O mother of our faith, our law, our lore, GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Song on your bugles blown, England- Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice again Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England— Ever the faith endures, England, my England: 'Take and break us: we are yours, Life is good, and joy runs high To the Song on your bugles blown, England- They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown! Mother of Ships whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There's the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England Out of heaven on your bugles blown! WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY HOME O FALMOUTH is a fine town with ships in the bay, For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be. In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet With her babe on her arm as she came down the street; And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie. And it's home, dearie, home,— O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, For it's home, dearie, home-it's home I want to be. THE SHIP OF STATE THOU, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Are all with thee,-are all with thee! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW ON GOING TO THE WARS TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind True, a new mistress now I chase, Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more. RICHARD LOVELACE THE RECRUIT-A SHROPSHIRE LAD LEAVE your home behind, lad, And reach your friends your hand, Oh, come you home of Sunday To farm and lane and mill; |