Here have our wild war-eagles flown, In England-she hath no delight. In vain the laughing girl will lean And many a moon and sun will see And in each house made desolate, Pale women who have lost their lord For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best. For some are by the Delhi walls, And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey! Ave Imperatrix ! And thou whose wounds are never healed, O Cromwell's England! must thou yield Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, Wave and wild wind and foreign shore What profit now that we have bound The care that groweth never old? What profit that our galleys ride, Grim warders of the House of Pain. Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? O loved ones lying far away, What word of love can dead lips send! O wasted dust! O senseless clay! Is this the end? Is this the end? Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead To vex their solemn slumber so; 2175 Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, Up the steep road must England go, Yet when this fiery web is spun, Rise from these crimson seas of war. RECESSIONAL GOD of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies- An humble and a contrite heart. Far-called, our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law- For heathen heart that puts her trust And guarding calls not Thee to guard,— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! AMEN. Rudyard Kipling [1865 Dark Rosaleen 2177 E THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN O, PADDY dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round? The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground! No more St. Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seen, For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, She's the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, An' if the color we must wear is England's cruel Red, And never fear, 'twill take root there, though under foot 'tis trod! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show, Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green. Unknown DARK ROSALEEN O MY dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, Upon the ocean green, And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen! Over hills and through dales The Erne, at its highest flood, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Oh! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My dark Rosaleen! All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! |