Is it to me. Chorus. Home in the barrack-room, Comrades are there, True as their temper'd steel, Banishing care. Solo. Comrades, the fighting few, Men who will dare ; Hope of the many who Sumptuously fare ; Give them their peace at home, Proud though they be ; Friends of the barrack-room, Prouder are we. Chorus. Home in the barrack-room, &c. 266 THE BARKACK-ROOM. Solo. Off to the battle-field Gaily we ride ; Each arm old England's shield, Each heart her pride ; Where foemen thickest stand Head we our way, Where hand doth grapple hand Shout we ' Hurrah !' Chorus. Home in the barrack-room, &c. Solo. Comrades, the men who win England her fame ; On ! let the battle's din Your deeds proclaim. Famed though her statesmen be, Softly they lie ; Nobler the destiny For her to die. What though the barrack-room Humble may be ? Dear as the noble's home Is it to me. Chorus. Home in the barrack-room, &c. The horses heard the wild uproar, And kick'd the posts and shook the floor,* And clank'd their logs and chains ; * The barrack-rooms are usually over the stables. THE BARRACK-ROOM CHORUS. 267 They knew their masters' joyous cheer, Snorted as though the foe were near, And long'd to feel the reins. The chorus o'er, they all disperse ; Some sing the fag end of a verse, While others crack a jest ; And many laugh, as they turn down Their bedsteads, and shake-up the ' down'- Then happy sink to rest. POEMS AND EPIGRAMS. THE SPIRIT OF BRITAIN'S ADDRESS TO THE SOLDIER. O thou who standest midst the martial throng Of Europe's sons, the crown'd of Victory ; Whose robe is glory, deck'd with pearls and gems, And golden wreaths, where Valour's hand has traced Deeds made immortal by the breath of Fame ; Prince of the brave, throned on the bow of time, That men may homage pay and upwards climb, And emulate thy daring, — History's sun Down from his zenith pours a flood of light Upon thy diadem, thy robe of gold, D imm ing the lustre of all other lands ; And when he sinks into forgetfulness, His parting ray shall rest upon thy brow, The first and greatest of true Valour's sons, Thou British soldier ! TOM BRAGGER'S GHOST. The lightning's flash illumed the tent, When Bragger's ghost we see ; Dejected, weary, woe-begone, He said, ' Be warn'd by me. When we were marching to the breach, I turn'd about to fly ; And no one saw the wicked deed, None saw the coward die. 272 POEMS. You laid me 'neath the mountain cairn, You fired o'er my grave ; And I the only coward there, With fifty true and brave. Each hero gain'd a golden crown, All gemm'd with jewels rare; Whilst I in darkest cell must lie, The comrade of Despair. As night comes round, at open files In double rank they stand ; All face to face, with bay'net fix'd, Or naked sword in hand. And through them I from flank to flank Must march by tap of drum ; That each may time his cut or thrust, And send the bay'net home. Stricken I reel, but cannot fall, The bay'nets keep me up, And push me on, and push me back — O, 'tis a bitter cup ! At noon of night, all bleeding, bare, They drum me from the grave ; Chased by the imps of Fear, that they May bind me as their slave. At cock-crow back, but not to rest ; For when or they or you Tell o'er your deeds, the sword of scorn Pierces me through and through. And when your battle-cheer rings out, I stifle in red flame — A fire that burns but not consumes — The burning blush of shame !' THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. 273 Fear clutch'd the ghost as chanticleer Rang out his thrilling crow ; And in the distance we could hear, ' Woe to the coward ! woe !' THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. From flank to flank the trumpets ring, Proudly the Light Brigade advances ; Back on the foe his shout they fling, As waving high each sabre glances. Proud of their strength, and proud to know Their deeds that day, at Balaclava, Would be by wondering friend and foe Told on the Seine and on the Neva, In bush, in brake, in glen, in glade, Behind the rocks, among the heather, On right and left in ambuscade, By companies the Russians gather. In front come plunging shot and shell, In front an army's waiting ready ; Yet on they ride right true and well, Their sole command, ' No hurry ! Steady !' With steady hand their steeds they guide, That knee to knee be lock'd when closing ; Now in their flanks the row'ls they hide, And rock-like fall on all opposing. Through guns, through squadrons column deep, On, onward still, through squares they're dashing, O'erwhelming as the whirlwind's sweep, When oaks are bending, rifting, crashing. 274 POEMS. The blast is spent ; but fiercer now Each red and reeking sabre's gleaming ; Each skilful thrust, each stalwart blow, Brings from the foe his life-blood streaming. No more they speed their onward way — In clouds the foemen round are closing ; In front, in rear, in close array, Where'er they turn, a host's opposing. The trumpets ring — quick as the light They cut their way through thronging masses, Who dare not bide their charging might, But open as each hero passes. Ride on ! ride fast ! ride as you may, Nor skill nor courage now's availing ; A hundred guns to check your way With blazing shell and grapeshot hailing. Ride on ! ride fast ! for, left and right, Pick'd riflemen the hill-tops cover ; And horse, who lately shunn'd the fight, Close on the rear in thousands hover. Ride on ! though now they check their speed, The withering cross-fire still is telling, And many a rider, many a steed, The ' list of casualties' is swelling. Of that six hundred few return ; Yet all are shrined in Britain's story, And, beacon-like, their deeds shall burn — Our children's light to fame and glory. PRECEDENCE IN GLORY. 275 PRECEDENCE IN GLORY. PART I. THE LAY OF EARTH. On that mighty river's shore, Bound of time for evermore, Stands the Angel of the Lord, Watching by its only ford. Prince and peasant, lord and slave, Trembling look upon its wave ; Turning all from, that one ford, Watch'd by Angel of the Lord. As the river's deep and wide, Each prefers a priest as guide ; Some upon a sandy ridge Dig foundations for a bridge. Rain descends, and sweeps away All their works of sand and clay ;. Then upon some name they'll cross, Though the billows rage and toss. Papist, Greek, and Lutheran, Wesleyan and Puritan, Free, U. P., and all exclaim, ' The only way is on our name.' Launch'd upon the sea of trouble, With a priest to steer the bubble, They are driven back to shore, Ne'er to trust the priesthood more. Baffled by the stormy tide, See them, follow" d by their guide, Come at last to that one ford, Watch'd by Angel of the Lord. 276 POEMS. Sects commingle, hand in hand Presbyter and Papist stand, Wond'ring how that priestly strife Sever'd them so long in life. Now the Angel of the Lord Waves on high his flaming sword ; To the rear this word be pass'd : ' The last be first, the first be last. In the front, to cross the sea Leading to eternity, He who with his life in hand Battled for his native land. Bright the crown that waits him there, Deck'd with gems and jewels rare; Robed in royal purple then, He who dared the shock of men. Next in order, from the rear, He who stay'd the widow's tear, Listen'd when the orphan cried, Comforted when sorrow sigh'd. Let the uncomplaining poor Be the next to leave the shore ; Follow'd by the learned, who Doubted till death came in view. And the last — 'tis all forgiven, Blotted from the book of heaven — They who ever taught their sect They alone were God's elect.' PRECEDENCE IN GLORY. 277 PART II. THE LAY OF HEAVEN. On that river's farther shore, Bound of time for evermore, Rapt in adoration now, All before the Godhead bow. Ev'ry tongue with praise is mute ; Grateful tears — words' substitute — Flowing till the ravish'd throng Utter forth their praise in song. Song to their own faVrite tune, Soft as zephyr's breath in June, Tune of earth now heaven's shall be — 'Nearer, O my God, to Thee.'* 'Glory, O God, to Thee, Glory to Thee ; With the angelic host Worshipping Thee, Ever our song shall be : Glory, O God, to Thee, Glory to Thee. Calm'd was death's troubled tide, Jesus, by Thee ; Borne on Thy cross of love, Come we to Thee, Singing our jubilee : Glory, dear Lamb, to Thee, Glory to Thee. Spirit, Guide, Counsellor, Comforter, Friend, Through the dark vale of time Unto the end, — Veiling our faces, we Raise our glad song to Thee : Glory to Thee.' * Hymns Ancient and Modern, No. 200. 278 POEMS. Ere the song had ceased, there came Messenger from God the Lamb, ' Welcome over Jordan's stream To the New Jerusalem.' Here is joy without a tear ; Friends of youth and age are here ; Husband, mother, wife, and child, Who on earth your cares beguiled. Lone ones in the crowded street, Lazarus at the rich man's feet, Little wildlings — all are here ; Jesus saw and felt their tear. Houseless, homeless, blind, and lame, Son of sorrow, she of shame, Wayside leper — all are here ; Jesus saw and felt their tear. He who worshipp'd the Great Spirit ; He who penance did for merit ; Pariah and Moslem's here ; God the Father heard their pray'r. Priest who scorn'd the other's creed ; He who made the martyrs bleed, Tongues and nations — all are here ; As their light was, so their pray'r. Wear with them the crown of gold, Wear the robe of spotless fold ; Tune your voices, strike the lyre, Mingle in the heavenly choir. In their courses, day by day, All in orderly array, Saints and angels ever sing, 'Holy, holy, Lord and King.' WHETHER, WHEN, AS TIME ROLLS ON. 279 Chieftains they who lead the choir, Martyrs with the golden lyre, Sainted patriots who fell For that land they loved so well. Not more bright their crown of gold, Nor fuller joy, the purple fold Marks the leaders as they sing, ' Holy, holy, Lord and King.' God the Father, God the Son, God the Spirit, three in one, Welcome all o'er Jordan's stream To the New Jerusalem. WHETHER, WHEN, AS TIME ROLLS ON. Whether, when, as time rolls on, Trade will rule the House and Throne, Comrade, who shall say ? Trade ! the very devil's in it! Thus 'tis worshipp'd by the Senate ; To their sleeve the Council pin it, When they kneel to pray. Whether, when, as time rolls on, There will be or not a throne, Comrade, who shall say? For the trader's first suggestion, And the Senate's foremost question, Is the one their seats all rest on — Will or won't it pay ? Whether, when, as time rolls on, British youth the sword will don, Comrade, who shall say? 280 POEMS. For the traders from their coffer Such a paltry pittance offer, Proving each a mocking scoffer, Though we win the fray. Whether, when, as time rolls on, Traders can uphold their own, Comrade, who can say ? Hitherto we've kept their treasure, Hitherto our swords we'd measure With the foeman, at their pleasure — Would they dare the fray ? Whether, when, as time rolls on, And the froth and dregs* are gone, Comrade, will the fray Give to England greater glory, Give her page a brighter story, Than the fields we made so gory ? Time can only say. Whether, when, as time rolls on, And all people look upon Soldiering as a trade, Will cold Reasonf leave his labour, To get rich before his neighbour, With the bayonet and sabre, Gatlin and grenade ? * Mr. G. O. Trevelyan, from his place in Parliament, designated the army as the 'froth and dregs of society.' + Sir Charles Trevelyan, whose opinions are embodied in the late Enlist- ment Act, believes that by shortening the period of service our well-to-do artisans, men earning from five to six shillings a day, would join the army. And wherefore ? Not to better their condition, certainly ; and, from their education, we can scarcely suppose from pure patriotism. THE NATIONAL HYPOCRITE. EPIGRAM. In Hawick's fair city Its member's most witty, Men sing out his praise till they're hoarse ; And yet 'tis a pity, The member most witty Is witty because he is coarse. Another great pity, In one who's so witty, His wit is in twisting a word ; From city to city He lectures — what pity, He lectures to libel the sword ! OUR PARTY, RIGHT OR WRONG. Behold our statesmen, how for place they scramble, How bold and recklessly with truth they gamble ; The honest thought is strangled on their tongue By these five words, ' Our party, right or wrong.' THE NATIONAL HYPOCRITE. You who profess to lead the nation's thought, Who claim to be the censors of the time, Who by your learning and position ought To check your country's downward course in crime ; Why longer act the hypocrite, and toy With themes you half condemn, yet half enjpy ? Do you not visit Anaitis' shrine, Where Innocence is lured by scenic grace ; Where young and old, seduced by viol and wine, Live ever after in lasciviousness ? 282 POEMS. Shall noble dame and daughter longer kneel To Anaitis? Where's your shaft, of steel ? Blunted by acquiescence. Sirs, be men, And lay the lewd Ephesian temple low ; Shame the loose vices of the money'd ten, And stay the crowd from sinking in the slough. The soldier, your sole quarry* hitherto, Laughs at the hypocrite, and points at you. Do not the deeds of an adulterous quean, Though gloss'd in all the witchery of art, Induce the maid to peep behind the screen, And loose the zone of virtue from her heart ? Sin clothed in beauty works a double charm, In men and nations doing double harm. Thus, who shall choose adultery for his theme, The wanton's wiles to lure the hoary sage, Teaches to hold the goddess in esteem, And damns his country as he damns his page. But not the soldier, who such glory wins ; For valour hides a multitude of sins. THE COTTON LORDS. You need not pass the other side, And slight the soldier in your pride ; You too must stem the ebbing tide, My cotton lords. When riding on wealth's sunny flow, The soldier's claim you scorn'd to know, Though oft for help to him you'd go, My cotton lords. * See Appendix No. III. THE COTTON LORDS. 283 We've heard you cry, ' Protect our dwelling ; The mob comes on like waters swelling : Soldier ! can you not hear them yelling 'Gainst cotton lords ?' They pass'd ; and you received no harm, Protected by the soldier's arm ; Yet not one heart to him will warm, In cotton lords. Your little world — 'twas all you knew — The Southern States where cotton grew, Will no more cotton grow for you, My cotton lords. Over the map you muse and mope, For other cotton countries grope ; 'Tis found — and India's all your hope, My cotton lords. How fondly now you turn your face To Canning's pride, to his disgrace ; Did not the soldier mark the place For you, my lords ? 'Twas a new map which Canning show'd, The red rubbed out where Britons stood ; ' Tis now re-marked with soldier? blood, My cotton lords. No Indian cotton that you spin, No pound of gain which you may win, But has the soldier's blood within, My cotton lords. When God again shall turn the tide, And joyous on its flow you ride, For the old veteran provide, My cotton lords. 264 POEMS. EPIGRAM. ' I scorn thee, soldier ! as I fear thy trade ; My cheek turns pale to see thy bloody blade.' ' Mine's flush'd with pride to know, though poor I be, My manhood shelters even such as thee ; Doubtless thy hate is deep, because the blade .Defends thy home as it protects thy trade.' THE QUEEN OF WEAPONS. After the manner of Korner's ' Sword-Song.' ' No more shalt thou be called Brown Bess ; A two-edged glitt'ring crown shall press Thy brow, and nations all confess Of weapons thou art queen.' ' Ne'er mind the name ; when freemen wield My sceptre o'er the battle-field, The foe, whoe'er he be, shall yield, And own my iron sway.' ' Then let me press thee in these arms, And gaze upon thy glitt'ring charms ; Thy ray my heart for battle warms — A nobler flame than love.' ' And when, my soldier, I am prest Against thy ardent manly breast, My burning heart is ill at rest, Till bursting forth in flame.' ' Awhile thy burning heart control, And soon shall thy unerring ball Sink deep into its destined goal — The bosom of the foe. ENGLAND AFTER THE INDIAN MUTINY. 285 Hurrah, bright queen ! thou dost impart Fresh ardour to thy soldier's heart, And nerve his arm to do his part Against his country's foes.' ' But, soldier, I will never be An instrument of tyranny ; If he who wields me be not free, My heart of fire would burst ; My crown grow dim, were I but prest Against a slave or tyrant's breast ; The very stock on which I rest Would suddenly decay.' ' Thou Briton's pride ! my arm shall wreathe Thee fondly now — and fond, in death, This day I'll clasp thee on the heath, E'en falling in the strife.' ENGLAND AFTER THE INDIAN MUTINY. Prostrate before the great high Throne See a repentant people fall ; Touch'd to the quick for glory gone, They pray deliv'rance from their thrall ; Touch 'd for their trade; for children stoned, For wives insulted, sons impaled : As Nineveh of old atoned, So have their cries and tears prevail'd. The cloud of sadness round the throne Has pass'd away for songs of mirth, And from the tower the joy-bells' tone Cheers lordly hall and cottage hearth ; 286 POEMS. The busy mart with gladness swells, The red wine circles in the cup, And golden-finger'd Commerce tells, Exultingly, that ' Trade is up.' Now deep and deeper sinks the mine, And fiercer now the furnace glows ; A longer train sweeps o'er the line ; The merry hand the shuttle throws; And Commerce takes a wider range, Full to the brim is England's cup ; And merchant princes tell on 'Change,* Exultingly, that ' Trade is up.' And who gave gladness to the throne ; To lordly hall and cottage mirth ; To Commerce gave so wide a zone, As to encircle half the earth ? He whose red footstep, just or not, Is England's diplomatic seal ; Nor yet have Chinamen forgot The vigour of his tempered steel. Why trade is up ? Go ask the man Who govern'd — nay, supinely lost — The empire old of Hindostan : Reconquer'd at so dear a cost, By him whose foot ne'er turn'd aside, Till on the hall of the Mogul The British ensign floated wide, And Retribution's cup was full. Who never asks, or right or wrong (His country's bidding, all he knows), And aye is foremost in the throng, If in the front be England's foes. * When the news of the final victory arrived from China, the author heard a member of the Stock Exchange say, ' There will be light hearts on 'Change to-day that were depressed yesterday. Trade will be up.' RETURNING THANKS FOR THE ARMY. 287 War strikes his comrade at his side, One half his strength he sees lie low ; Yet with a more determined stride, Into the fight we see him go. But where is now the people's prayer, And where their thanks in votive wine ? We point to heaven, and answer, ' There, Recorded by the Hand divine :' Recorded there, forgotten here, Forgotten too the soldier's claim ; What matter ! they can never tear One leaflet from his wreath of fame. The soldier envies not the great, He envies not the lordly name ; For though so humble, Time nor Fate Can rob the veteran of his fame. Though England may despise the hand, That, lifted, sunk in death to save her ; Yet foes proclaim in every land, His fame shall live, and live for ever. RETURNING THANKS FOR THE ARMY. Accept through me, an old Dragoon, the thanks Of those undaunted spirits in the ranks Of our brave army ; And — my life upon it, for I know their worth — They'd die, ere hostile foot should tread your hearth, Or ever harm ye. Shall Russian serf at our pure fountains sip ? Shall foeman dare with his polluting lip To insult our daughters ? !80 POEMS. Not, sires, while ye beget such sons as they Who fought at Inkerman, and won the day By Alma's waters. Sing Balaclava to your lisping boy ; Then shall he grasp his country's sword with joy, And emulate that cavalry. Tell him how Havelock glory fought to gain, And wrote his name upon the sacred fane Of England's chivalry. And tell him how consistently he trod The narrow pathway to the soldier's God, In Christian beauty ; As his example, Havelock, soldier-saint, He'll as a Christian nor as soldier faint, But do his duty. Imprint upon the tablets of his soul The brightest page in Britain's martial roll — 'Tis Lucknow held, and Delhi captured ; Let mothers sing it with his morning hymn, Let sisters join ; till to the very brim His spirit is enraptured. Our soldiers, with a Havelock or a Clyde, Breast the red wave of battle's fiercest tide, O'er all victorious ; They spend their youth, they spend their manhood's prime, To make their country's flag in every clime Honour'd and glorious. Well may we, Britons, boast of such a race, Where hero-courage lights each manly face O'er fallen foe ; Calm amidst perils, as they're fierce in fight, Our soldiers meet the foe with stern delight, But never bow- FRAGMENT. 289 FRAGMENT. From a paraphrase of the pamphlet The British Army in 1868, and an essay in Good Words by the same author. You who're crush'd beneath taxation, And would save yourselves and nation, See the soldiers nothing doing, Each a useless life pursuing ; Drill'd just but to step together, To salute their chieftain's feather, And each day to wash their faces Ere they go to court the Graces ; Walk the streets with knightly strides, Claiming the Graces as their brides. Confound them ! Nothing more to do Than cock their caps, and wink, and woo, To win the flashings of those eyes Which belted knights* would deem a prize ; They take the wall, whoever winces, And look as haughtily as princes. Just for this they're kept in clover, And when twenty years are over, Pension'd, that they still may live Drones within our busy hive. If you'd cure this crying evil, Hurrying England to the devil, Both in morals and finances, In my plan your only chance is. None the soldier knows so well, Nor his inner life can tell. I've read Cassar's Commentaries, Military dictionaries, * Sir C. Trevelyan, in Good Words, says, half-despairingly, half-indig- nantly : ' Every private in the Horse Guards is ex officio a gentleman ; and it would not be half so bad if it was an infantry regiment of the line, or even an ordinary cavalry regiment. . . . These irresistible militaires. . . . The prestige of the military character, combined with youth and exquisite finish of outward appearance, is what few simple inexperienced country girls can withstand.' U 290 POEMS. Hudibras, the Country Parson, Horsley, Tom Paine, Tupper, Pearson, Wealth of Nations, Thack'ray's Georges, Lives of Saints, Lucretia Borgia's ; Nightly read up metaphysics, Natural history, and ethics ; Even ' walk'd' the barrack square, And one thing I noted there : Two men standing vis-a-vis Uttering rank mutiny ; Whilst a non-commissioned officer, Gravely aping the philosopher, Listen'd till the tale was spun, Then, patronising, said, ' Well done !' Is not this an evil, crying, ' British discipline is dying' ? Trochu march'd with, mess'd with, then Boasts his knowledge of his men. But can marching, messing, give Knowledge how the soldiers live ? I have read ; and reading tells ■ Why the bosom sinks and swells ; Why — the devil's in the man ! — This digressing ? here's my plan : Take our youth in their last teen, When the mind is fresh and green, When the heart is pure and holy, Ere that it has stoop'd to folly, When their mothers' law is theirs, Then enlist them for three* years. Make them cipher, read, and write ; Occupy them day and night ; Lecture-room and dominoes Fire the man to meet his foes. How their young minds will expand * ' I think there would be no difficulty of reducing the service to three years. 1 Speech in Parliament by Mr. Cardwell. FRAGMENT. 29 1 Marching up and down the land ! How refined their walks and ways In billets upon market-days, And hiring-fairs, and cattle-shows ; In skittle-courts, aunt-sally throws ; Songsters, fiddlers, volunteers, Gipsies, cheap-jack auctioneers, All the world in its variety, All the phases of society, Crowd upon them — booths and benches, Squires and ladies, clowns and wenches. Sweet their joys as night advances, Footing jigs and thridding dances, Waltzing in their scarlet blouses O'er the floors of public-houses. Resting then — the happy pairs — In the lobbies, on the stairs, Till the morning rises red ; Kiss, shake hands, then off to bed. How suggestive — for a sonnet — Parsons well might lecture on it, Essays write, and preach, and pray The consummation of that day. Elijah's mantle fain they'd steal, To fire their hearts with holy zeal ; As now in the Apocalypse They read that love* may move their lips, That charity may hate subdue, And mercy's bow'ls ache through and through ; And righteousness flow from their tongue As glibly as a ribald song, Or beggars' brawlings when their brats Have fought it like Kilkenny cats, * For love and charity towards their erring flocks, see Macmillari s Maga- zine for September 1863, article on ' Recruiting,' by an Army Chaplain ; also Contemporary Review, December 1869, 'The Philosophy of Recruiting,' by the Rev. Phipps Onslow. 292 POEMS. Or soldiers' swearings o'er the beaker When bugles blow and good's the liquor, Or slander slips through their own prayings, Like ass's snortings through his brayings ; Poor brute ! the snorting's not intended, But then, by it, his braying's mended. Pray pardon, while I thus digress, But parsons one and all confess That nothing would our youth so polish, Nothing give them such a relish For domestic, rural life, Whenever they shall take a wife. Such my plan — and its success, In morals, would the nation bless. Besides, 'twould save us much vexation And a ruinous taxation. Not a standing army then ; Each a soldier-citizen, Who would boldly dare and do All that's dictated by you. Fifty thousand ev'ry year Would quit trade, and volunteer Without the wretched fife and drum : And as many go back home ; Patterns, through their education, To the masses of the nation ; Link'd to them* by hooks of steel, So identical's their weal. Happy union ! see in France The soldiers with the sword and lance Reversed, to show their sympathy, When rank and wealth and order fly Before the patriotic cry, Equality! Fraternity! * ' I look forward to seeing the broad line of demarcation between the army and civil life in some way diminished.' Speech in Parliament by Mr. Cardwell, Secretary of State. PATRIOTISM. 293 PATRIOTISM. 'What constitutes a State? . . . Men, high-minded men ; Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain. These constitute a State.' Sir. W. Jones. Then what's a British patriot? One that is suckled upon gain, The cradle-creed he lisps is gain, His prayer in prime and age is gain ; And that's the British patriot. What is a British patriot ? One who defenceless leaves the strand, And all the harbours of the land ; Whose motto's, The unready hand; And that's the British patriot. What is a British patriot? 'Tis he that hires a true man's hand To fight the battles of his land, Yet glories in the war he plann'd ; And that's the British patriot. What is a British patriot ? A man without one grateful thought To him who for his country fought, Who all its fame and glory wrought ; And that's the British patriot. What is the British patriot ? A hypocrite that bows the knee Before and after victory, And then withholds the veteran's fee ; And that's the British patriot. 294 EPIGRAMS. EPIGRAM. The banish'd heart for home will mourn, The cricket seek the cosy fire, The dog will to his vomit turn, The sow to wallowing in the mire : So he, whose prime is spent to gain, Still to the golden profit hankers, E'en when in office — this too plain — Who sold, as old, new dockyard anchors ? EPITAPH. In life I strove to undermine the throne, But death o'ertook me ere the task was done : So from the grave I'd teach — ' The rabble's cry Is the almighty voice of majesty ; Before it bow, wouldst thou exalt thy name, And with me, people's William, live in fame.' ENGLAND'S AUGEAN STABLE. Wisdom hath her secretaries of state, And Folly thrusts upon her one for war, Although he's ever stumbling in debate, And measures, through his ignorance, doth mar ; Although he's junior clerk, a simple novice, In England's Augean stable — the War Office. ENGLAND EATING THE LEEK. Of old, at threat of shaken whip, A Briton would for battle strip, Whoe'er the foe, whate'er the odds. But now, though he is lash'd with rods, He slavishly turns t'other cheek : Kick'd by the Russ, he eats the leek, And rubs his seat and wipes his eye, Till soothed by the Gladstonian cry, ' Better be kick'd than battle try.' THE TWO VETERANS. 295 THE TWO VETERANS. A FRAGMENT. First Veteran. An ancient comrade's face lays memory bare, And brings in vivid view the hardy deeds, The joys, the sorrows, and the cherish'd scenes, Of long companionship : 'tis life renew'd. Second Veteran. Not oft have la. face to look upon; Yet ever trooping round my weary hours, Are thoughts of other years ; familiar faces, Ay, voices too, will come and rob the night Of half its loneliness. I love to live One half my mental life in memory, The other half in that great mystic future. These are so closely bound and link'd together, That this poor body's present slender claims Are like a crush'd-out file from their close ranks, And, in the rear, but little thought upon. All dear remembrances are springs of joy, That, river-like, the farther from their source, The deeper channels wear ; and, at the last, Spread out in one wide ocean of delight, Which bears the spirit outward, till the route Is sign'd for her release. First Veteran. Would I were like thee, If, with thy poverty, I had thy mind ! 296 POEMS. THE VETERANS' MEETING. Do you remember when we took the shilling, How the old sergeant bade us drink, so kindly ? How he half whisper'd, ' Are you free and willing ?' But we, like many, did not enter blindly ; We knew the value of the old man's story — Of pretty maids who followed to be kiss'd, Of quick promotion, stripes and stars, and glory, Of all the tales he had upon his list. Do you remember him ? Do you remember our old friends, so jolly, Whose rough good nature stole on the affections, Whose ringing laughter banish'd melancholy And canker'd care from all our recollections ? Whenever Memory opens her rich treasure Of cherish'd scenes about my boyhood's home, They fade, as dreams, before the sunny pleasure With those old comrades of the barrack-room. Do you remember them ? Do you remember, when we were campaigning, The marchings, watchings, toiling, and patrolling? The thick'ning dangers, heart to heart enchaining, Lifting the spirit beyond earth's controlling? What inspiration when young Blunt was dying ! How god-like were the flashes from his eye ! As he beheld their squadrons broken, flying, He join'd the cheer, but 'twas to cheer and die. Do you remember him? Do you remember, when, the campaign over, Young Harry Dashwood's life was ebbing slowly, He whisper'd, ' Comrade, I shall ne'er recover, For yesternight an angel, bending lowly, RETRIBUTION. 297 Thus spake : " There is reserved a robe of beauty, First for all those who truly serve their God ; And next for thee, and all who do their duty, Marching right onward at their country's nod" ' ? Do you remember him ? Yes, I remember, and his words are stealing Deeper and deeper in my old heart's centre ; Even when at the great high Throne I'm kneeling, The thought of him will uninvited enter. Yes, side by side we trod the path of duty, Marching right onward at our country's nod ; And side by side with him, in robes of beauty, We hope to dwell in presence of our God. Yes ; I remember him. RETRIBUTION. No. I. Napoleon's reign by blood was usher'd in, And blood from earth to heaven is ever crying With voices louder than the battle's din, To scare the vagabond wherever flying. O fallen Emperor ! O wretched man ! Ten thousand voices chase thee from Sedan ; Ten thousand more from Paris hunt thee down, And phantoms trample on thy bloody crown ; Whilst Fate stands by with sable wing, to bear Thy spirit to the mansions of despair. RETRIBUTION. No. II. The Church's champion when a Tory, Now a Whig her deadliest foe; Read G in Iscariot's story, The kiss, betrayal, payment, woe : With God his foe, nor man his friend, Imagination sees his end. 2 98 POEMS. THE SENTIMENTAL DEMAGOGUE. Air — ' Alley Croker.' Place, Exeter Hall. My friends, your shame I now proclaim — ■ The heathens still are kneeling To sticks and stocks And granite rocks, Which have no sense or feeling. You need not mind, Though you should find The poor in our own alleys, Who never heard The gladsome word, To turn from sins and follies. But O, the heathen ! one dear benighted heathen Is worth a score Of our own poor ; The dear dark lovely heathen. How dutiful, How beautiful, That our own feet should carry The book of life, Which says, ' One wife Is all a man may marry' ! You need not mind, Though you should find Our own poor herd together In roofless shed, Unclad, unwed, In pinching wintry weather. THE DEVIL AND THE AUTHOR. 299 O, the heathen ! one dear benighted heathen Is worth a score Of our own poor ; The dear dark lovely heathen. How dutiful, How beautiful, Our bread upon the waters May prove a sop (We'd fain so hope) To catch our Hindoo daughters ! You need not mind, Though you should find Our frail ones, who ne'er tasted One crumb to tell Of heaven or hell, Though dying, wan, and wasted. O, the heathen ! one dear benighted heathen Is worth a score Of our own poor ; The dear dark lovely heathen. THE DEVIL AND THE AUTHOR.* Air — 'Froggy would a-wooing go.' An author would a-hunting go, Heigho for the Georges ! An author would a-hunting go. Then cries the devil, ' Why, I'll go too, With a swoop to catch And a claw to scratch ;' Heigho for the royal Georges ! * Written on reading the ' Georges,' by W. M. Thackeray, in the CornhiU Magazine, 1860. 300 POEMS. Then off they set, with cap and bell, Heigho for the Georges ! Then off they set, with cap and bell, Nor stopp'd till they reach'd the city of Zell ; Then back they come To Windsor's great dome, To gloat o'er the royal Georges. ' Their bodies are all encased in lead,' Heigho for the Georges ! ' Their bodies are all encased in lead, So I've lost my sport,' the author said. The devil just hinted, If their deeds were printed ; Heigho for the royal Georges ! The devil he laugh'd in his long black sleeve, Heigho for the Georges ! The devil he laugh'd in his long black sleeve, And said, ' My dear fellow, for sport do not grieve ;' And again gave the hint To impale them in print ; Heigho for the royal Georges ! ' Be thou the first to lift the heel,' Heigho for the Georges ! ' Be thou the first to lift the heel, Nor heed old ^Esop's shaft of steel; But kick and bray, 'Tis sure to pay ;' Heigho for the royal Georges ! ' Light, with thy lens, life's darkest side,' Heigho for the Georges ! ' Till moral ills be magnified, Till men glance backward to deride That royal line, Once held divine ;' Heigho for the royal Georges ! THE DEVIL AND THE AUTHOR. 301 ' Distort and colour, pilfer truth,' Heigho for the Georges ! To whet the edge of Slander's tooth ; Give age the waywardness of youth, And, mocking, cry In sympathy, Heigho for the royal Georges ! Should Virtue smile, besmear her face ;' Heigho for the Georges ! ' Pollute the source of every grace, And shame her with a lewd grimace, And tear her dress Of loveliness ;' Heigho for the royal Georges ! Then off he flew, but back to send ; Heigho for the Georges ! Then off he flew, but back to send A mantle to cover his servant and friend, With a pen to write And a heart to indite ; Heigho for the royal Georges ! On page and platform, cold and bare, Heigho for the Georges ! Lies Royalty, that fools may stare ; E'en democrats cry out, ' Forbear ;' Whilst good men shrink From the devil's ink, Which damns the long-dead Georges. POEMS. OUR LECTURING SISTERS. Blue-stockings, say, is it for notoriety That you forsake all womanly propriety — Lecture on vice and fleshly putrefaction With such a gloating lustful satisfaction ? Or is it that the virgin mind may profit By meditating on the sexual tophet, Till Innocence, as learned as a , Boasts of a knowledge not thought of before WOMAN'S RIGHTS FOR EVER. Air — ' Bob and Joan.' Standing on a stump, Subject for a sonnet, Down her hand comes thump, Down her foot bumps on it ; Riveting her words 'Tother side conviction, Eyes like flashing swords Bright'ning up her diction. See her on a stump, Subject for a sonnet, Down her hand comes thump, Down her foot bumps on it. ' Mill tells me by note — What a love he must be ! — We should have a vote ; woman's rights for ever. 303 Men with arm of might Made the constitution ; But we'll have our right Or we'll breed confusion. Husbands chaff in bed ; All day long well tease them, Children leave unfed, Nothing do to please them ; Through the streets we'll go, Gossiping, stravaging, • Till our lords shall know We are strong in plaguing ; Worry till they sign ' Woman's Rights Petition,' Voting's ' right divine' — Portal of ambition. On a stump she stands, Theme not now for sonnet ; Clench'd her lifted hands, All awry's her bonnet ; Mopping now her face, Golden hair dishevell'd, Every witching grace Scared and quite bedevih'd. ' Woman's rights, who dare From man's rights to sever ; Cheer, my lasses, cheer — Woman's rights for ever !' 304 POEMS. WOMAN'S RIGHTS AND EDUCATION. Air — 'Fill a bumper fair.' HEADS OF A LECTURE IN REPLY TO SOME REMARKS MADE BY THE BISHOP OF MANCHESTER. Why may not a lass Student be of physic ? Why not — let that pass — Visit man when he's sick ? And when dubb'd M.D. Give a course of lectures, Illustrated by Anatomic pictures ? Though men's cheeks might blush With these spread before 'em, On ours not a flush — Woman's more decorum. Why, as you and you Learn your lessons faster, May not woman do What the men can master ? Would she not excel, If they did not baulk her ? Though they boast a Fell, We have Doctor Walker, Who most bravely wears Hessian boots and Bloomer, Spite of bearded bears, Who to shame would doom her. Bishops may condemn, Ministers may blame us, Jealous like to them They who thus defame us : HYMN TO BACCHUS. 305 ' Period-girls arid fast, Women bold, strong-minded, Whose domestic taste Worldliness has blinded.' Shall we be controll'd ? Longer men o'er-reach us ? Be we blate or bold, We will halve the breeches. Lone at board and bed Maids shall be no longer ; Man declines to wed, Proving he's the stronger. Win the vote, and then We'll stop emigration ; Teach our heartless men Duty to the nation. Wedded ones, combine ; Maidens all, come aid us ; Clear as line on line, God for man has made us. HYMN TO BACCHUS (after party strife). Hither, Bacchus, god of wine ; This shall be a night of thine — Night of friendship, night of love, Night of peace to them who strove. Fill the goblet, fill it high, Brim each heart with ecstasy. Drown in nectar tear and sigh, Shed nor felt when thou art nigh ; 3©6 POEMS. Banish on the breath of lute Hasty word and hot dispute. Fill the goblet, &c. Hither, Bacchus, god of joy; Be to-night our goblet-boy ; Wreathe the flagon, bear it round To the harp's entrancing sound. Fill the goblet, &c. Drink, and happy be as kings ; Drink, 'tis balm which Bacchus brings ; Drink, in the enchanting draught Wit has dipp'd his feather'd shaft. Fill the goblet, &c. Bacchus, Jove would envious be, Witnessing our jollity; Bless his stars, could he but quell Party strifes in heaven so well. Fill the goblet, &c. Hither, Bacchus : dancing light, Crown each brow with mirth to-night ; Linking o'er the mantling bowl, Heart to heart, and soul to soul. Fill the goblet, &c. HO, PERMISSIVE SAINTS ! Air — ■ Bob and Joan.' Ho, permissive Saints ! See the shame you've brought us ; By your threats and plaints, See the ill you've wrought us. HO, PERMISSIVE SAINTS ! 307 Lips are parch'd and dry, Stoups are standing empty ; Still with wistful eye We must gaze on plenty. May a choking thirst Ever be upon you, And when at the worst Ev'ry neighbour shun you ! Driv'llers ! with your cry, ' We're pinks of perfection,' You with jaundiced eye Look on our election. 'Tis to you alone That we are divided ;* Had we drink, as one We should have decided. May a choking thirst Ever be upon you, And when at the worst Friends the dearest shun you ! Soda-water Saints, Chief of the elected ! Each the other paints Holy, till detected. You may think you're right ; Other folks are thinking Each a hypocrite In his ginger-drinking. May a choking thirst Ever be upon you, And when at the worst Mercy's sisters shun you ! * In Dumfries the saints' party not only caused a contest, but prevented any drinking by pledging both candidates. 308 POEMS. If you've lost the zest, Why deny the pleasure, Why antagonist To the jovial measure? Sealing whisky's cask, Stopping up the pottle, Brandy in the flask, Porter in the bottle. May a choking thirst Ever be upon you, And when at the worst E'en non-voters shun you ! Dumfries ! hang your head ; Drape the old Mid-Steeple ; Love with whisky's fled From the strife of people. Through you, canting brats, Baillie, burgess, brother, Like Kilkenny cats, Worry one another. Faithless be your friends, Bitter be your quarrels, Till with thirst life ends, Clutching whisky barrels ! ON SEEING LADY D 'S PICTURE AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY, ON THE 2D JUNE 1870. Men Adam blame for eating one small apple, And vow temptation they'd more stoutly grapple ; Didst thou but tempt, the consequence who'd reck, Who could resist the fruit ? I'd eat a peck. LIFE. 3°9 FORTUNE'S WHEEL. When Fortune gave the army to thy sway, The face of Valour whiten'd with dismay ; Even stern Discipline shook at thy name, And Honour's cheek at C 1 flush'd with shame. They saw in thee the wheel of Fortune turn, And o'er a ruin'd army Glory mourn. TEARS. O, tell me not to dry my tears — I've not enough to flow ; Though each were as a thousand years They would not quench my woe. My heart is furrow'd day by day By sorrow's icy flow, And fain my soul would ebb away In one great flood of woe. Dry up my tears ? Ah, who can see The depths from whence they flow ? Though none can sound the deepest sea, Still deeper is my woe. LIFE. What is Life ? A burning thread, A faltering word, an arrow sped, A fading shadow — yea, a breath, Ending to begin in death. Then what is Life ? An endless chain, Each link a sad, dull, lingering pain ; Else, glowing as the star of even, Sparkling with the love of heaven. 31° POEMS. THE BEAUTIFUL. Where look we for the beautiful ? Upon the lily's stem, Whose glories are outshining those Of Israel's diadem ? 'Twas God who traced each lovely leaf, And made it to excel ; But the Beautiful is woman's heart, Where piety doth dwell. Where look we for the Beautiful ? In lovely form or face ? More beauteous in the cherish'd one We mark each blooming grace. 'Twas God who placed those graces there, And made them to excel ; But the Beautiful is woman's heart, Where piety doth dwell. When look we for the Beautiful ? When morning's in its prime, Or when the sinking sun shall mark Another step in time? 'Tis God who makes him run his course, To shine and to excel ; But the Beautiful is woman's heart, Where piety doth dwell. BRITISH PLUCK. Behold a proof of British pluck, Of what the Whigs will dare : Without a shot our flag is struck, And trampled by the Bear ; Their statesmen will no foe confront, But — women ! — cry, ' Don't, don't ! pray, don't !' THE SHADE OF CROMWELL. 3 1 1 THE SHADE OF CROMWELL ADDRESSED BY THE SPIRIT OF BRITAIN. Shade of the mighty ! Cromwell ! son of Fame ! Why comest thou Wrapt in thy cloud of scorn, with edge of flame Circling thy brow ? Why dost thou leave the mansions of the dead, Where thou art king ? To see upon thy bones the rabble tread, And insults fling ? Not this could rouse thee ; no ! but the decree Of learned men, That monumental stone should never say That thou hadst been. No niche for thee ? the true embodiment Of martial worth, If martial soul by God was ever sent To rule on earth. Who lifted thee above thy fellow-men ? Thy buckler, who ? Who knit the hearts of yeomen to thee, when Thy sword first flew, And led thee, step by step, till arm'd throngs Bow'd to thy nod ? And retribution dealt for people's wrongs ? Who, but thy God ! They call thee Regicide— but the fell blow Was meant for thee — And Hypocrite— may God judge them, and thou On bended knee. 312 POEMS. Lowly with belted chieftains,* ere the fight, Thou knelt'st in prayer ; And God, who ever judgeth in the right, His arm made bare ; Poured in thy soul the fury of the blast, With skill to guide The battle's fiercest whirlwind, or to cast The storm aside ; Stamp'd a determined purpose on thy brow To do thy part ; And gave withal affection's gentle glow To thy stern heart. When history's page, nor stone, shall longer tell Of Stuart king, Thy matchless prowess with a giant swell Shall people sing. Go to thy rest, Shade of the Mighty ! go ; Yea, Cromwell's name, As long as ever oceans ebb and flow, Shall live in fame. YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL. ONE PHASE IN THE EDUCATION BILL. The last decree of Jesus, ' Feed my sheep,' All ordain'd ministers have vow'd to keep; And all do lead to pasture ewe and wedder, And in old age's frost provide them fodder. Yet some would leave the lambs of tender mind, As best they can, the soul's sweet milk to find. They'd leave to God the churches — that's but civil- But give the schoolrooms over to the devil ; Write on the doors, ' Ho, who has lambs to sell : Not one shall read of heav'n till ripe for hell.' * All his great enterprises were commenced with prayer. Carlyle. EPIGRAMS. INVOCATION TO SLEEP, AFTER THE BATTLE. Sweet Sleep ! descend, and kiss the lid Of friend and foe ; come, though unbid, And calm the passions of the breast, As nature thou hast lull'd to rest. The breeze is hush'd, the leaf is still ; The lambs lie shelter'd 'neath the hill ; The feather'd tribes, the ant, the bee, The lowing herds repose in thee : All but the weary soldiers, who, Sweet Sleep ! now thy caresses woo. O, be it not in vain we plead, . So that in visions we may speed Away, away, o'er ocean's foam, To snatch one kiss from those at home. PATRIOTISM. The first commandment is, to love the Lord ; The second, give to men the love that's due ; The third, to serve thy country with the sword, And God will bless as for the other two. MEDAL v. COTTON STRIPE. The fiery valour of our men is such That England, deeming they have got too much, Scoffs at and robs the medal of its charm, In that paid badge upon the schemer's arm. Y 314 EPIGRAMS. GOD'S PROVIDENCE. ' This morning, comrade, didst thou pray ? For battle there will be to-day.' ' God's providence is over all ; And if between the hit and fall, We cry for mercy, mercy's given, Our route is sign'd, and we're in heaven.' THE ROUTE FOR HEAVEN. As charity and love insures A billet up above the skies, He who for country dies secures, We must believe, that heavenly prize. So, comrade, on ! nor thou the battle fear ; An angel with the route for heaven is near. GLORY THE CROWN OF IMMORTALITY. Dost question, comrade, what can glory be ? It is the crown of immortality, Worn by the brave, who never stoop to fear, But onward press when thronging foes appear. Yet he a crown of double brightness wears, Whose heart fair virtue with rough valour shares. EPITAPH. Beneath this mound fifty brave soldiers lie, Each for his country dared to do and die ; The trump of the archangel call'd them home, And now admiring Britons bless their tomb. THE THIRTY-SECOND. 315 CHILDREN AND SOLDIERS GOD'S SPECIAL CARE. With what a thrifty, earnest, anxious care Men strive to lengthen out life's calendar ! Whilst the true soldier, with his life in hand, Stands ever ready at his chief's command, Knowing, as onwards charging at his nod, Like children, he's the special care of God. The bullet strikes ; what then ? By God 'twas sent, To take that life which He had merely lent. HAVELOCK. The sword and helm upon this stone we grave, And banner, telling of the noble deeds By Havelock done, when he did Lucknow save, To fire each Briton's bosom as he reads. CARDIGAN. Here lies the dust of James Earl of Cardigan, In Balaclava's charge the foremost man ; Intrepid leader of the Light Brigade, When Russia felt the prowess of their blade. THE THIRTY-SECOND. With courage less than yours, brave Thirty-second, Lucknow, as Britain's, would not now be reckon'd ; To your unflinching hearts she owes alone The second jewel in her Indian crown. 316 EPIGRAMS. DISCIPLINE. Hail, Discipline ! without thine aid No army wears the winning blade ; Yet multitudes shall heroes be, And hero he who bows to thee. For Valour breathes — a breath divine- On all the votaries at thy shrine. VALOUR'S WREATH. That valour's wreath can ne'er adorn The helm that by the coward's worn ; Its leaves, instinctive, droop and die, Shamed by the dastard's company ; Whilst on the brow that dares the fray, It brighter grows from day to day ; Till ev'ry leaf's a sparkling gem Upon the hero's diadem. ENVIOUS BROTHERS. Dear island mother ! thy sons Rank and File Have never on thy honour placed a stain ; When foemen threaten, or false friends beguile, We risk our lives for thee on battle-plain. Then why but frowns return, dear island mother, And give thy smiles to Lore, our envious brother ? Heed not his scoffs, nor Wealth's, thine elder son ; Have they for thee such fame and glory won ? Or have they offer'd such a priceless gem As India to deck thy diadem ? MISRULE. 317 PEACE WITH GOD. The smile upon their lip and placid brow Deny that hate, but duty, struck the blow. There ! lay them side by side ; death all strife ends ; They met as foes and fell, and now are friends. Gone, but a march before, to that abode Where faithful soldiers rest in peace with God. FIE, LADIES, LADIES ! Fie, ladies, ladies ! why these strifes and quarrels ? Have you no other theme than soldiers' morals ? No wives have we to comfort and to bless us ; Then why scan so severely stolen kisses ? THE MOON-STRICKEN. The hermit preach'd his great crusade, To honour God by blood and blade ; And now Trevelyan his crusade Against the wearers of the blade : With tongues all fire, and heads all fume, They wear alike the bell and plume. MISRULE. The wise bear rule — 'tis so in other countries, But here in England we work by per-contras ; Save but in books, the greatest ignoramus Rules the War-Office to become infamous. 318 EPIGRAMS. THE SOLDIER'S MURDERER. Who, unprepared by years of thought, shall dare The high command, the army's sole control — In men, munitions, finance, transport, gear — Makes sordid gain, not England's weal, his goal. But one life lost through inexperience, Forts left half mann'd to save a small expense, Proves him, in his five thousand pounds a year, Gambler in lives, the soldier's murderer. THE DEVIL AND THE WAR-OFFICE. The devil, disguised as a bishop, appointed An ignorant boor to the church, just to trick her ; And soon all the parish became so disjointed, That folk scorn'd the church and the fool of a vicar. Success so encouraged his hellish designing, He wrought upon England a far greater evil : The low chair of Ignorance with War combining — All War-Office wisdom is gone to the devil. MARS LIGHTLY ESTEEMED. Mars, put up thy sword, and find new quarters, For England now her fame for money barters ; She lightly looks upon thy lance and shield, And scorns the men who follow thee afield. Linger, and thou wilt only hear the cheers, Upon the Brighton downs, of Volunteers ; And these, undisciplined, thou knowest well Are but the tollers of a nation's knell. OUR SENATORS. 319 GOOD-CONDUCT PAY. Can money buy the ready hand, Good-conduct pay the heart, Or eye forestalling a command Where heroes do their part ? Regret not, then, thy penny rings, Lost by a hasty word, Whilst from thy breast the medal flings A halo round thy sword. HOME OF THE DYING SOLDIER. Ah, what avails my longing eyes To watch the western sun, As onward to my home he flies ? Ah what ? my race is run. Sweet home ! dear friends ! my mother !— all ! Never to see you more ; My feve^d frame to dust shall fall Upon this Indian shore. OUR SENATORS. When our senators debate On the army estimate, How they scoff, and glibly say, ' Sweepings of our streets are they' ! But see them in late division, How they merit our derision (Those who wantonly attack us) — Wisdom arm in arm with Bacchus ! 320 EPIGRAMS. THE BALLOT. The ballot money'd men forswear, As if the ballot were for sinnings ; I marvel, Dick, how then they'd fare ? Believe me they'd get the first innings. PARLIAMENTARY SCOFFINGS, Believe me, comrade, I can but resent The scoffings bandied in our Parliament ; ' Street-sweepings,' ' scum,' degrading epithet, Are all the praises honest soldiers get. WISDOM IN TAXING THE TONGUE. Would you, Sir Senator, but tax your tongue For words in which you do the soldier wrong, Your sentences you'd measure ere you say them, And not, so like the thoughtless donkey, bray them. MEDALS ALL A FUDGE. Why doth the penny ring thy right arm grace ? Because that I ran cunning in the race ; The medals and the clasps are all a fudge — At least if our commanders rightly judge. ARMY ORGANISATION. A soldier organised the German host, Then led to glory, but could go no further ; In England a civilian holds the post, Eclipsing glory in the soldier's murder. THE GUARDS' EPITAPH. 3 2 1 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. A message from the Imperial Sire, ' Our son has been baptised with fire. He little thought the infernal flame Would blast the glory of his name ; Nor that 'twould be the beacon-light To guide the German in his might, Till he dictated his decrees To France from her own Tuileries. CUBHOOD. T an would the tribune be, Hence his attack on royalty ; Deeming, no doubt, that his tirade Would win for him the Board of Trade, Because that there the platform lion Had left his skin for cubs to try on. THE GUARDS' EPITAPH. Tell to the passer-by, fair marble, tell Of Guardsmen who for England fought so well ; The loved, the true, the gentle, and the brave, Who left their homes to fill a hero's grave On Cathcart's hill — son, father, husband, brother- Far from the bosom of their island mother ; They fell whilst fighting on the Euxine coast, When Russia fled before the British host. 322 EPIGRAMS. GLORY WAITS FOR THE BRAVE. Comrade, 'tis not enough that thou shouldst look On blood of friend and foe, a running brook ; Dash through the stream, with valour for thy guide, And glory waits thee on the other side. ENGLAND'S GLORY IS THE SOLDIER'S MEED. The British soldiers step, erect and bold, Yet all unconscious of a whit of pride, For boldness is their nature — men behold And say, ' In such may England well confide, Whose valour fits them for the life they lead, And her own glory is the soldier's meed.' THE BRAVE LIVE IN THE AFFECTIONS. Go thou to England's monumental shrine, And learn the virtues she deems most divine. In lowly corner lies the poet's dust, In company with the tale-teller's bust ; And nobles, churchmen, lawyers, statesmen lie With coffin'd ashes of philosophy, Whose names we read upon the chisell'd stone, Pause as we read, forget, and then pass on. Whilst at the lofty monuments of those Who fell when batt'ling with their country's foes, We linger long in homage to their name, And read the nation's in their wreath of fame : Man's highest sacrifice— their life — they gave, And throned on the affections live the brave. APPENDIX. GOOD-CONDUCT REGULATIONS. By these regulations all breaches of discipline must be re- corded ; and if for the offence committed the soldier is awarded more than six days' drill with confinement to barracks, it affects his good-conduct pay ; either depriving him of it for twelve months, or deferring its receipt for twelve, or, possibly, for twenty-two months, as recorded below. They were designed to restrain, by the bribe of extra pay, the drunkard and the absentee ; the very men who would rejoice in extra pay could they get it, but who never try and never hope to get it : they are kept in order, as they ever have been, solely by the power vested in the commanding officer. The amount of pension, too, for length of service is made to hinge upon these regu- lations. I will endeavour to show their working more in detail. Two men of eleven years and ten months' service (one with two rings, and about to get a third, the other with none) commit similar offences, and are, as a matter of course, sentenced to similar punishments — say ten days' confinement to barracks. Here the punishments awarded by the commander are alike ; but the amount (of the punishment) carries with it, to the man with the good-conduct rings the loss of, and of deferred good- conduct pay, four pounds odd. The rule holds good with a man of five years and ten months' service. As it is the amount of punishment, and not the nature or seriousness of the offence, which entails the loss of pay, nothing can act more capriciously. Colonels are not always in command, 324 APPENDIX. nor always in the same mood ; the regiment may be going on well or indifferently ; majors and captains are often in tempo- rary charge ; all may have different views, and estimate offences against discipline accordingly, affecting the loss or retention of good-conduct pay. Or six men of as many regiments in the same camp may commit similar offences, yet may get as many different sentences, some losing pay, and some not. In the above case the two men were punished alike by their commanding officer, to support the discipline of his corps ; but then the regulations step in, and say to the man with the rings, ' Now, just because you have behaved well for eleven years, I will fine you far beyond the amount of your bounty ; I will shame you before your comrades by taking from you the mark of good behaviour ; humiliate you by proclaiming your disgrace in the orders of the regiment ; and further, make your loss as irritating and protracted as possible.' The man who does his duty properly (the defaulters' book, and not a ready cheerful obedience to orders, nor even gallant conduct, being the standard) for six years is considered worth by the State, and is paid, one shilling and fivepence a day ; whilst the man who is supposed to give his officers a little more trouble, although he may wear the medal for bravery, gets only one shilling and threepence, the regular pay. Thus he is fined, indirectly perhaps, three pounds a year, although his comrade with the rings may have more minor offences recorded against him. Justice and reason would fix the pay at what the faithful fighting soldier deserves ; and then, to strengthen the hands of the commanding officer, allow him, and not any extraneous power, to fine for drunkenness, absence, and one or two other offences, until the man's pay is reduced to his bare messing ; the duration of the stoppage, for the same offence, not to ex- ceed one month. It is the certainty, and not the severity or protractedness, of punishments which strengthens the hand of discipline ; men will resist the one, and be bitterly soured in their tempers by the other. Perhaps nothing has tended so much to loosen the disci- pline of our army as the ' domestic economy' founded upon the good -conduct regulations : it has not only tied the hands of the commanding officer, but converted the captains into mere ciphers, who can now neither reward nor punish their men, however much they may require reward or punishment ; nor have they that deference paid to them that the sergeant-major of a troop had forty years ago. APPENDIX. 325 II. ' YOUR RIGHT TO PENSION'S ALL A FUDGE.' The men, though not now bribed with money, are beguiled by promises which may never be realised : nor are they appar- ently intended to be, as the following imaginary dialogue will show : Adjutant-General [very invitingly in Ms recruiting notice~\ . Now, my lad, if you will enlist for twelve years, you may, at the end of that time, re-engage for nine more, so as to get a pension for life. Recruit. Sir, relying on your word as an officer and a gen- tleman, I take the shilling. Soldier [at the endof twelve years to the Secretary of Slate'] . Sir, I wish to re-engage, and my commanding officer will give me a good character. Secretary for War. Don't want you ; can get plenty of re- cruits. Soldier. Beg pardon, sir, but the Adjutant-General told me when I enlisted that I might re-engage, so as to get a pension. ■S". for War. Pension ! there is not such a word in the act ; I know nothing of the Adjutant-General's promises. Soldier. I was always told that he is your representative ; and here is his recruiting notice containing his promise ; and I claim to be re-engaged as my right. S. for War. I tell you, you have no claim. Go ! Soldier. What, sir ! nothing for twelve years, then ? .S". for War. Yes ; here's a pound to get food and lodgings until you can get work.* Soldier. But what about clothing ? S. for War. Beg. When we compare the remarks made by the Secretary of State during the debates on the Army Estimates last year, on the Enlistment Act, and the clauses of the act itself, with the recruiting notice which is placarded all over the country, we are amazed at the depth of the duplicity displayed, and at the bold effrontery of statements made under the semblance of sincerity. They would make Sir C. Trevelyan's ' Sergeant Kite with ribbons and lies' blush. They but perpetuate that reproach which Mr. * The sum now allowed to a man for twelve years' service. 326 APPENDIX. Secretary Cardwell would impress upon Parliament, with such seeming virtuous self-gratulation., he was obliterating, by doing away with bounties. His words were : ' We remember how often and how justly the reproach was made against us, "You don't resort to conscription, but you do to fraud, to obtain recruits." ' And he boasted very lately that he had raised 20,000 men with- out bounties ; yet will any honest man say that they were raised without fraud ? III. 'THE SOLDIER YOUR SOLE QUARRY HITHERTO.' The persistency with which some writers pursue our soldiers is exemplified in Sir C. Trevelyan, who sneers at their poverty when enlisting, strips them of every virtue after they have served seven years, holds them up to scorn as walking pests, and then quotes only one line of figures from a statistical return, so as to leave a false impression on the public mind. This slander of so many brave and deserving men is most culpable, even if made through ignorance, by one who writes so pretentiously of the army ; and if through design, to prop the theory of short enlistments and of democratising the army, is dishonest. The following is the return, taken from the Report of Military Prisons for 1865, from which the line of figures is selected, and which is chosen to prove that there was a great increase of crime in 1 865, and that because there were only 335 men between seven and fourteen years' service imprisoned in 1859, and 2167 in 1865, that men of that service were far worse behaved, and were demoralising the younger men. Services. 2yra. & under Under 7 yra. From 7 to 14 . „ 14 „ 21. Above 21 . . 1856 1857 1858 1859 1860 1861 1862 1863 1864 1865 4,139 1,255 729 234 19 1,958 2,746 663 194 11 3,727 2,226 370 158 7 4,154 1,710 335 137 12 3,524 2,627 398 153 17 2,418 2,939 577 173 17 1,260 2,922 935 206 18 1,100 3,158 1,194 196 18 1,209 2,727 1,325 190 19 1,616 2,327 2,166 255 26 6,376 5,572 6,488 6,348 6,719 6,124 5,341 5,666 5,470 6,390 Now, is it honest to quote thus, when the other portions of the return directly falsify it? True, there were only 335 men between seven and fourteen years ; yet there were 5864 under seven years' service. Nothing, however, is said of this disparity ; nor that the per-centage (shown on the same page of the Report) APPENDIX. 327 in confinement to the force was less in 1865 than in the two preceding years ; nor that the average length of sentences was less ; nor that five-sixths of the commitments were of men under thirty years of age ; nor that the commitments for de- sertion and absence without leave were 4200 in 1859 against 3074 in 1865 ; nor that the increase of the commitments for drunkenness was occasioned (as stated in the Report) through soldiers formerly dealt with summarily by their commanding officers being tried by court-martial and sent to prison. It may well be asked, why were not these favourable phases in the conduct of the old soldier also made known ? Until it is con- tradicted, we can only suppose that they were hid through fear that this knowledge would militate against the short-service and democratising hobby, on which the overreaching Enlistment Act of 1870 was based. The conclusion that the unprejudiced mind must come to after studying the Report is, that the soldier after seven years is better behaved, and that the army is a reclaiming school, and not a demoralising one, as Sir Charles so laboriously and wrong- fully endeavours to prove. I will now explain the cause of the discrepancy in the num- ber of men imprisoned between seven and fourteen years' service in the years 1859 and 1865. The effective strength of our rank-and-file in 1854 was 1 22,464 ; and if we take from these all who fell in the Crimea and during the Mutiny, and who were invalided and discharged, together with those remaining in India and the Colonies, we shall find that we had very few men at home in 1859 under seven years' service, to be imprisoned; whilst in 1865, many thousands of the tens of thousands who had enlisted since 1854 had completed their seven years' service, the men under seven years consequently being less. Still the average crime for the ten years remained about the same, as shown by the Return. The comparison of the Report with the harrowing conclu- sions drawn from it will be another proof to the reader, that the less some writers know of their subject, the more presumingly they write. THE END. PRINTED BY ROBSON AND SONS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.VV. tmm**—K m m mp h i ■— wnmHI IPMMH nm*» k » ■■■> mimw ii* '! MMOMMHMM""*M MM