HE PEOPL 
 
 .. JLAJL^ A .JU^V^ JL -Jw/J
 
 presented to the 
 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY 
 
 MRS. NOEL C. BARTLETT 
 
 donor
 
 5 
 ?5
 
 
 POETRY OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 COMPRISING POEMS ILLUSTRATIVE OF 
 
 THE HISTORY AND NATIONAL SPIRIT 
 
 OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, IRELAND, 
 
 AND AMERICA, AND POEMS 
 
 OF THE WORLD WAR 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED, WITH NOTES, BY 
 CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY 
 
 AND 
 
 MARTIN C. FLAHERTY 
 
 OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 ENLARGED EDITION 
 
 GINN AND COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO LONDON 
 ATLANTA DALLAS COLUMBUS SAN FRANCISCO
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1920, BY CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY 
 
 AND MARTIN C. FLAHERTY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 220.5 
 
 GINN AND COMPANY PRO- 
 PRIETORS BOSTON U.S.A.
 
 A BALLAD OF HEROES 
 
 Because you passed, and now are not, 
 Because, in some remoter day, 
 
 Your sacred dust from doubtful spot 
 Was blown of ancient airs away, 
 Because you perished, must men say 
 
 Your deeds were naught, and so profane 
 Your lives with that cold burden ? Na 
 
 The deeds you wrought are not in vain I 
 
 Though it may Be, above the plot 
 
 That hid your once imperial clay, 
 
 No greener than o'er -men forgot 
 
 The unregarding grasses sway ; 
 Though there no sweeter is the lay 
 
 Of careless bird, though you remain 
 Without distinction of decay, 
 
 The deeds you "wrought are not in vain I 
 
 No. For while yet in tower or cot 
 Your story stirs the pulses' play ; 
 
 A nd men for get the sordid lot 
 
 The sordid care, of cities gray ; 
 While yet, be-set in homelier fray , 
 
 They learn from you the lesson plain 
 
 That L ife may go, so Honor stay, 
 
 The deeds you wrought are not in vain ! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Heroes of old! I humbly lay 
 
 The laurel on your graves again ; 
 
 Whatever men have done, -men may, 
 The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
 
 THIS little volume has a very modest but distinct and, 
 we think, unique purpose, to supply the reading public 
 and the schools with a compact body not necessarily of the 
 most highly polished or artistic poems in the English tongue, 
 but of those which are at once most simple, most hearty, 
 most truly characteristic of the people, their tradition and 
 patriotic spirit. By Poetry of the People we do not mean 
 only ballads of countryside or battlefield or of street or 
 village, hearth or market, not only the production of the 
 folk improviser or his succeeding bard long ago buried 
 behind the hills of anonymity, but poetry that the people 
 possess and occupy (or should occupy) because it is of 
 their blood and bone and sinew ; poetry sometimes by the 
 people and sometimes not, but always for them ; poems that 
 were household words with our fathers and mothers, and 
 lay close to the heart because of the heart ; poems that now- 
 adays beat in the bosom of the Folk and find utterance in 
 the hour of stress; poems which more often than not are 
 all the truer art because they are not artful. 1 
 
 It may have appeared to others, as it has to us, that liter- 
 ature in verse is not learned nor enjoyed nor even read by 
 young or old as much as it used to be. One explanation of 
 this neglect is very probably that in the place of unso- 
 phisticated poetry, such as generations of our forefathers
 
 vi Preface 
 
 loved, there have been too frequently introduced into the 
 schools, and at too early a period, the masterpieces of 
 our consciously artistic, highly intellectual, and .even sub- 
 jective verse. Of this illogical procedure the inevitable 
 corollary is that not a few well-meaning but theory-ridden 
 teachers, in their efforts to fix a youthful mind upon 
 things literary designed for grown-ups, highly cultivated 
 at that, are driven to rhetorical, gerund-grinding, ana- 
 lytical, or (horresco referens) quasi-philosophical, pseudo- 
 scientific devices in handling that which should be the 
 simplest of ideal devotions and delights. Now everybody 
 who has not been spoiled by vagaries knows that the 
 natural and healthy taste of the growing boy, when it 
 is for literature at all, is for the literature that while it 
 informs manages to entertain, for , the poetry that inter- 
 prets because it delights; that is to say, for the sponta- 
 neous and healthy poetry of the Folk when it was a boy, 
 or of that element in the Folk that preserves the vigor and 
 push of youth in the hour of national trial. 
 
 If this little book can contribute somewhat toward explod- 
 ing the fallacy that poetry is something other than poetry, 
 material, forsooth, for translation, parsing, trope-hunting, 
 rhetorical exercises, platitudinous preaching, or anything 
 else extraneous to art, it will have accomplished at least 
 half the purpose of the editors. Of course good poetry has 
 a lesson for him who can feel it. Like all good things it 
 cannot help blessing those who take it on faith. Its favors 
 are not for those who would conquer but for those who sur- 
 render. The best way to study it is not to study but to enjoy. 
 And this should be especially true of the poetry which we 
 place in the hands of our ingenuous youth ; if it cannot 
 captivate it is an offense, a folly, worse than that, a bore. 
 Such poetry must be chiefly of an objective cast, of genuine
 
 Preface vii 
 
 sentiment, and of simple style. It must neither bewilder 
 nor deliberately instruct. It must have the quality of 
 charming, of winning the reader to repeat and to murmur, 
 and to learn because it is easier to do so than to forget. 
 
 Here are ballads of the olden time, direct and naive, 
 easy to understand, save where some antiquated word or 
 phrase may intervene, and then glossary and notes stand 
 ready to help out, ballads made to say and to sing ; 
 stories of heroic adventure, romantic and supernatural ; 
 whilom fyttes and modern instances of patriotism and 
 devotion ; songs of homely sentiment, popular spirit, and 
 nationality ; themes mostly external and concrete, the 
 poetry of history, such as appealed naively to the listen- 
 ing and consentaneous crowd. And if occasionally there 
 is here to be found the poetry also of suggestion for the 
 individual who reads and reflects, it is always of emotions 
 simple and unsophisticated, universal, abiding, and sincere. 
 Here, too, are manly ideals, ancient but ever-living. 
 
 If this little bark succeeds in making the haven of the 
 heart, it may also, perchance, succeed in unlading the hope 
 with which it is fraught. Who can estimate the gain to 
 the American spirit, and by that we mean the spirit of 
 rational freedom expressed in terms of nationality, the 
 gain that would ensue, if our youth would but occupy and 
 prize the literary heritage that is theirs ? The poetry of 
 the people of England, Ireland, Scotland, and America 
 has for us a certain scriptural worth as well as historic. 
 Is it not the immemorial record of sentiment, sacrifice, and 
 ideal the most enduring and the noblest of our fore- 
 fathers ; is it not the conserver of that experience whence 
 proceed our present prestige and security? Now, naturally 
 effective in the development and discipline of the national 
 pride as is an intimate acquaintance with national history,
 
 viii Preface 
 
 more effective still is the possession of that which, as Aris- 
 totle has said, is truer than history, the speaking soul of 
 its events, its poetry. Young men and women for whom 
 that voice continues to haunt the corridors of the present 
 cannot but honor our national forebears, cannot but emulate 
 their love of liberty, their endurance and orderly restraint, 
 their manliness, their devotion to duty and to country, and 
 so cannot but cultivate in perpetuity those ideals that go to 
 make a noble people. 
 
 Since, however, there is a difference a gulf fixed 
 between the sense of nationality of which we speak, digni- 
 fied, legitimate, and effective, and the provincialism that 
 often parades in its place, we have tried in these excerpts 
 from the Poetry of the People to emphasize the deeper and 
 wider justification of our national pride the justification 
 that lies in the blood and speech of generations overseas 
 who knew what patriotism meant long before their children, 
 our immediate ancestors, founded here the liberties which 
 we enjoy. A parochial spirit which ignores the transatlantic 
 conditions from which we proceed sacrifices more in mean- 
 ing than it makes in show. If we would appreciate our 
 national purport we must insist upon our proprietorship in 
 the thousand-year roots of the racial oak ; we must continue 
 to possess the stately green and spread of the lower foliage, 
 the common antecedent of the Anglo-Celto-American rami- 
 fications that stir the upper air to-day. We must rejoice as 
 by community of birthright, in the outgrowth, overseas as 
 well as here at home, of that poetry that expresses the spirit 
 and sap of our common stock. While, therefore, this book 
 contains a liberal supply of poems illustrative of our Ameri- 
 can history and national spirit, so arranged as to be readily 
 perused in connection with the narrative of the growth of 
 the nation, it prefaces the poems of America, not simply for
 
 Preface ix 
 
 chronological reason, with those of the motherlands poetry 
 of event and sentiment, ours by inheritance as much as theirs. 
 It will of course be remarked that a few of the songs 
 included in the collection, like Yankee Doodle, for instance, 
 and The British Grenadiers, are devoid of literary merit. 
 These few were inserted because of their historical impor- 
 tance. The inclusion of others, like Annie Laurie, The Lass 
 .of Richmond Hill, The Coolun, Bells of Shandon, and Ben 
 Bolt, though not in any sense expressive of public, but of 
 personal, emotion, calls for no justification. It is a matter of 
 regret that golden songs, stately in their simplicity, which 
 are as much a part of our literary heritage and as indicative 
 of the spirit of the people as the more studied contributions 
 of our great poets, should be elbowed out of school and 
 home in favor of ready-made jingles, mediocre, mawkish, 
 vapid, trumped up for the trick of the music hall or the 
 trade of secondary education. There is, surely, a mean 
 between verses that are cabbage and verses that are caviare. 
 We think that it may be found in that Poetry of the People 
 which grows never old because it is sturdy, sweet, and true 
 sufficient to the needs of to-morrow as of yesterday. 
 
 CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 October 7, 1903
 
 PREFACE TO THE ENLARGED EDITION 
 
 IN this edition we have added twenty-seven poems and 
 national anthems of the World War and a brief account, 
 illustrated by representative stanzas, of British and American 
 popular songs of recognized currency at home and at the 
 front. Of these songs even those that make no pretense 
 to literary merit deserve mention in a book of this kind 
 because they have sung themselves into history. The poems 
 that we have selected will fulfill their mission if they quicken 
 the hearts of our boys and girls with patriotism and devotion 
 to the service of humanity the spirit in which the struggle 
 now ended was undertaken and carried through. No more 
 fitting or enduring memorial to those who died for God and 
 country could be conceived. 
 
 February 16, 1920
 
 COPYRIGHT NOTICE 
 
 IT remains to acknowledge the courtesy of publishers and 
 authors. The selections from the writings of Henry W. Long- 
 fellow, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Julia 
 Ward Howe, Bret Harte, E. C. Stedman, John Greenleaf Whittier, 
 James Russell Lowell, and Bayard Taylor are used by permission 
 of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Com- 
 pany, the authorized publishers of their works. We are similarly 
 indebted to Harper & Brothers for the selections from the poetry 
 of G. W. Carryl (in Harpers Weekly}, J. B. Gilder, and Miss 
 Kate Putnam Osgood ; to the J. B. Lippincott Company for the 
 selections from T. Buchanan Read ; to the B. F. Johnson 
 Publishing Company for Timrod's Ode ; to Mr. P. J. Kennedy, 
 New York, for Father Ryan's The Conquered Banner; to the 
 Youth's Companion for Bennett's The Flag Goes By ; to The 
 Century Co. for the selections from Riley and Meredith ; to 
 Mrs. George Boker for George H. Boker's Dirge ; to D. Appleton 
 and Company for the selections from Bryant and Stanton ; to 
 the Whitaker and Ray Company, publishers of the Complete 
 Works of Joaquin Miller, for the two poems by that author ; to 
 Mr. C. Eliot Beers for his mother's All Quiet along the Potomac-, 
 to Charles Scribner's Sons for the selection from G. P. Lathrop ; 
 to the New England Publishing Company for Butterworth's 
 Thanksgiving; to the Lothrop Publishing Company for Hayne's 
 Vicksburg; to Dodd, Mead & Company for the prologue from 
 Austin Dobson ; to the Philadelphia Record for The Warship of 
 1812 ; to Small, Maynard & Company for the selection from 
 Whitman ; to Doubleday, Page & Company for Kipling's Reces- 
 sional; to the George H. Doran Company for Berton Braley's 
 Heroes, from "In Camp and Trench," copyright, 1918, and for 
 John Oxenham's two poems from " The Vision Splendid,"
 
 xii Copyright Notice 
 
 copyright, 1917 ; to The Macmillan Company for McLandburgh 
 Wikon's two poems from " The Little Flag on Main Street " 5 
 to E. P. Button & Company for Patrick MacGill's It 's a Far, Far 
 Cry, from " Soldier Songs " ; to G. P. Putnam's Sons for John 
 McCrae's In Flanders Fields, from book of same title ; to The 
 Copp Clark Company for Bourinot's Immortality; to Scribner's 
 Magazine for Crawford's Vive La France ; to the Westminster 
 Gazette for the poems by Dorothy Margaret Stuart, Lina Jephson, 
 and Rose Macaulay ; to the Scotsman for the poem by R. A. S. ; 
 to JBlackwood's Magazine for Klaxon's America Comes In ; to the 
 New York Sun and New York Herald for Rooney's two poems ; 
 to the Red Cross Magazine for Thomas L. Masson's The Red Cross 
 Nurses; to the Athenaum for Niven's A Carol from Flanders. 
 We are also under especial obligation for individual permission 
 to use their poems and, in several cases for kind assistance, to 
 Messrs. Joseph I. C. Clarke, Henry Holcomb Bennett, James 
 Whitcomb Riley, William T. Meredith, Joseph B. Gilder, Guy 
 Wetmore Carryl, Hezekiah Butterworth, John Albee, James 
 Jeffrey Roche, Albert Bigelow Paine, Rudyard Kipling, Dorothy 
 Margaret Stuart, Lina Jephson, Rose Macaulay, Charlotte Holmes 
 Crawford, Henry van Dyke, Frederick Niven, John Jerome 
 Rooney, and Lieutenant Arthur Bourinot. 
 
 If in any case publisher or author should fail to find here 
 due acknowledgment of his proprietorship we shall welcome 
 information of the fact and attempt to remedy the deficiency.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FIRST OLDER BALLADS 
 HEROIC 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens i 
 
 The Battle of Otterbourne 3 
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 8 
 
 Edom o' Gordon .18 
 
 OF ROBIN HOOD 
 
 Robin Hood and Little John 24 
 
 Robin Hood Rescuing the Widow's Three Sons 29 
 
 Robin Hood and Allin a Dale 34 
 
 Robin Hood and the King 38 
 
 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 47 
 
 ROMANTIC AND DOMESTIC 
 
 The Douglas Tragedy 50 
 
 Lord Randal 53 
 
 Bonnie George Campbell 54 
 
 Bessie Bell and Mary Gray 55 
 
 The Twa Corbies 56 
 
 Helen of Kirconnell 57 
 
 OF THE SUPERNATURAL 
 
 The Wife of Usher's Well 58 
 
 The Demon Lover . , , ,60 
 
 xiii
 
 xiv Contents 
 
 BOOK SECOND POEMS OF ENGLAND 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 PAGE 
 
 God Save the King. Attributed to Henry Carey 65 
 
 England. Shakespeare 66 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address to his Soldiers before Harfleur. Shakes- 
 peare 67 
 
 King Henry the Fifth before Agincourt. Shakespeare 68 
 
 The Ballad- of Agincourt. Drayton * . 70 
 
 The " Revenge," a Ballad of the Fleet. Tennyson 74 
 
 Give a Rouse. Browning go 
 
 The Sally from Coventry. Thornlury 81 
 
 The Battle of Naseby. Macaulay 82 
 
 The Three Troopers. Thornbury 85 
 
 The British Grenadiers. Anon 87 
 
 Rule, Britannia. Thomson 88 
 
 Ode, Written in the Year 1 746. Collins 90 
 
 Battle of the Baltic. Campbell 90 
 
 Ye Mariners of England. Campbell 93 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior. Words-worth 94 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore. Wolfe 97 
 
 The Field of Waterloo. Byron 98 
 
 The Lost Leader. Browning 101 
 
 Memorial Verses on the Death of Wordsworth. Matthnv Arnold . 102 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. Tennyson . . . .105 
 
 The Loss of the " Birkenhead." Doyle 114 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade. Tennyson 116 
 
 Santa Filomena. Longfellow 118 
 
 The Song of the Camp. Bayard Taylor 119 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow. JR. T. S. Lowell 121 
 
 The March of the Workers. William Morris 124 
 
 Recessional. Kipling 126 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 Barbara Allen. Anon 128 
 
 The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington. Anon 129 
 
 My True-Love hath my Heart Sir Philip Sidney 131
 
 Contents xv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Who is Silvia ? Shakespeare 132 
 
 Take, O, Take those Lips Away. Shakespeare 132 
 
 Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind. Shakespeare 133 
 
 To Celia. Jonson 133 
 
 You Gentlemen of England. Altered from Martin Parker . . . 134 
 
 Sally in our Alley. Carey 136 
 
 The Vicar of Bray. Anon 138 
 
 The Lass of Richmond Hill. McNally 140 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. Cunningham 141 
 
 Poor Tom Bowling. Dibdin 142 
 
 BOOK THIRD POEMS OF SCOTLAND 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 This is my Own, my Native Land. Scott 143 
 
 Bannockburn. Burns 144 
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black. Scott 145 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest ; or, The Battle of Floden. Jane Elliot 
 
 and Alison Rutherford 146 
 
 Blue Bonnets over the Border. Scott 149 
 
 The Execution of Montrose. Aytoun . 150 
 
 The Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee. Scott. . . . 157 
 
 The Old Scottish Cavalier. Aytoun 159 
 
 The Lament of Flora Macdonald. Hogg 162 
 
 Wae 's Me for Prince Charlie. William Glen 163 
 
 The Campbells are Comin'. Anon 164 
 
 The Blue Ball of Scotland. Anon 165 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 Annie Laurie. William Douglas and Lady John Scott .... 166 
 
 Lochaber No More. Ramsay 167 
 
 There 's Nae Luck about the House. Mickle and Beattie . . . . 168 
 
 A Red, Red Rose. Burns 171 
 
 For a' that, and a' that. Burns 171 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo. Burns 173 
 
 Afton Water. Burns 174 
 
 Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon. Burns 175
 
 xvi Contents 
 
 PAGB 
 
 My Heart 's in the Highlands. Burns 176 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean. Scott 176 
 
 Lochinvar. Scott 178 
 
 When the Kye Comes Hame. Hogg 180 
 
 Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane. Tannahill 182 
 
 The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond. Anon 183 
 
 The Land o' the Leal. Lady Nairne 184 
 
 Auld Lang Syne. Burns 185 
 
 BOOK FOURTH POEMS OF IRELAND 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland. Cherry ........ 187 
 
 The Irish Wife. McGee 188 
 
 Dark Rosaleen. Mangan 190 
 
 The Battle of the Boyne. Attributed to Blacker 193 
 
 After Aughrim. Geoghegan 195 
 
 The Shan Van Vocht. Anon 196 
 
 The Wearing of the Green. Street Ballad. Attributed to Boucicault 198 
 
 The Memory of the Dead. Ingram 200 
 
 The Geraldines. Davis 202 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. Banim 205 
 
 The Girl I Left behind Me. Anon 207 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 The Harp that once through Tara's Halls. Moore 209 
 
 The Meeting of the Waters. Moore . 209 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. Moore . . . , 210 
 
 The Last Rose of Summer. Moore 211 
 
 Oft, in the Stilly Night. Moore 212 
 
 The Coolun. Ferguson 213 
 
 The Bells of Shandon. Mahony 214 
 
 Kathleen Mavoumeen. Mrs. Crawford 215 
 
 The Lament of the Irish Emigrant. Lady Dufferin 216 
 
 Dear Land. Sliabh Cuilinn 218 
 
 O Bay of Dublin. Lady Dufferin 220
 
 Contents xvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Killarney. O'Rourke 221 
 
 Song from the Backwoods. Sullivan 223 
 
 To God and Ireland True. Ellen O'Leary 225 
 
 BOOK FIFTH POEMS OF AMERICA 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 America. Smith ". . 227 
 
 Columbus. Miller 228 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrims. Hemans 230 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers. Pierpont 231 
 
 The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor. Butterworth 233 
 
 The Concord Hymn. Emerson 236 
 
 Warren's Address. Pierpont 237 
 
 The Maryland Battalion. Palmer 238 
 
 " Columbia, Columbia, to Glory Arise." Dwight 240 
 
 Song of Marion's Men. Bryant 241 
 
 Eutaw Springs. Freneau 244 
 
 Carmen Bellicosum. McMaster 245 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill. Wallace 247 
 
 Washington's Statue. Tuckerman 248 
 
 Hail, Columbia. Hopkinson 249 
 
 The " Constitution's " Last Fight. Roche 251 
 
 " Old Ironsides." Holmes 254 
 
 The Warship of 1812. Philadelphia Record 255 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner. Key 256 
 
 Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean. Shaw 258 
 
 The American Flag. Drake 259 
 
 God Bless our Native Land. Brooks and Dwight 261 
 
 The Defence of the Alamo. Miller 262 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead. O'Hara 263 
 
 John Brown's Body. Anon ; 267 
 
 Battle-Hymn of the Republic. Howe 268 
 
 The Battle-Cry of Freedom. Root 269 
 
 The Reveille. Harte 270 
 
 The " Cumberland." Longfellow 271 
 
 Kearney at Seven Pines. Stedman 273
 
 xviii Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Barbara Frietchie. Whittier 274 
 
 Vicksburg. Hayne 277 
 
 Keenan's Charge. Lathrof 279 
 
 Gettysburg. Stedman 282 
 
 Three Hundred Thousand More. Gibbons 288 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. Root 290 
 
 Farragut. Meredith 291 
 
 Marching through Georgia. Work 293 
 
 Sheridan's Ride. Read 294 
 
 The Old Man and Jim. Riley 296 
 
 Roll-Call. Shepherd 299 
 
 Dixie, Pike; Dixie's Land, Emmett 300,354 
 
 My Maryland. Randall 302 
 
 The Bonnie Blue Flag. McCarthy or Ketchum 305 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer. Totvnsend 306 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way. Palmer 308 
 
 The Conquered Banner. Ryan 310 
 
 Ode to the Confederate Dead. Timrod 312 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier. Boker 313 
 
 A Soldier's Grave. Albee 314 
 
 Driving Home the Cows. Osgood 315 
 
 The Brave at Home. Read 317 
 
 The Blue and the Gray. Pinch 318 
 
 Abraham Lincoln. Bryant 320 
 
 O Captain ! My Captain 1 Whitman 320 
 
 Lincoln. Lowell 322 
 
 The Republic. Longfellow (From "The Building of the Ship") . .324 
 
 Centennial Hymn. Whittier 325 
 
 America. Bayard Taylor 327 
 
 For Cuba. Bell 328 
 
 Answering to Roll-Call. Stanton 329 
 
 The Men behind the Guns. Rooney 330 
 
 The War-Ship " Dixie." Stanton 331 
 
 The Fighting Race. Clarke 332 
 
 The New Memorial Day. Paine 335 
 
 The Flag Goes By. Bennett 336 
 
 When the Great Gray Ships Come In. Carryl 337 
 
 The Parting of the Ways. /. B. Gilder 339
 
 Contents xix 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Yankee Doodle. Anon 340 
 
 Nathan Hale. Anon 342 
 
 All Quiet along the Potomac. Ethelinda Beers 344 
 
 Tenting on the Old Camp Ground. Kittredge 346 
 
 Home, Sweet Home. Payne 347 
 
 A Life on the Ocean Wave. Sargent 348 
 
 Ben Bolt English 349 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home, Good-Night. Foster 351 
 
 Massa 's in de Cold Ground. Foster 352 
 
 Old Folks at Home. Foster 353 
 
 Dixie's Land. Emmett 354 
 
 BOOK SIXTH POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 The Brabanconne 357 
 
 La Marseillaise . Rouget de Lisle 358 
 
 The Marseillaise (Translation) 359 
 
 Vive la France. Charlotte Holmes Crawford 360 
 
 The Name of France, van Dyke 362 
 
 The Maple Leaf Forever. Muir 363 
 
 The Outer Guard. Oxenliam 364 
 
 The School at War.' " C. A. A." 365 
 
 It's a Far, Far Cry. MacGill 366 
 
 Evensong in Westminster Abbey. Dorothy Margaret Stuart . . 367 
 
 A Carol from Flanders. Nhien 368 
 
 The Soldier. Brooke 369 
 
 In England Now. Lina Jephson 370 
 
 The Garden of the Dead. Rose Macaiday 370 
 
 Lyin' Deid. R.A.S. 372 
 
 In Flanders Fields. McCrae 373 
 
 Garibaldi's War Hymn. Mercantini (tr. Dole) 374 
 
 America Comes In. "Klaxon" 375 
 
 The Little Star in the Window. Rooney 376 
 
 The Little Flag on Main Street. Wilson 377 
 
 A Round Trip. Wilson 378
 
 xx Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Both Worshipped the Same Great Name. Anon 378 
 
 Heroes. Braley 379 
 
 I Have a Rendezvous with Death. Seeger 380 
 
 The Red Cross Nurses. Masson ." 381 
 
 You Also ! Oxenham 382 
 
 Immortality. Bourinot 383 
 
 POPULAR SONGS OF THE WORLD WAR 
 
 A BRIEF ACCOUNT WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 It 's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary. Judge and Williams . . . 384 
 
 Keep the Home Fires Burning. Lena Guilbert Ford 384 
 
 Pack up your Troubles in your Old Kit-bag 385 
 
 Roses in Picardy. Weatherly 385 
 
 Where Do We Go from Here. Johnson and Wenrich 386 
 
 Over There. Cohan 386 
 
 Good-bye Broadway ! Hello France ! Reisner and Davis .... 386 
 
 Joan of Arc. Bryan and Wcston 386 
 
 There 's a Long, Long Trail. King 387 
 
 PROLOGUE. A Ballad of Heroes. Dobson iii 
 
 EPILOGUE. Sons of the Self-Same Race. Austin 388 
 
 NOTES 389 
 
 GLOSSARY 415 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND POEMS 421 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 431
 
 of tf)e people 
 
 BOOK FIRST OLDER BALLADS 
 
 H>ir Patrick 
 
 The king sits in Dumferling toune, 
 Drinking the blude-reid wine : 
 
 " O whar will I get guid sailor, 
 To sail this schip of mine ? " 
 
 Up and spak an eldern knicht, 
 Sat at the kings richt kne : 
 
 " Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, 
 That sails upon the se." 
 
 The king has written a braid letter, 
 
 And signd it wi his hand, 
 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 
 
 Was walking on the sand. 
 
 The first line that Sir Patrick red, 
 
 A loud lauch lauched he ; 
 The next line that Sir Patrick red, 
 
 The teir blinded his ee. -
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 " O wha is this has don this deid, 
 
 This ill deid don to me, 
 To send me out this time o' the yeir, 
 
 To sail upon the se ! 
 
 " Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, 
 Our guid schip sails the morne : " 
 
 " O say na sae, my master deir, 
 For I feir a deadlie storme. 
 
 " Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, 
 Wi the auld moone in hir arme, 
 
 And I feir, I feir, my deir master, 
 That we will cum to harme." 
 
 O our Scots nobles wer richt laith 
 To weet their cork-heild schoone ; 
 
 Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, 
 Thair hats they swam aboone. 
 
 O lang, lang may their ladies sit, 
 Wi thair fans into their hand, 
 
 Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 
 Cum sailing to the land. 
 
 O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
 Wi thair gold kerns in their hair, 
 
 Waiting for thair ain deir lords, 
 For they '11 se thame na mair. 
 
 Haf owre, half owre to Aberdour, 
 
 It's fiftie f adorn deip, 
 And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 
 
 Wi the Scots lords at his feit
 
 The Battle of Otterbourne 
 
 II 
 
 QTIje -Battle of tterbottm 
 
 1388 
 
 It fell about the Lammas tide, 
 
 When the muir-men win their hay, 
 
 The doughty Douglas bound him to ride 
 Into England to drive a prey. 
 
 He chose the Gordons and the Graemes 
 With them the Lindsays light and gay ; 
 
 But the Jardines wad not with him ride, 
 And they rue it to this day. 
 
 And he has burned the dales o' Tyne, 
 And part o' Bambrough shire, 
 
 And three good towers on Reidswire fells, 
 And left them a' on fire. 
 
 And he marched up to Newcastel 
 
 And rade it round about : 
 " O wha 's the lord of this castel 
 
 Or wha 's the lady o 't ? " 
 
 But up spake proud Lord Percy then, 
 
 And O but he spake hie ! 
 " I am the lord of this castel, 
 
 My wife 's the lady gay." 
 
 " If thou 'rt the lord of this castel, 
 
 Sae weel it pleases me I 
 For, ere I cross the Border fells, 
 
 The tane of us shall dee."
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 He took a lang spear in his hand, 
 
 Shod with the metal free ; 
 And for to meet the Douglas there 
 
 He rade richt furiouslie. 
 
 But O how pale his lady lookd 
 
 Frae aff the castel wa', 
 As doun before the Scottish spear 
 
 She saw proud Percy fa' ! 
 
 "Had we twa been upon the green, 
 
 And never an eye to see, 
 I wad hae had you, flesh and fell, 
 
 But your sword sail gae wi' me." 
 
 " But gae ye up to Otterbourne, 
 
 And bide there dayis three, 
 And gin I come not ere three dayis end, 
 
 A f ause knight ca' ye me ! " 
 
 " The Otterbourne 's a bonnie burn, 
 
 'T is pleasant there to be ; 
 But there is nought at Otterbourne 
 
 To feed my men and me. 
 
 " The deer rins wild on hill and dale, 
 The birds fly wild frae tree to tree ; 
 
 But there is neither bread nor kale, 
 To fend my men and me. 
 
 " Yet I will stay at the Otterbourne, 
 Where you shall welcome be ; 
 
 And, if ye come not at three dayis end, 
 A fause lord I '11 ca' thee."
 
 The Battle of Otterboume 
 
 " Thither will I come," proud Percy said, 
 " By the might of our Ladye ! " 
 
 " There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, 
 " My troth I plight to thee ! " 
 
 They lichted high on Otterbourne, 
 
 Upon the bent sae broun ; 
 They lichted high on Otterbourne, 
 
 And threw their pallions doun. 
 
 And he that had a bonnie boy, 
 
 Sent out his horse to grass ; 
 And he that had not a bonnie boy, 
 
 His ain servant he was. 
 
 But up then spake a little page, 
 
 Before the peep of dawn : 
 " O, waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, 
 
 For Percy 's hard at hand." 
 
 " Ye lee, ye lee, ye leear loud ! 
 
 Sae loud I hear ye lee : 
 For Percy had not men yestreen 
 
 To dight my men and me. 
 
 " But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, 
 
 Beyond the Isle o' Sky ; 
 I saw a deid man win a fight, 
 
 And I think that man was I." 
 
 He belted on his guid braidsword, 
 
 And to the field he ran ; 
 But he forgot the helmet good, 
 
 That should have kept his brain.
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 When Percy wi' the Douglas met, 
 
 I wot he was fu' fain : 
 They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, 
 
 And the blude ran down like rain. 
 
 But Percy wi' his guid braidsword, 
 
 That could sae sharply wound, 
 Has wounded Douglas on the brow, 
 
 Till he fell to the ground. 
 
 And then he calld on his little foot-page, 
 
 And said " Run speedilie, 
 And fetch my ain dear sister's son, 
 
 Sir Hugh Montgomery. 
 
 " My nephew guid ! " the Douglas said, 
 
 " What recks the death of ane ? 
 Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, 
 
 And I ken the day 's thy ain ! 
 
 " My wound is deep ; I fain wad sleep ! 
 
 Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three, 
 And hide me by the bracken bush, 
 
 That grows on yonder lilye lee. 
 
 " O bury me by the bracken bush, 
 
 Beneath the blooming brier ; 
 Let never living mortal ken 
 
 That ere a kindly Scot lies here ! " 
 
 He lifted up that noble lord, 
 
 Wi' the saut tear in his ee ; 
 And he hid him in the bracken bush, 
 
 That his merrie men might not see.
 
 The Battle of Otterbourne 7 
 
 The moon was clear, the day drew near, 
 
 The spears in flinders flew ; 
 But mony a gallant Englishman 
 
 Ere day the Scotsmen slew. 
 
 The Gordons good, in English blude 
 
 They steepd their hose and shoon ; 
 The Lindsays flew like fire about, 
 
 Till a' the fray was done. 
 
 The Percy and Montgomery met, 
 
 That either of other was fain ; 
 They swapped swords, and they twa swat, 
 
 And aye the blude ran doun between. 
 
 " Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy ! " he said, 
 
 Or else I vow I '11 lay thee low ! " 
 " To whom maun I yield," quoth Earl Percy, 
 
 " Now that I see it maun be so ? " 
 
 " Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, 
 
 Nor yet shalt thou yield to me ; 
 But yield thee to the bracken-bush 
 
 That grows upon yon lilye lee ! " 
 
 " I will not yield to a bracken-bush 
 
 Nor yet will I yield to a brier ; 
 But I wad yield to Earl Douglas, 
 
 Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." 
 
 As soon as he knew it was Montgomery 
 He struck his sword's point in the gronde ; 
 
 The Montgomery was a courteous knight, 
 And quickly took him by the honde.
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 This deed was done at the Otterbourne 
 
 About the breaking o' the day ; 
 Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken-bush, 
 
 And the Percy led captive away. 
 
 Ill 
 
 fmtinjr of t&e C&etotot 
 
 The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, 
 
 and a vowe to God mayd he 
 That he wold hunte in the mowntayns 
 
 off Chyviat within days thre, 
 In the magger of dough te D ogles, 
 
 and all that ever with him be. 
 
 The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 
 
 he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away : 
 
 " Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, 
 " I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may." 
 
 Then the Perse owt off Banborowe cam, 
 
 with him a myghtee meany, 
 
 With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and 
 bone; 
 
 the wear chosen owt of shyars thre. 
 
 This begane on a Monday at morn, 
 
 in Cheviat the hillys so he ; 
 The chylde may rue that ys unborn, 
 
 it wos the more pitte.
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 
 
 The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, 
 
 for to reas the dear : 
 Bomen byckarte uppone the bent 
 
 with ther browd aros cleare. 
 
 Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went, 
 
 on every syde shear ; 
 Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent, 
 
 for to kyll thear dear. 
 
 This begane in Chyviat the hyls abone, 
 
 yerly on a Monnyn-day ; 
 Be that it drewe to the oware off none, 
 
 a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. 
 
 The blewe a morte uppone the bent, 
 
 the semblyde on sydis shear ; 
 To the quyrry then the Perse went, 
 
 to se the bryttlynge off the deare. 
 
 He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys 
 
 this day to met me hear ; 
 But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament ; " 
 
 a great oth the Perse swear. 
 
 At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde 
 
 lokyde at his hand full ny ; 
 He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge, 
 
 with him a myghtte meany. 
 
 Both with spear, bylle, and brande, 
 
 yt was a myghtti sight to se ; 
 Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande, 
 
 wear not in Cristiante.
 
 io Poetry of the People 
 
 The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good, 
 
 withoute any feale ; 
 The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, 
 
 yth bowndes of Tividale. 
 
 " Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayd, 
 " and to your boys lock ye tayk good hede ; 
 
 For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne 
 had "ye never so mickle nede." 
 
 The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, 
 
 he rode alle his men beforne ; 
 His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede ; 
 
 a boldar barne was never born. 
 
 " Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, 
 
 " or whos men that ye be : 
 Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, 
 
 in the spyt of myn and of me." 
 
 The first name that ever him an answear mayd, 
 
 yt was the good lord Perse : 
 " We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says, 
 
 " nor whos men that we be ; 
 But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, 
 
 in the spyt of thyne and of the. 
 
 " The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat 
 
 we have kyld, and cast to carry them away : 
 
 " Be my troth," sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn, 
 " therfor the ton of us shall de this day." 
 
 Then sayd the doughte Doglas 
 unto the lord Perse :
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 1 1 
 
 " To kyll alle thes giltles men, 
 alas, it wear great pitte ! 
 
 " But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande, 
 I am a yerle callyd within my contre ; 
 
 Let all our men uppone a parti stande, 
 and do the battell off the and of me." 
 
 " Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord 
 Perse, 
 
 " who-so-ever ther-to says nay ; 
 Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says, 
 
 " thow shalt never se that day. 
 
 " Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France; 
 
 nor for no man of a woman born, 
 But, and fortune be my chance, 
 
 I dar met him, on man for on." 
 
 Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, 
 Richard Wytharyngton was his nam : 
 
 " It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, 
 " to Kyng Kerry the Fourth for sham. 
 
 " I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, 
 
 I am a poor squyar of lande : 
 I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, 
 
 and stande my selffe and loocke on, 
 But whylle I may my weppone welde, 
 
 I wylle not fayle both hart and hande." 
 
 That day, that day, that dredfull day! 
 the first fit here I fynde ;
 
 1 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 And youe wyll here any mor a the hountyng a the 
 
 Chyviat, 
 yet ys ther mor behynde. 
 
 The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, 
 
 ther hartes wer good yenoughe ; 
 The first off arros that the shote off, 
 
 seven skore spear-men the sloughe. 
 
 Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, 
 
 a captayne good yenoughe, 
 And that was sene verament, 
 
 for he wrought horn both woo and wouche. 
 
 The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre, 
 
 lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde ; 
 With suar spears off myghtte tre, 
 
 the cum in on every syde : 
 
 Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery 
 
 gave many a wounde fulle wyde; 
 Many a doughete the garde to dy, 
 
 which ganyde them no pryde. 
 
 The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, 
 
 and pulde owt brandes that wer brighte ; 
 
 It was a hevy syght to se 
 bryght swordes on basnites lyght. 
 
 Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple, 
 many sterne the strocke done streght ; 
 
 Many a freyke that was fulle fre, 
 ther undar foot dyd lyght. 
 
 At last the Duglas and the Perse met, 
 lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne ;
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 13 
 
 The swapte togethar tylle the both swat, 
 with swordes that wear of fyn myllan. 
 
 Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, 
 
 ther-to the wear fulle fayne, 
 Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, 
 
 as ever dyd heal or rayn. 
 
 " Yelde the, Perse," sayde the Doglas, 
 
 " and i feth I shalle the brynge 
 Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis 
 
 of Jamy our Skottish kynge. 
 
 " Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, 
 
 I hight the hear this thinge ; 
 For the manfullyste man yet art thowe 
 
 that ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge." 
 
 " Nay," sayd the lord Perse, 
 
 " I tolde it the beforne, 
 That I wolde never yeldyde be 
 
 to no man of a woman born." 
 
 With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, 
 
 forth e off a myghtte wane ; 
 Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas 
 
 in at the brest-bane. 
 
 Thorowe lyvar and longe's bathe 
 
 the sharpe arrowe ys gane, 
 That never after in all his lyffe-days 
 
 he spayke mo worde's but ane : 
 
 That was, " Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye 
 may, 
 
 for my lyff-days ben gan."
 
 14 Poetry of the People 
 
 The Perse leanyde on his brande, 
 
 and sawe the Duglas de ; 
 He tooke the dede mane by the hande, 
 
 and sayd, " Wo ys me for the ! 
 
 " To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have partyde with 
 
 my landes for years thre, 
 For a better man, of hart nare of hande, 
 
 was nat in all the north contre." 
 
 Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, 
 
 was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry ; 
 
 He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, 
 he spendyd a spear, a trust! tre. 
 
 He rod uppone a corsiare 
 
 throughe a hondrith archery : 
 He never stynttyde, nar never blane, 
 
 tylle he cam to the good lord Perse. 
 / 
 
 He set uppone the lorde Perse 
 
 a dynte that was full soare ; 
 With a suar spear of a myghtte* tre 
 
 clean thorow the body he the Perse" ber, 
 
 A the tothar syde that a man myght se 
 
 a large cloth-yard and mare : 
 Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante 
 
 then that day slan wear then 
 
 An archar off Northomberlonde 
 
 say slean was the lord Perse ; 
 He bar a bende bowe in his hand, 
 
 was made off trusti tre.
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 15 
 
 An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, 
 
 to the harde stele halyde he ; 
 A dynt that was both sad and soar 
 
 he sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. 
 
 The dynt yt was both sad and sar, 
 
 that he of Monggomberry sete ; 
 The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar 
 
 with his hart-blood the wear wete. 
 
 Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, 
 
 but still in stour dyd stand, 
 Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre, 
 
 with many a balfull brande. 
 
 This battell begane in Chyviat 
 
 an owar befor the none, 
 And when even-songe bell was rang, 
 
 The battell was nat half done. 
 
 The tocke . . . on ethar hande 
 
 be the lyght off the mone ; 
 Many hade no strenght for to stande, 
 
 in Chyviat the hillys abon. 
 
 Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde 
 
 went away but seventi and thre ; 
 Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, 
 
 but even five and fifti. 
 
 But all wear slayne Cheviat within ; 
 
 the hade no strengthe to stand on hy ; 
 The chylde may rue that ys unborne, 
 
 it was the mor pitte.
 
 1 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse, 
 
 Sir Johan of Agerstone, 
 Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly, 
 
 Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. 
 
 Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, 
 
 a knyghte of great renowen, 
 Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, 
 
 with dyntes wear beaten dowene. 
 
 For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, 
 that ever he slayne shulde be ; 
 
 For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, 
 yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. 
 
 Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas, 
 Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, 
 
 Ser Davy Lwdale, that worthe was, 
 his sistar's son was he. 
 
 Ser Charls a Murre in that place, 
 
 that never a foot wolde fle ; 
 Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, 
 
 with the Doglas dyd he dey. 
 
 So on the morrowe the mayde them byears 
 
 off birch and hasell so gray ; 
 Many wedous, with wepyng tears, 
 
 cam to fache ther makys away. 
 
 Tivydale may carpe off care, 
 
 Northombarlond may mayk great mon, 
 
 For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, 
 on the March-parti shall never be non.
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot i 
 
 Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, 
 
 to Jamy the Skottische kynge, 
 That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, 
 
 he lay slean Chyviot within. 
 
 His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, 
 
 he sayd, " Alas, and wo ys me ! 
 Such an othar captayn Skotland within," 
 
 he sayd, " ye-feth shuld never be." 
 
 Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, 
 
 till the fourth Harry our kynge, 
 That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis, 
 
 he lay slayne Chyviat within. 
 
 " God have merci on his solle," sayde Kyng Harry, 
 
 " good lord, yf thy will it be ! 
 I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, 
 
 " as good as ever was he : 
 But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, 
 
 thy deth well quyte shall be." 
 
 As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, 
 
 lyke a noble prince of renowen, 
 For the deth of the lord Perse 
 
 he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down ; 
 
 Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes 
 
 on a day wear beaten down : 
 Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, 
 
 over castille, towar, and town. 
 
 This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, 
 that tear begane this spurn ;
 
 1 8 Poetry of the People 
 
 Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe 
 call it the battell of Otterburn. 
 
 At Otterburn begane this spurne 
 
 uppone a Monnynday ; 
 Ther was the doughte Doglas slean, 
 
 the Perse never went away. 
 
 Ther was never a tym on the Marche-partes 
 sen the Doglas and the Perse met, 
 
 But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, 
 as the reane doys in the stret. 
 
 Jhesue Crist our balys bete, 
 
 and to the blys us brynge ! 
 Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: 
 
 God send us alle good endyng ! 
 
 IV 
 
 (Euom o 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas, 
 
 When the wind blew shrill and cauld, 
 Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, 
 
 " We maun draw to a hauld. 
 
 " And whatna hauld sail we draw to, 
 
 My merry men and me ? 
 We will gae to the house o' the Rodes, 
 
 To see that fair ladie."
 
 Edom o' Gordon 19 
 
 The ladie stude on her castle wa', 
 
 Beheld baith dale and doun, 
 There she was ware of a host o' men 
 
 Cam riding towards the toun. 
 
 " O see ye not, my merry men a', 
 
 see ye not what I see? 
 Methinks I see a host of men 
 
 1 marvel wha' they be." 
 
 She ween'd it had been her ain dear lord 
 
 As he cam riding hame ; 
 It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, 
 
 Wha recked nor sin nor shame. 
 
 She had nae suner buskit hersel, 
 
 Nor putten on her goun, 
 Till Edom o' Gordon and his men 
 
 Were round about the toun. 
 
 They had nae suner supper set, 
 
 Nae suner said the grace, 
 Till Edom o' Gordon and his men 
 
 Were light about the place. 
 
 The ladie ran to her tower head, 
 
 As fast as she could hie, 
 To see if, by her fair speeches, 
 
 She could with him agree. 
 
 As sune as he saw the ladie fair, 
 
 And her yetts a' lockit fast, 
 He fell into a rage o' wrath, 
 
 And his look was all aghast.
 
 20 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Come doun to me, ye ladye gay, 
 
 Come doun, come doun to me ; 
 This nicht sail ye lie within my arms, 
 
 The morn my bride sail be." 
 
 " I winna come doun, ye fause Gordon, 
 
 I winna come doun to thee ; 
 I winna forsake my ain dear lord, 
 
 That is sae far frae me." 
 
 " Gie owre your house, ye ladie fair, 
 
 Gie owre your house to me ; 
 Or I sail burn yoursell therein, 
 
 But and your babies three." 
 
 " I winna gie owre, ye false Gordon, 
 
 To nae sic traitor as thee ; 
 And if ye burn my ain dear babes, 
 
 My lord sail mak ye dree ! 
 
 " But reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, 
 
 And charge ye weel my gun ; 
 For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, 
 
 We a' sail be undone." 
 
 She stude upon the castle wa', 
 
 And let twa bullets flee ; 
 She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart, 
 
 And only razed his knee. 
 
 " Set fire to the house ! " quo the fause Gordon, 
 
 All wude wi' dule and ire ; 
 " Fause ladie ! ye sail rue that shot, 
 
 As ye burn in the fire."
 
 Edom o' Gordon 21 
 
 " Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 I paid ye weel your fee ; 
 Why pu' ye out the grund-wa-stane, 
 
 Lets in the reek to me ? 
 
 " And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 I paid ye weel your hire ; 
 Why pu' ye out my grund-wa-stane, 
 
 To me lets in the fire?" 
 
 " Ye paid me weel my hire, lady, 
 
 Ye paid me weel my fee ; 
 But now I 'm Edom o' Gordon's man, 
 
 Maun either do or dee." 
 
 O then outspak her youngest son, 
 
 Sat on the nourice' knee ; 
 Says, " Mither dear, gie owre this house, 
 
 For the reek it smithers me." 
 
 " I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn, 
 
 Sae wad I a' my fee, 
 For ae blast o' the westlin' wind, 
 
 To blaw the reek frae thee ! " 
 
 O then outspak her daughter dear 
 
 She was baith jimp and sma' 
 " O row me in a pair o' sheets, 
 
 And tow me owre the wa'." 
 
 They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, 
 
 And tow'd her owre the wa ' ; 
 But on the point o' Gordon's spear 
 
 She gat a deadly fa'.
 
 22 Poetry of the People 
 
 bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, 
 And cherry were her cheeks ; 
 
 And clear, clear was her yellow hair, 
 Whereon the red bluid dreeps. 
 
 Then wi' his spear he turned her owre, 
 
 gin her face was wan ! 
 
 He said, " You are the first that e'er 
 
 1 wish'd alive again." 
 
 He turned her owre and owre again, 
 
 gin her skin was white ! 
 
 " I might hae spared that bonnie face, 
 To hae been some man's delight. 
 
 " Busk and boun, my merry men a', 
 For ill dooms I do guess ; 
 
 1 canna look on that bonnie face, 
 As it lies on the grass ! " 
 
 " Wha looks to freits, my master deir, 
 It 's freits will follow them ; 
 
 Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon 
 Was dauntit by a dame." 
 
 But when the lady saw the fire 
 Come flaming owre her head, 
 
 She wept, and kiss'd her children twain, 
 Says, " Bairns, we been but dead." 
 
 The Gordon then his bugle blew, 
 
 And said, " Awa', awa' ; 
 The house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame, 
 
 1 hauld it time to ga'."
 
 Edom o' Gordon 23 
 
 O then bespied her ain dear lord, 
 
 As he came owre the lea ; 
 He saw his castle a' in a lowe, 
 
 Sae far as he could see. 
 
 Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave, 
 
 And a' his heart was wae ; 
 " Put on, put on, my wichty men, 
 
 As fast as ye can gae. 
 
 " Put on, put on, my wichty men, 
 
 As fast as ye can dri'e ; 
 For he that is hindmost of the thrang, 
 
 Shall ne'er get gude o' me ! " 
 
 Then some they rade, and some they ran, 
 
 Fu' fast out owre the bent ; 
 But ere the foremost could win up, 
 
 Baith lady and babes were brent. 
 
 He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, 
 
 And wept in teenf u' mood ; 
 " Ah, traitors ! for this cruel deed, 
 
 Ye shall weep tears of bluid." 
 
 And after the Gordon he has gane, 
 
 Sae fast as he might dri'e, 
 And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's bluid, 
 
 He 's wroken his fair ladie.
 
 24 Poetry of the People 
 
 Eobtn hnoto an* Little 3fol)n 
 
 When Robin Hood was about twenty years old, 
 
 With a hey down, down, and a down ; 
 He happen'd to meet Little John, 
 A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, 
 For he was a lusty young man. 
 
 Though he was call'd Little, his limbs they were large, 
 
 And his stature was seven foot high ; 
 Wherever he came, they quaked at his name, 
 
 For soon he would make them to fly. 
 
 How they came acquainted, I '11 tell you in brief, 
 
 If you would but listen awhile ; 
 For this very jest, among all the rest, 
 
 I think it may cause you to smile. 
 
 For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen, 
 
 " Pray tarry you here in this grove ; 
 And see that you all observe well my call, 
 
 While thorough the forest I rove. 
 
 " We have had no sport for these fourteen long days, 
 
 Therefore now abroad will I go ; 
 Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat, 
 
 My horn I will presently blow." 
 
 Then did he shake hands with his merry men all, 
 
 And bid them at present good-by: 
 Then, as near the brook his journey he took, 
 
 A stranger he chanced to espy.
 
 Robin Hood and Little John 25 
 
 They happened to meet on a long narrow bridge, 
 
 And neither of them would give way ; 
 Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood, 
 
 " I '11 shew you right Nottingham-play." 
 
 With that from his quiver an arrow he drew, 
 
 A broad arrow with a goose-wing. 
 The stranger reply'd, " I '11 liquor thy hide, 
 
 If thou offerst to touch the string." 
 
 Quoth bold Robin Hood, " Thou dost prate like an ass, 
 
 For were I to bend but my bow, 
 I could send a dart, quite thro' thy proud heart, 
 
 Before thou couldst strike me one blow." 
 
 " Thou talkst like a coward," the stranger reply'd ; 
 
 " Well arm'd with a long bow you stand, 
 To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest, 
 
 Have nought but a staff in my hand." 
 
 " The name of a coward," quoth Robin, " I scorn, 
 
 Wherefore my long bow I '11 lay by, 
 And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take, 
 
 The truth of thy manhood to try." 
 
 Then Robin Hood stept to a thicket of trees, 
 
 And chose him a staff of ground oak ; 
 Now this being done, away he did run 
 
 To the stranger, and merrily spoke : 
 
 " Lo ! see my staff is lusty and tough, 
 
 Now here on the bridge we will play ; 
 Whoever falls in, the other shall win, 
 
 The battle, and so we '11 away,"
 
 2 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 " With all my whole heart," the stranger reply'd, 
 
 " I scorn in the least to give out " ; 
 This said, they fell to 't without more dispute, 
 
 And their staffs they did flourish about. 
 
 At first Robin he gave the stranger a bang, 
 So hard that he made his bones ring : 
 
 The stranger he said, " This must be repaid, 
 I '11 give you as good as you bring. 
 
 " So long as I am able to handle a staff, 
 To die in your debt, friend, I scorn." 
 
 Then to it each goes, and followed their blows, 
 As if they 'd been threshing of corn. 
 
 The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown, 
 Which caused the blood to appear ; 
 
 Then Robin enraged, more fiercely engaged, 
 And followed his blows more severe. 
 
 So thick and so fast did he lay it on him, 
 
 With a passionate fury and ire ; 
 At every stroke he made him to smoke, 
 
 As if he had been all on fire. 
 
 O then into fury the stranger he grew, 
 
 And gave him a damnable look, 
 And with it a blow, that laid him full low, 
 
 And tumbled him into the brook. 
 
 " I prithee, good fellow, where art thou now ? " 
 
 The stranger, in laughter, he cried. 
 Quoth bold Robin Hood, " Good faith, in the flood, 
 
 And floating along with the tide.
 
 Robin Hood and Little John 27 
 
 " I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul, 
 
 With thee I '11 no longer contend ; 
 For needs must I say, thou hast got the day, 
 
 Our battle shall be at an end." 
 
 Then unto the bank he did presently wade, 
 
 And pulled himself out by a thorn ; 
 Which done, at the last he blowed a loud blast 
 
 Straightway on his fine bugle-horn : 
 
 The echo of which through the valleys did fly, 
 
 At which his stout bowmen appeared, 
 All clothed in green, most gay to be seen, 
 
 So up to their master they steered. 
 
 " O, what's the matter?" quoth William Stutly, 
 " Good master you are wet to the skin." 
 
 " No matter," quoth he, " the lad which you see 
 In fighting hath tumbled me in." 
 
 " He shall not go scot-free," the others reply'd. 
 
 So straight they were seizing him there, 
 To duck him likewise : but Robin Hood cries, 
 
 " He is a stout fellow ; forbear. 
 
 " There 's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid ; 
 
 These bowmen upon me do wait ; 
 There 's three score and nine ; if thou wilt be mine, 
 
 Thou shalt have my livery straight, 
 
 " And other accoutrements fit for a man ; 
 
 Speak up, jolly blade, never fear : 
 I '11 teach you also the use of the bow, 
 
 To shoot at the fat fallow deer."
 
 28 Poetry of the People 
 
 " O, here is my hand," the stranger reply'd, 
 " I '11 serve you with all my whole heart ; 
 
 My name is John Little, a man of good mettle ; 
 Ne'er doubt me, for I '11 play my part." 
 
 " His name shall be alter'd," quoth William Study, 
 
 " And I will his godfather be : 
 Prepare then a feast, and none of the least 
 
 For we will be merry," quoth he. 
 
 They presently fetched him a brace of fat does, 
 With humming strong liquor likewise ; 
 
 They loved what was good ; so in the green wood, 
 This pretty sweet babe they baptize. 
 
 He was, I must tell you, but seven foot high, 
 
 And, may be, an ell in the waist; 
 A sweet pretty lad : much feasting they had ; 
 
 Bold Robin the christening graced, 
 
 With all his bowmen, which stood in a ring, 
 And were of the Nottingham breed ; 
 
 Brave Stutly came then, with seven yeomen, 
 And did in this manner proceed : 
 
 " This infant was called John Little," quoth he ; 
 
 " Which name shall be changed anon : 
 The words we'll transpose ; so wherever he goes, 
 
 His name shall be called Little John." 
 
 They all with a shout made the elements ring ; 
 
 So soon as the office was o'er, 
 To feasting they went, with true merriment, 
 
 And tippled strong liquor gillore.
 
 Robin Hood Rescuing the Widow's Three Sons 29 
 
 Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe, 
 
 And clothed him from top to the toe, 
 In garments of green, most gay to be seen, 
 
 And gave him a curious long bow. 
 
 " Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, 
 
 And range in the green wood with us ; 
 Where we '11 not want gold nor silver, behold, 
 
 While bishops have ought in their purse. 
 
 " We live here like 'squires, or lords of renown, 
 
 Without e'er a foot of free land ; 
 We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer, 
 
 And everything at our command." 
 
 Then music and dancing did finish the day ; 
 
 At length, when the sun waxed low, 
 Then all the whole train the grove did refrain, 
 
 And unto their caves they did go. 
 
 And so, ever after, as long as he liv'd, 
 
 Although he was proper and tall, 
 Yet, nevertheless, the truth to express, 
 
 Still Little John they did him call. 
 
 VI 
 Robin hoott Resetting t&e OliSoto'e Owe Sonet 
 
 There are twelve months in all the year, 
 
 As I hear many men say, 
 But the merriest month in all the year 
 
 Is the merry month of May.
 
 30 Poetry of the People 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a link a down and a day, 
 And there he met a silly old woman, 
 
 Was weeping on the way. 
 
 " What news ? what news, thou silly old woman ? 
 
 What news hast thou for me ? " 
 Said she, " There 's my three sons in Nottingham town 
 
 To-day condemned to die." 
 
 " O, have they parishes burnt ? " he said, 
 
 " Or have they ministers slain? 
 Or have they robbed any virgin ? 
 
 Or other men's wives have ta'en ? " 
 
 " They have no parishes burnt, good sir, 
 
 Nor yet have ministers slain, 
 Nor have they robbed any virgin, 
 
 Nor other men's wives have ta'en." 
 
 " O, what have they done ? " said Robin Hood, 
 
 " I pray thee tell to me." 
 " It 's for slaying of the king's fallow-deer, 
 
 Bearing their long bows with thee." 
 
 " Dost thou not mind, old woman," he said, 
 
 " How thou madest.me sup and dine ? 
 By the truth of my body," quoth bold Robin Hood, 
 
 " You could not tell it in better time." 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a link a down and a day, 
 And there he met with a silly old palmer, 
 
 Was walking along the highway.
 
 Robin Hood Rescuing the Widow's Three Sons 3 1 
 
 " What news ? what news, thou silly old man ? 
 
 What news, I do thee pray ? " 
 Said he, " Three squires in Nottingham town 
 
 Are condemned to die this day." 
 
 " Come change thy apparel with me, old man, 
 
 Come change thy apparel for mine ; 
 Here is forty shillings in good silver, 
 
 Go drink it in beer or wine." 
 
 " O, thine apparel is good," he said, 
 
 " And mine is ragged and torn ; 
 Wherever you go, wherever you ride, 
 
 Laugh not an old man to scorn." 
 
 " Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, 
 Come change thy apparel with mine ; 
 
 Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold, 
 Go feast thy brethren with wine." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hat, 
 
 It stood full high on the crown : 
 " The first bold bargain that I come at, 
 
 It shall make thee come down." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's cloak, 
 
 Was patched black, blew, and red ; 
 He thought it no shame all the day long, 
 
 To wear the bags of bread. 
 
 Then he put on the old man's breeks, 
 
 Was patched from leg to side : 
 " By the truth of my body," bold Robin can say, 
 
 " This man loved little pride."
 
 3 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hose, 
 
 Were patched from knee to wrist : 
 " By the truth of my body," said bold Robin Hood, 
 
 I 'd laugh if I had any list." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's shoes, 
 
 Were patched both beneath and aboon ; 
 
 Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, 
 " It 's good habit that makes a man." 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a link a down and a down, 
 And there he met with the proud sheriff, 
 
 Was walking along the town. 
 
 " Save you, save you, sheriff ! " he said ; 
 
 " Now heaven you save and see ! 
 And what will you give to a silly old man 
 
 To-day will your hangman be? " 
 
 " Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said, 
 
 " Some suits I '11 give to thee ; 
 Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, 
 
 To-day 's a hangman's fee." 
 
 Then Robin he turns him round about, 
 
 And jumps from stock to stone : 
 " By the truth of my body," the sheriff he said, 
 
 " That 's well jumpt, thou nimble old man." 
 
 " I was ne'er a hangman in all my life, 
 
 Nor yet intends to trade ; 
 But curst be he," said bold Robin, 
 
 " That first a hangman was made 1
 
 Robin Hood Rescuing the Widow's Three Sons 33 
 
 " I Ve a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, 
 
 And a bag for barley and corn ; 
 A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, 
 
 And a bag for my little small horn. 
 
 " I have a horn in my pocket, 
 
 I got it from Robin Hood, 
 And still when I set it to my mouth, 
 
 For thee it blows little good." 
 
 " O, wind thy horn, thou proud fel!6w, 
 
 Of thee I have no doubt. 
 I wish that thou give such a blast, 
 
 Till both thy eyes fall out." 
 
 The first loud blast that he did blow, 
 
 He blew both loud and shrill ; 
 A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came riding over the hill. 
 
 The next loud blast that he did give, 
 
 He blew both loud and amain, 
 And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came shining over the plain. 
 
 " O, who are these," the sheriff he said, 
 
 " Come tripping over the lee ? " 
 "They're my attendants," brave Robin did say; 
 
 " They '11 pay a visit to thee." 
 
 They took the gallows from the slack, 
 
 They set it in the glen, 
 They hanged the proud sheriff on that, 
 
 Released their own three men.
 
 34 Poetry of the People 
 
 VII 
 Eoiiin INtrtj an* &IUn a )ale 
 
 Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
 All you that loves mirth for to hear, 
 
 And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, 
 That lived in Nottinghamshire. 
 
 As Robin Hood in the forest stood, 
 All under the green-wood tree, 
 
 There he was ware of a brave young man, 
 As fine as fine might be. 
 
 The youngster was clothed in scarlet red, 
 
 In scarlet fine and gay ; 
 And he did frisk it over the plain, 
 
 And chanted a roundelay. 
 
 As Robin Hood next morning stood, 
 
 Amongst the leaves so gay, 
 There did he espy the same young man 
 
 Come drooping along the way. 
 
 The scarlet he wore the day before, 
 
 It was clean cast away ; 
 And at every step he fetcht a sigh, 
 
 " Alack and a well a day ! " 
 
 Then stepped forth brave Little John, 
 
 And Nick the miller's son, 
 Which made the young man bend his bow, 
 
 When as he see them come.
 
 Robin Hood and Allin a Dale 35 
 
 " Stand off, stand off," the young man said, 
 
 " What is your will with me ? " 
 " You must come before our master straight, 
 
 Under yon green-wood tree." 
 
 And when he came bold Robin before, 
 
 Robin askt him courteously, 
 " O hast thou any money to spare 
 
 For my merry men and me ? " 
 
 " I have no money," the young man said, 
 
 " But five shillings and a ring; 
 And that I have kept this seven long years, 
 
 To have it at my wedding. 
 
 " Yesterday I should have married a maid, 
 
 But she is now from me tane, 
 And chosen to be an old knight's delight, 
 
 Whereby my poor heart is slain." 
 
 " What is thy name? " then said Robin Hood, 
 
 " Come tell me, without any fail : " 
 " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, 
 
 " My name it is Allin a Dale." 
 
 " What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 
 
 "In ready gold or fee, 
 To help thee to thy true love again, 
 
 And deliver her unto thee ? " 
 
 " I have no money," then quoth the young man, 
 
 " No ready gold nor fee, 
 But I will swear upon a book 
 
 Thy true servant for to be."
 
 36 Poetry of the People 
 
 " How many miles is it to thy true love ? 
 
 Come tell me without any guile : " 
 " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, 
 
 " It is but five little mile." 
 
 Then Robin he hasted over the plain, 
 
 He did neither stint nor lin, 
 Until he came unto the church, 
 
 Where Allin should keep his wedding. 
 
 " What dost thou do here ? " the bishop he said, 
 
 " I prithee now tell to me : " 
 " I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 
 
 " And the best in the north country." 
 
 " O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, 
 
 " That musick best pleaseth me ; " 
 " You shall have no musick," quoth Robin Hood, 
 
 " Till the bride and the bridegroom I see." 
 
 With that came in a wealthy knight, 
 
 Which was both grave and old, 
 And after him a finikin lass, 
 
 Did shine like the glistering gold. 
 
 " This is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, 
 
 " That you do seem to make here ; 
 For since we are come unto the church, 
 
 The bride shall chuse her own dear." 
 
 Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, 
 
 And blew blasts two or three ; 
 When four and twenty bowmen bold 
 
 Came leaping over the lea.
 
 Robin Hood and Allin a Dale 37 
 
 And when they came into the church-yard, 
 
 Marching all on a row, 
 The first man was Allin a Dale, 
 
 To give bold Robin his bow. 
 
 " This is thy true love," Robin he said, 
 
 " Young Allin, as I hear say ; 
 And you shall be married at this same time, 
 
 Before we depart away." 
 
 That shall not be," the bishop he said, 
 
 " For thy word shall not stand ; 
 They shall be three times askt in the church, 
 
 As the law is of our land." 
 
 Robin Hood pulld off the bishop's coat, 
 
 And put it upon Little John ; 
 " By the faith of my body," then Robin said, 
 
 " This cloath doth make thee a man." 
 
 When Little John went into the quire, 
 
 The people began for to laugh ; 
 He askt them seven times in the church, 
 
 Lest three times should not be enough. 
 
 " Who gives me this maid ? " then said Little John ; 
 
 Quoth Robin, That do I, 
 And he that takes her from Allin a Dale 
 
 Full dearly he shall her buy." 
 
 And thus having ended this merry wedding, 
 
 The bride lookt as fresh as a queen, 
 And so they returned to the merry greenwood, 
 
 Amongst the leaves so green.
 
 38 Poetry of the People 
 
 VIII 
 
 fiobtn boDli anU the King; 
 THE SEVENTH FYTTE OF A GEST OF ROBIN HOOD 
 
 The kynge came to Notynghame, 
 With knyghtes in grete araye, 
 
 For to take that gentyll knyght 
 And Robyn Hode, and yf he may. 
 
 He asked men of that countre, 
 
 After Robyn Hode, 
 And after that gentyll knyght, 
 
 That was so bolde and stout. 
 
 Whan they had tolde hym the case 
 Our kynge understode ther tale, 
 
 And seased in his honde 
 The knyghtes londes all. 
 
 All the passe of Lancasshyre 
 
 He went both ferre and nere, 
 Tyll he came to Plomton Parke ; 
 
 He faylyd many of his dere. 
 
 There our kynge was wont to se 
 
 Herdes many one, 
 He coud unneth fynde one dere, 
 
 That bare ony good home. 
 
 The kynge was wonder wroth with all, 
 
 And swore by the Trynyte, 
 " I wolde I had Robyn Hode, 
 
 With eyen I myght hym se.
 
 Robin Hood and the King 39 
 
 " And he that wolde smyte of the knyghtes hede, 
 
 And brynge it to me, 
 He shall have the knyghtes londes, 
 
 Syr Rycharde at the Le. 
 
 " I gy ve ** hy m with my charter, 
 
 And sele it with my honde, 
 To have and holde for ever more, 
 
 In all mery Englonde." 
 
 Than bespake a fayre olde knyght, 
 
 That was treue in his fay : 
 " A, my leege lorde the kynge, 
 
 One worde I shall you say. 
 
 " There is no man in this countre 
 May have the knyghtes londes, 
 
 Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone, 
 And bere a bowe in his hondes, 
 
 " That he ne shall lese his hede, 
 That is the best ball in his hode : 
 
 Give it no man, my lorde the kynge, 
 That ye wyll any good." 
 
 Half a yere dwelled our comly kynge 
 In Notyngham, and well more ; 
 
 Coude he not here of Robyn Hode, 
 In what countre that he were. 
 
 But alway went good Robyn 
 
 By halke and eke by hyll, 
 And alway slewe the kynges dere, 
 
 And welt them at his wyll.
 
 40 Poetry of the People 
 
 Than bespake a proude fostere, 
 That stode by our kynges kne : 
 
 " Yf ye wyll see good Robyn, 
 Ye must do after me. 
 
 " Take fyve of the best knyghtes 
 
 That be in your lede, 
 And 'walke downe by yon abbay, 
 
 And gete you monke's wede. 
 
 " And I wyll be your ledes-man, 
 
 And lede you the way, 
 And or ye come to Notyngham, 
 
 Myn hede then dare I lay, 
 
 " That ye shall mete with good Robyn, 
 
 On lyve yf that he be; 
 , Or ye come to Notyngham, 
 
 With eyen ye shall hym se." 
 
 Full hastely our kynge was dyght, 
 So were his knyghtye's fyve, 
 
 Everych of them in monke's wede, 
 And hasted them thyder blyve. 
 
 Our kynge was grete above his cole, 
 A brode hat on his crowne, 
 
 Ryght as he were abbot-lyke, 
 They rode up into the towne. 
 
 Styf botes our kynge had on, 
 
 Forsoth as I you say ; 
 He rode syngynge to grene wode, 
 
 The covent was clothed in graye.
 
 Robin Hood ana the King 41 
 
 His male-hors and his grete somers 
 
 Folowed our kynge behynde, 
 Tyll they came to grene wode, 
 
 A myle under the lynde. 
 
 There they met with good Robyn, 
 
 Stondynge on the waye, 
 And so dyde many a bolde archere, 
 
 For soth as I you say. 
 
 Robyn toke the kynges hors, 
 
 Hastely in that stede, 
 And sayd, " Syr abbot, by your leve, 
 
 A whyle ye must abyde. 
 
 " We be yemen of this foreste, 
 
 Under the grene-wode tre ; 
 We lyve by our kynges dere, 
 
 Other shift have not wee. 
 
 " And ye have chyrches and rentes both. 
 
 And gold full grete plente ; 
 Gyve us some of your spendynge, 
 
 For saynt charyte." 
 
 Than bespake our cumly kynge, 
 
 Anone than sayd he ; 
 " I brought no more to grene wode 
 
 But forty pounde with me. 
 
 " I have layne at Notyngham, 
 
 This fourtynyght with our kynge, 
 And spent I have full moche good 
 
 On many a grete lordynge.
 
 42 Poetry of the People 
 
 " And I have but forty pounde, 
 
 No more than have I me : 
 But if I had an hondred pounde, 
 
 I would give it to thee." 
 
 Robyn toke the forty pounde, 
 And departed it in two partye ; 
 
 Halfendell he gave his mery men, 
 And bad them mery to be. 
 
 Full curteysly Robyn gan say ; 
 
 " Syr, have this for your spendyng ; 
 We shall mete another day." 
 
 " Gramercy," than sayd our kynge. 
 
 " But well the greteth Edwarde, our kynge, 
 
 And sent to the his scale, 
 And byddeth the com to Notyngham, 
 
 Both to mete and mele." 
 
 He toke out the brode targe, 
 
 And sone he lete hym se ; 
 Robyn coud his courteysy, 
 
 And set hym on his kne. 
 
 " I love no man in all the worlde 
 
 So well as I do my kynge ; 
 Welcome is my lorde's scale ; 
 
 And, monke, for thy tydynge, 
 
 " Syr abbot, for thy tydynges, 
 To day thou shalt dyne with me, 
 
 For the love of my kynge, 
 Under my trystell-tre."
 
 Robin Hood and the King 43 
 
 Forth he lad our comly kynge, 
 
 Full fayre by the honde ; 
 Many a dere there was slayne, 
 
 And full fast dyghtande. 
 
 Robyn toke a full grete home, 
 
 And loude he gan bio we; 
 Seven score of wyght yonge men 
 
 Came redy on a rowe. 
 
 All they kneled on theyr kne, 
 
 Full fayre before Robyn : 
 The kynge sayd hym selfe untyll, 
 
 And swore by Saynt Austyn, 
 
 " Here is a wonder semely sight ; 
 
 Me thynketh, by Goddes pyne, 
 His men are more at his byddynge 
 
 Then my men be at myn." 
 
 Full hastely was theyr dyner idyght, 
 
 And therto gan they gone ; 
 They served our kynge with all theyr myght, 
 
 Both Robyn and Lytell Johan. 
 
 Anone before our kynge was set 
 
 The fatte venyson, 
 The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne, 
 
 And therto the fyne ale and browne. 
 
 " Make good chere," said Robyn, 
 
 " Abbot, for charyte ; 
 
 And for this ylke tydynge, 
 
 Blyssed mote thou be.
 
 44 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede, 
 
 Or thou hens wende ; 
 Than thou may enfourme our kynge, 
 
 Whan ye togyder lende." 
 
 Up they sterte all in hast, 
 
 Theyr bowes were smartly bent ; 
 
 Our kynge was never so sore agast, 
 He wende to have be shente. 
 
 Two yerdes there were up set, 
 
 Thereto gan they gange ; 
 By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd, 
 
 The merkes were to longe. 
 
 On every syde a rose-garlonde, 
 
 They shot under the lyne : 
 " Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde," sayd 
 
 Robyn, 
 " His takyll he shall tyne, 
 
 " And yelde it to his mayster, 
 
 Be it never so fyne ; 
 For no man wyll I spare, 
 
 So drynke I ale or wyne ; 
 
 " And bere a buffet on his hede, 
 
 I-wys ryght all bare : " 
 And all that fell in Robyns lote, 
 
 He smote them wonder sare. 
 
 Twyse Robyn shot aboute, 
 And ever he cleved the wande, 
 
 And so dyde good Gylberte 
 With the whyte hande.
 
 Robin Hood and the King 45 
 
 Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, 
 
 For nothynge wolde they spare ; 
 When they fayled of the garlonde, 
 
 Robyn smote them full sare. 
 
 At the last shot that Robyn shot, 
 
 For all his frendes fare, 
 Yet he fayled of the garlonde 
 
 Thre fyngers and mare. 
 
 Than bespake good Gylberte, 
 
 And thus he gan say ; 
 " Mayster," he sayd, " your takyll is lost, 
 
 Stande forth and take your pay." 
 
 " If it be so," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " That may no better be, 
 Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe, 
 
 I pray the, syr, serve thou me." 
 
 " It falleth not for myn ordre," sayd our kynge, 
 
 " Robyn, by thy leve, 
 For to smyte no good yeman, 
 
 For doute I sholde hym greve." 
 
 " Smyte on boldely," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " I give the large leve : " 
 Anone our kynge, with that worde, 
 
 He folde up his sieve, 
 
 And sych a buffet he gave Robyn, 
 
 To grounde he yede full nere : 
 " I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " Thou arte a stalworthe frere.
 
 46 Poeiry of the People 
 
 " There is pith in thyn arme," sayd Robyn, 
 " I trowe thou canst well shete ; " 
 
 Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode 
 Togeder gan they mete. 
 
 Robyn behelde our-comly kynge 
 
 Wystly in the face, 
 So dyde Syr Rycharde at the Le, 
 
 And kneled downe in that place. 
 
 And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, 
 
 Whan they se them knele : 
 " My lorde the kynge of Englonde, 
 
 Now I knowe you well." 
 
 " Mercy then, Robyn," sayd our kynge, 
 
 " Under your trystyll-tre, 
 Of thy goodnesse and thy grace, 
 
 For my men and me ! " 
 
 " Yes, for God," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " And also God me save, 
 I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge, 
 
 And for my men I crave." 
 
 " Yes, for God," than sayd our kynge, 
 
 " And therto sent I me, 
 With that thou leve the grene wode, 
 
 And all thy company ; 
 
 " And come home, syr, to my courte, 
 
 And there dwell with me." 
 " I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn, 
 
 'And ryght so shall it be.
 
 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 47 
 
 " I wyll come to your courte, 
 
 Your servyse for to se, 
 And brynge with me of my men 
 
 Seven score and thre. 
 
 " But me lyke well your servyse, 
 
 I wyll come agayne full soone. 
 And shote at the donne dere, 
 
 As I am wonte to done." 
 
 IX 
 Robin Jxroto's tDratb anfi -Burial 
 
 When Robin Hood and Little John, 
 Down a down, a down, a down, 
 Went o'er yon bank of broom, 
 
 Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, 
 " We have shot for many a pound : " 
 Hey down, a down, a down, 
 
 " But I am not able to shoot one shot more, 
 My broad arrows will not flee ; 
 
 But I have a cousin lives down below, 
 Please God, she will bleed me." 
 
 Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, 
 
 As fast as he can win ; 
 But before he came there, as we do hear, 
 
 He was taken very ill. 
 
 And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, 
 
 He knocked all at the ring, 
 But none was so ready as his cousin herself 
 
 For to let bold Rpbin in,
 
 48 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, 
 
 " And drink some beer with me ? " 
 " No, I will neither eat nor drink, 
 
 Till I am blooded by thee." 
 
 " Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, 
 
 " Which you did never see, 
 And if you please to walk therein, 
 
 You blooded by me shall be." 
 
 She took him by the lily-white hand, 
 
 And led him to a private room, 
 And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, 
 
 While one drop of blood would run down. 
 
 She blooded him in a vein of the arm, 
 
 And locked him up in the room ; 
 Then did he bleed all the livelong day, 
 
 Until the next day at noon. 
 
 He then bethought him of a casement there, 
 
 Thinking for to get down ; 
 He was so weak he could not leap, 
 
 He could not get him down. 
 
 He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, 
 
 Which hung low down to his knee ; 
 He set his horn unto his mouth, 
 
 And blew out weak blasts three. 
 
 Then Little John, when hearing him, 
 
 As he sat under a tree, 
 " I fear my master is now near dead, 
 
 He blows so wearily."
 
 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 49 
 
 Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, 
 
 As fast as he can dree ; 
 But when he came to Kirkley-hall, 
 
 He broke locks two or three : 
 
 Until he came bold Robin to, 
 
 Then he fell on his knee : 
 " A boon, a boon," cries Little John, 
 
 " Master, I beg of thee." 
 
 " What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, 
 
 " Little John, thou begs of me ? " 
 " It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, 
 
 And all their nunnery." 
 
 " Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, 
 
 " That boon I '11 not grant thee ; 
 I never hurt woman in all my life, 
 
 Nor man in woman's company. 
 
 " I never hurt fair maid in all my time, 
 
 Nor at my end shall it be ; 
 But give me my bent bow in my hand, 
 
 And a broad arrow I '11 let flee ; 
 And where this arrow is taken up, 
 
 There shall my grave digg'd be. 
 
 " Lay me a green sod under my head, 
 
 And another at my feet ; 
 And lay my bent bow by my side, 
 
 Which was my music sweet ; 
 And make my grave of gravel and green, 
 
 Which is most right and meet.
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Let me have length and breadth enough, 
 With under my head a green sod ; 
 
 That they may say, when I am dead, 
 Here lies bold Robin Hood." 
 
 These words they readily promised him, 
 Which did bold Robin please ; 
 
 And there they buried bold Robin Hood, 
 Near to the fair Kirkleys. 
 
 " Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, 
 " And put on your armour so bright ; 
 
 Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 
 Was married to a lord under night. 
 
 " Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 
 And put on your armour so bright, 
 
 And take better care of your youngest sister, 
 For your eldest 's awa the last night." 
 
 He 's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 
 
 And himself on a dapple gray, 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 
 And lightly they rode away. 
 
 Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 
 
 To see what he could see, 
 And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 
 
 Come riding over the lee.
 
 The Douglas Tragedy i 
 
 " Light down, light down, Lady Margret," he said, 
 
 "And hold my steed in your hand, 
 Until that against your seven brethren bold, 
 
 And your father, I mak a stand." 
 
 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 
 
 And never shed one tear, 
 Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', 
 
 And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear. 
 
 " O hold your hand, Lord William ! " she said, 
 " For your strokes they are wondrous sair ; 
 
 True lovers I can get many a ane, 
 But a father I can never get mair." 
 
 O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, 
 
 It was o' the holland sae fine, 
 And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, 
 
 That were redder than the wine. 
 
 " O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret," he said, 
 
 " O whether will ye gang or bide ? " 
 " I '11 gang, I '11 gang, Lord William," she said, 
 
 " For ye have left me nae other guide." 
 
 He 's lifted her on a milk-white steed, 
 
 And himself on a dapple gray, 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 
 And slowly they baith rade away. 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they came to yon wan water, 
 
 And there they lighted down.
 
 5 3 Poetry of the People 
 
 They lighted down to talc' a drink 
 
 Of the spring that ran sae clear, 
 And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, 
 
 And sair she gan to fear. 
 
 " Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, 
 
 " For I fear that you are slain." 
 " 'T is naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, 
 
 That shines in the water sae plain." 
 
 O they rade on, and on they rade, 
 
 And a' by the light of the moon, 
 Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, 
 
 And there they lighted down. 
 
 ' Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 
 
 " Get up, and let me in ! 
 Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 
 
 " For this night my fair lady I 've win. 
 
 " O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, 
 
 " O mak it braid and deep, 
 And lay Lady Margret close at my back, 
 
 And the sounder I will sleep." 
 
 Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 
 
 Lady Margret lang ere day, 
 And all true lovers that go thegither, 
 
 May they have mair luck than they ! 
 
 Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, 
 
 Lady Margret in Mary's quire; 
 Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 
 
 And out o' the knight's a briar.
 
 Lord Randal 53 
 
 And they twa met, and they twa plat, 
 
 And fain they wad be near ; 
 And a' the warld might ken right weel 
 
 They were twa lovers dear. 
 
 But by and rade the Black Douglas, 
 
 And wow but he was rough ! 
 For he pull'd up the bonny briar, 
 
 And flang 't in St. Mary's Loch. 
 
 " O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? 
 O where hae ye been, my handsome young man? " 
 " I hae been to the wild wood ; mother, make my bed soon, 
 For I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 
 
 " Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? 
 Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man ? " 
 " I din'd wi my true-love ; mother, make my bed soon, 
 For I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 
 
 " What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? 
 What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" 
 " I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother, make my bed soon, 
 For I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 
 
 " What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, 
 
 my son ? 
 What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome 
 
 young man ? "
 
 54 Poetry of the People 
 
 " O they swelld and they died ; mother, make my bed 
 
 soon, 
 For I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 
 
 " O I fear ye are poisond, Lord Randal, my son ! 
 O I fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man ! " 
 " O yes ! I am poisond ; mother, make my bed soon, 
 For I 'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." 
 
 XII 
 58onme (Sfeorjje Campbell 
 
 High upon Highlands, 
 
 and low upon Tay, 
 Bonnie George Campbell 
 
 rade out on a day. 
 
 Saddled and bridled 
 and gallant rade he ; 
 
 Hame cam his guid horse, 
 but never cam he. 
 
 Out cam his auld mither 
 
 greeting fu' sair, 
 And out cam his bonnie bride 
 
 riving her hair. 
 
 Saddled and bridled 
 and booted rade he ; 
 
 Toom hame cam the saddle, 
 but never cam he.
 
 Bessie Bell and Mary Gray 55 
 
 " My meadow lies green, 
 
 and my corn is unshorn, 
 My barn is to build, 
 
 and my babe is unborn." 
 
 Saddled and bridled 
 
 and booted rade he ; 
 Toom hame cam the saddle, 
 
 but never cam he. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Bessie 38ell arrtr 
 
 O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 They war twa bonnie lasses ! 
 They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, 
 
 And theekit it o'er wi rashes. 
 
 They theekit it o'er wi rashes green, 
 They theekit it o'er wi heather ; 
 
 But the pest cam frae the burrows-town, 
 And slew them baith thegither. 
 
 They thought to iie in Methven kirk-yard 
 
 Amang their noble kin ; 
 But they maun lye in Stronach haugh, 
 
 To biek forenent the sin. 
 
 And Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 They war twa bonnie lasses ; 
 They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae, 
 
 And theekit it o'er wi rashes.
 
 56 Poetry of the People 
 
 XIV 
 Cbe Ctoa Corbtra 
 
 As I was walking all alane, 
 
 I heard twa corbies making a maen ; 
 
 The tane into the t'ither did say, 
 
 " Whaur shall we gang and dine the day? " 
 
 " O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, 
 
 I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; 
 
 Nae living kens that he lies there, 
 
 But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. 
 
 " His hound is to the hunting gane, 
 His hawk to fetch the wildfowl hame, 
 His lady 's ta'en another mate, 
 Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet 
 
 " O we '11 sit on his white hause bane, 
 And I '11 pyke out his bonny blue e'en, 
 Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
 We '11 theek our nest when it blaws bare. 
 
 " Mony a ane for him makes maen, 
 But nane shall ken whaur he is gane ; 
 Over his banes when they are bare, 
 The wind shall blaw for evermair."
 
 Helen of Kirconnell 57 
 
 XV 
 f)elni of fcirconncll 
 
 I wad I were where Helen lies ; 
 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea ! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 And died to succor me ! 
 
 think na ye my heart was sair 
 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 
 
 1 laid her down wi' meikle care 
 
 On fair Kirconaell lea. 
 
 As I went down the water-side, 
 Nane but my foe to be my guide, 
 Nane but my foe to be my guide, 
 On fair Kirconnell lea ; 
 
 I lighted down, my sword did draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
 
 1 '11 make a garland of thy hair 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair 
 
 Until the day I dee.
 
 58 Poetry of the People 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
 
 Says, " Haste and come to me ! " 
 
 Helen fair! O Helen chaste ! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea. 
 
 1 wad my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn o'er my een, 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea. 
 
 I wad I were where Helen lies ; 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 And I am weary of the skies, 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 XVI 
 SEltfc of SlsIjrr'B fSSSell 
 
 There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 
 And a wealthy wife was she ; 
 
 She had three stout and stalwart sons, 
 And sent them o'er the sea. 
 
 They hadna been a week from her, 
 
 A week but barely ane, 
 When word came to the carline wife 
 
 That her three sons were gane,
 
 The Wife of Usher's Well 59 
 
 They hadna been a week from her, 
 
 A week but barely three, 
 When word came to the carlin wife 
 
 That her sons she 'd never see. 
 
 " I wish the wind may never cease, 
 
 Nor fashes in the flood, 
 Till my three sons come hame to me, 
 
 In earthly flesh and blood." 
 
 It fell about the Martinmass, 
 
 When nights are lang and mirk, 
 The carlin wife's three sons came hame, 
 
 And their hats were o' the birk. 
 
 It neither grew in syke nor ditch, 
 
 Nor yet in ony sheugh ; 
 But at the gates o' Paradise, 
 
 That birk grew fair eneugh. 
 
 " Blow up the fire, my maidens ! 
 
 Bring water from the well ! 
 For a' my house shall feast this night, 
 
 Since my three sons are well." 
 
 And she has made to them a bed, 
 
 She 's made it large and wide, 
 And she 's ta'en her mantle her about, 
 
 Sat down at the bed-side. 
 
 Up then crew the red, red cock, 
 And up and crew the gray ; 
 
 The eldest to the youngest said, 
 " 'T is time we were away."
 
 60 Poetry of the People 
 
 The cock he hadna craw'd but once, 
 And clapped his wings at a', 
 
 When the youngest to the eldest said, 
 " Brother, we must awa. 
 
 " The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, 
 The channerin worm doth chide ; 
 
 Gin we be mist out o' our place, 
 A sair pain we maun bide. 
 
 " Fare ye weel, my mother dear ! 
 
 Fareweel to barn and byre ! 
 And fare ye weel, the bonny lass 
 
 That kindles my mother's fire !" 
 
 XVII 
 
 SDenum laber 
 
 " O, where hae ye been, my lang-lost love, 
 This lang seven years an' more ? " 
 
 " O, I 'm come to seek my former vows 
 Ye granted me before." 
 
 " O, haud your tongue o' your former vows, 
 For they '11 breed bitter strife ; 
 
 O, haud your tongue o' your former vows, 
 For I am become a wife." 
 
 He turned him right an' round about, 
 
 And the tear blinded his e'e ; 
 " I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground 
 
 If it hadna been for thee.
 
 The Demon Lover 61 
 
 " I might hae had a king's daughter 
 
 Far, far beyond the sea, 
 I might hae had a king's daughter, 
 
 Had it nae been for love o' thee." 
 
 " If ye might hae had a king's daughter, 
 
 YourseP ye hae to blame; 
 Ye might hae taken the king's daughter, 
 
 For ye kenn'd that I was nane." 
 
 " O fause be the vows o' womankind, 
 
 But fair is their fause bodie ; 
 I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground 
 
 Had it nae been for love o' thee." 
 
 " If I was to leave my husband dear, 
 
 And my twa babes also, 
 O where is it ye would tak' me to, 
 
 If I with thee should go? " 
 
 " I hae seven ships upon the sea, 
 
 The eighth brouct me to land, 
 Wi' four-and-twenty bold mariners, 
 
 And music of ilka hand." 
 
 She has taken up her twa little babes. 
 
 Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin ; 
 " O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes, 
 
 For I '11 never see you again." 
 
 She set her foot upon the ship, 
 
 No mariners could she behold ; 
 But the sails were o' the taffetie, 
 
 And the masts o' the beaten gold.
 
 62 Poetry of the People 
 
 " O how do you love the ship ? " he said, 
 
 " O how do you love the sea ? 
 And how do you love the bold mariners 
 
 That wait upon thee and me ? " 
 
 " O I do love the ship," she said, 
 
 " And I do love the sea ; 
 But wae to the dim mariners 
 
 That naewhere I can see ! " 
 
 They hadna sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three, 
 When dismal grew his countenance, 
 
 And drumly grew his e'e. 
 
 The masts that were like the beaten gold, 
 
 Bent not on the heaving seas ; 
 The sails that were o' the taffetie 
 
 Fill'd not in the east land breeze. 
 
 They hadna sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three, 
 Until she espied his cloven hoof, 
 
 And she wept right bitterlie. 
 
 " O haud your tongue o' your weeping," he says 
 " O' your weeping now let me be ; 
 
 I will show you how the lilies grow 
 On the banks of Italy." 
 
 " O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, 
 That the sun shines sweetly on?" 
 
 " O yon are the hills o' heaven," he said, 
 * Where you will never win."
 
 The Demon Lover 63 
 
 " O what'n a mountain 's yon," she said, 
 
 " Sae dreary wi' frost an' snow?" 
 " O yon is the mountain o' hell," he cried, 
 
 " Where you and I maun go ! " 
 
 And aye when she turn'd her round about, 
 
 Aye taller he seemed for to be ; 
 Until that the tops o' that gallant ship 
 
 Nae taller were than he. 
 
 The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, 
 
 And the levin fill'd her e'e ; 
 And waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites 
 
 Upon the gurlie sea. 
 
 He strack tne tapmast wi' his hand, 
 
 The foremast wi' his knee ; 
 And he brak that gallant ship in twain, 
 
 And sank her i' the sea.
 
 BOOK SECOND POEMS OF ENG- 
 
 LAND: HISTORICAL AND 
 
 PATRIOTIC 
 
 XVIII 
 
 >atoe t&e feinj 
 
 God save our gracious King! 
 Long live our noble King J 
 
 God save the King ! 
 Send him victorious, 
 Happy and glorious, 
 Long to reign over us ! 
 
 God save the King ! 
 
 O Lord our God, arise ! 
 Scatter his enemies, 
 
 And make them fall ; 
 Confound their politics, 
 Frustrate their knavish tricks 
 On Thee our hopes we fix 
 
 God save us all ! 
 
 Thy choicest gifts in store 
 On him be pleased to pour ; 
 Long may he reign ! 
 65
 
 66 Poetry of the People 
 
 May he defend our laws, 
 And ever give us cause 
 To sing with heart and voice, 
 God save the King ! 
 
 XIX 
 
 1399 
 
 This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 
 
 This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 
 This other Eden, demi-paradise, 
 
 This fortress built by Nature for herself 
 
 Against infection and the hand of war, 
 
 This happy breed of men, this little world, 
 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall, 
 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 
 Against the envy of less happier lands, 
 
 This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, 
 
 This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
 
 Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth, 
 
 Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 
 
 For Christian service and true chivalry, 
 
 As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry 
 
 Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son ; 
 
 This land of such dear souls, this dear" dear land, 
 
 Dear for her reputation through the world, 
 
 Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, 
 
 Like to a tenement or pelting farm : 
 
 England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address before Harfleur 67 
 
 Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
 Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, 
 With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds : 
 That England, that was wont to conquer others, 
 Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. 
 Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, 
 How happy then were my ensuing death ! 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 XX 
 
 tfce Jtft&'a SUftreas to &te 
 iefore |)arfleur 
 
 1415 
 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; 
 
 Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
 
 In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man 
 
 As modest stillness and humility : 
 
 But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage ; 
 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head 
 
 Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it 
 
 As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
 
 O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
 
 Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 
 Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 
 
 Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit 
 
 To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
 
 68 Poetry of the People 
 
 Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ! 
 
 Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
 
 Have in these parts from morn till even fought 
 
 And sheathed their swords for lack of argument : 
 
 Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 
 
 That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. 
 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 
 And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 
 
 Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 
 
 The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 
 
 That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; 
 
 For there is none of you so mean and base, 
 
 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
 
 Straining upon the start. The game 's afoot : 
 
 Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
 
 Cry " God for Harry, England, and St. George ! " 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 XXI 
 
 feinff |)entj> t&e Jift& iiefore Slfffncottrt 
 1415 
 
 . . . He which hath no stomach to this fight, 
 Let him depart; his passport shall be made 
 And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 
 We would not die in that man's company 
 That fears his fellowship to die with us. 
 This day is call'd the feast of Crispian : 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
 Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
 
 King Henry the Fifth before Agincourt 69 
 
 And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 
 
 He that shall live this day, and see old age, 
 
 Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 
 
 And say " To-morrow is Saint Crispian : " 
 
 Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 
 
 And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." 
 
 Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot, 
 
 But he '11 remember with advantages 
 
 What feats he did that day : then shall our names, 
 
 Familiar in his mouth as household words, 
 
 Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 
 
 Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 
 
 Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. 
 
 This story shall the good man teach his son ; 
 
 And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 
 
 From this day to the ending of the world, 
 
 But we in it shall be remembered ; 
 
 We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; 
 
 For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
 
 Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile, 
 
 This day shall gentle his condition : 
 
 And gentlemen in England now a-bed 
 
 Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
 
 And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
 
 That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. 
 
 Shakespeare
 
 7 o Poetry of the People 
 
 XXII 
 
 Co tj)c Cambrio -Britons an* tbrir harp, I)ts 
 of &fftnconrt 
 1415 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 When we our sails advance, 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 
 Longer will tarry ; 
 But putting to the main, 
 At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train, 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 
 Marched towards Agincourt 
 
 In happy hour 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 With those that stopped his way 
 Where the French gen'ral lay 
 
 With all his power, 
 
 Which in his height of pride, 
 King Henry to deride, 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 To the king sending ; 
 Which he neglects the while, 
 As from a nation vile, 
 Yet, with an angry smile, 
 
 Their fall portending.
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt 7 i 
 
 And turning to his men, 
 Quoth our brave Henry then : 
 " Though they to one be ten, 
 
 Be not amazed. 
 Yet have we well begun 
 Battles so bravely won 
 Have ever to the sun 
 
 By fame been raised. 
 
 " And for myself," quoth he, 
 " This my full rest shall be ; 
 England ne'er mourn for me, 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 Victor I will remain, 
 Or on this earth lie slain ; 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 
 
 " Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
 When most their pride did swell, 
 Under our swords they fell ; 
 
 No less our skill is 
 Than when our grandsire great, 
 Claiming the regal seat, 
 By many a warlike feat 
 
 Lopped the French lilies." 
 
 The Duke of York so dread 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 With the main Henry sped, 
 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 Excester had the rear 
 A braver man not there : 
 O Lord ! how hot they were 
 
 On the false Frenchmen !
 
 7 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 They now to fight are gone ; 
 
 Armor on armor shone, 
 
 Drum now to drum did groan 
 
 To hear was wonder ; 
 That with cries they make 
 The very earth did shake ; 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 O noble Erpingham! 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 To our hid forces ; 
 When, from a meadow by, 
 Like a storm suddenly, 
 The English archery 
 
 Stuck the French horses, 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong, 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
 That like to serpents stung, 
 
 Piercing the weather ; 
 None from his fellow starts, 
 But playing manly parts, 
 And like true English hearts, 
 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 When down their bows they threw, 
 And forth their bilbows drew, 
 And on the French they flew, 
 
 Not one was tardy : 
 Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 
 Down the French peasants went ; 
 
 Our men were hardy.
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt 7 3 
 
 This while our noble king, 
 His broadsword brandishing, 
 Down the French host did ding, 
 
 As to o'erwhelm it; 
 And many a deep wound lent, 
 His arms with blood besprent, 
 And many a cruel dent 
 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 For famous England stood, 
 
 With his brave brother, 
 Clarence, in steel so bright, 
 Though but a maiden knight, 
 Yet in that furious fight 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 Warwick in blood did wade, 
 Oxford the foe invade, 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 Still as they ran up ; 
 Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
 Beaumont and Willoughby 
 Bare them right doughtily, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's day 
 Fought was this noble fray, 
 Which fame did not delay 
 To England to carry ; 
 Oh, when shall Englishmen 
 With such acts fill a pen, 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry ! 
 
 Michael Drayton
 
 74 Poetry of the People 
 
 XXIII 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591 
 
 At Floras in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
 
 And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far 
 
 away: 
 
 " Spanish ships-of-war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- three ! " 
 Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am no 
 
 coward ; 
 
 But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 
 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
 
 quick. 
 We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three ? " 
 
 Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you are no 
 
 coward ; 
 
 You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
 But I 've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord 
 
 Howard, 
 To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 
 
 So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that 
 
 day, 
 
 Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; 
 But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 
 Very carefully and slow, 
 Men of Bideford in Devon, 
 And we laid them on the ballast down below ;
 
 The "Revenge" 75 
 
 For we brought them all aboard, 
 
 And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to 
 
 Spain, 
 To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 
 
 He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to 
 
 fight, 
 And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in 
 
 sight, 
 
 With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 
 " Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
 For to fight is but to die ! 
 
 There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun be set." 
 And Sir Richard said again : " We be all good Englishmen. 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 
 
 devil, 
 For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet." 
 
 Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, 
 
 and so 
 
 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, 
 With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick 
 
 below ; 
 For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were 
 
 seen, 
 And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane 
 
 between. 
 
 Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks 
 
 and laughed, 
 Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little 
 
 craft
 
 76 Poetry of the People 
 
 Running on and on, till delayed 
 
 By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred 
 
 tons, 
 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of 
 
 guns, 
 Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. 
 
 And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a 
 
 cloud, 
 
 Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
 Long and loud, 
 Four galleons drew away 
 From the Spanish fleet that day, 
 And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard 
 
 lay, 
 And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 
 
 But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and 
 
 went, 
 
 Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content; 
 And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand 
 
 to hand, 
 For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musque- 
 
 teers, 
 And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes 
 
 his ears, 
 When he leaps from the water to the land. 
 
 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over 
 
 the summer sea, 
 But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the 
 
 fifty-three.
 
 The "Revenge" 77 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built gal- 
 leons came, 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder 
 and flame ; 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her 
 dead and her shame, 
 
 For some wece sunk and many were shattered, and so could 
 fight us no more 
 
 God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 
 before ? 
 
 For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
 
 Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
 
 And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was 
 
 gone, 
 
 With a grisly wound to be drest, he had left the deck, 
 But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 
 
 dead, 
 And himself, he was wounded again in the side and the 
 
 head, 
 And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
 
 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over 
 
 the summer sea, 
 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in 
 
 a ring ; 
 But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we 
 
 still could sting, 
 
 So they watched what the end would be. 
 And we had not fought them in vain, 
 But in perilous plight were we, 
 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
 
 78 Poetry of the. People 
 
 And half cf the rest of us maim'd for life 
 
 In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 
 
 And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 
 
 stark and cold, 
 And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was 
 
 all of it spent ; 
 
 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
 But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
 " We have fought such a fight, for a day and a night, 
 As may never be fought again ! 
 We have won great glory, my men ! 
 And a day less or more 
 At sea or ashore, 
 We die does it matter when ? 
 Sink me the ship, Master Gunner sink her, split her in 
 
 twain ! 
 Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! " 
 
 And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply : 
 
 " We have children, we have wives, 
 
 And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
 
 We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us 
 
 go; 
 
 We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." 
 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 
 
 And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him 
 
 then, 
 Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught 
 
 at last, 
 And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign 
 
 grace;
 
 The "Revenge" 79 
 
 But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
 
 " I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and 
 
 true; 
 
 I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 
 With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" 
 And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 
 
 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and 
 
 true, 
 
 And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
 That he dared he"r with one little ship and his English few ; 
 Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they knew, 
 But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, 
 And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier, alien crew, 
 And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; 
 When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from 
 
 sleep, 
 
 And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
 And or ever that evening ended, a great gale blew, 
 And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake 
 
 grew, 
 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts 
 
 and their flags, 
 And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter 'd 
 
 navy of Spain, 
 And the little Revenge herself went down by the island 
 
 crags 
 To be lost evermore in the main. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson
 
 8o Pottry of the People 
 
 XXIV 
 <0ite a House 
 
 1642-1649 
 
 King Charles, and who '11 do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse : here 's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles 1 
 
 Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
 Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
 Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
 Who found me in wine you drank once? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 King Charles, and who '11 do him right now ? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? 
 Give a rouse : here 's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles ! 
 
 To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
 By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
 For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
 While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 King Charles, and who '11 do him right now ? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? 
 Give a rouse : here 's, in hell's despite now, 
 
 King Charles ! 
 
 Robert Browning
 
 The Sally from Coventry 81 
 
 XXV 
 C&e Sallp from Cotoenttp 
 
 " Passion o' me ! " cried Sir Richard Tyrone, 
 Spurning the sparks from the broad paving-stone, 
 " Better turn nurse and rock children to sleep, 
 Than yield to a rebel old Coventry Keep. 
 No, by my halidom, no one shall say, 
 Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city away." 
 
 Passion o' me ! how he pulled at his beard, 
 Fretting and chafing if any one sneered, 
 Clapping his breastplate and shaking his fist, 
 Giving his grizzly moustachios a twist, 
 Running the protocol through with his steel, 
 Grinding the letter to mud with his heel. 
 
 Then he roared out for a pottle of sack, 
 Clapped the old trumpeter twice on the back, 
 Leaped on his bay with a dash and a swing, 
 Bade all the bells in the city to ring, 
 And when the red flag from the steeple went down, 
 Open they flung every gate in the town. 
 
 To boot ! and to horse ! and away like a flood, 
 
 A fire in their eyes, and a sting in their blood ; 
 
 Hurrying out with a flash and a flare, 
 
 A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpeter's blare, 
 
 And first, sitting proud as a king on his throne, 
 
 At the head of them all dashed Sir Richard Tyrone. 
 
 Crimson and yellow, and purple and dun, 
 Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in the sun,
 
 82 Poetry of the People 
 
 Steel like a mirror on brow and on breast, 
 Scarlet and white on their feather and crest, 
 Banner that blew in a torrent of red, 
 Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at their head. 
 
 The " trumpet " went down with a gash on his poll, 
 Struck by the parters of body and soul. 
 Forty saddles were empty ; the horses ran red 
 With foul Puritan blood from the slashes that bled. 
 Curses and cries and a gnashing of teeth, 
 A grapple and stab on the slippery heath, 
 And Sir Richard leaped up on the fool that went down, 
 Proud as a conqueror donning his crown. 
 
 They broke them a way through a flooding of fire, 
 Trampling the best blood of London to mire, 
 When suddenly rising a smoke and a blaze, 
 Made all " the dragon's sons " stare in amaze : 
 " O ho ! " quoth Sir Richard, " my city grows hot, 
 I 've left it rent paid to the villanous Scot." 
 
 Walter Thornbury 
 
 XXVI 
 
 C&c battle of J&aeebp 
 
 BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR- 
 NoBLES-wiTH-LiNKS-OF-lRON, Sergeant in Ireton's Regiment 
 
 1645 
 
 Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north, 
 With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red ? 
 
 And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? 
 And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
 
 The Battle of ' Naseby 83 
 
 Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
 
 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; 
 For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 
 
 strong, 
 
 Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
 
 That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, 
 And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced 
 
 hair, 
 
 And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, 
 
 The general rode along us to form us to the fight ; 
 When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a 
 shout 
 
 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 
 And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
 
 The cry of battle rises along their charging line : 
 For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for the Laws ! 
 
 For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine ! 
 The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, 
 
 His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall ; 
 They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your pikes ! Close 
 your ranks ! 
 
 For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 
 
 They are here they rush on we are broken we are 
 
 gone 
 
 Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
 O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right ! 
 Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the 
 last !
 
 84 Poetry of the People 
 
 Stout Skippon hath a wound the centre hath given 
 
 ground. 
 Hark! hark 1 what means the trampling of horsemen on 
 
 our rear ? 
 Whose banner do I see, boys? 'T is he! thank God! 'tis 
 
 he, boys ! 
 
 Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here ! 
 Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row : 
 
 Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, 
 Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 
 
 Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
 
 Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar ; 
 And he he turns ! he flies ! shame on those cruel eyes 
 
 That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war! 
 Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye strip the slain, 
 
 First give another stab to make your search secure ; 
 Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces 
 and lockets, 
 
 The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 
 Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were 
 gay and bold, 
 
 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day ; 
 And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks 
 
 Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 
 
 Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven, and 
 
 hell, and fate ? 
 
 And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades? 
 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths ? 
 Your stage plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and 
 your spades?
 
 The Three Troopers 85 
 
 Down ! down ! for ever down, with the mitre and the crown ! 
 With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the 
 
 Pope! 
 There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's 
 
 stalls ; 
 
 The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope. 
 And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, 
 And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's 
 
 sword ; 
 
 And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear 
 What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and 
 the Word ! Lord Macaulay 
 
 XXVII 
 
 &ree dCroopera 
 
 [DURING THE PROTECTORATE, 1653-1658] 
 
 Into the Devil tavern 
 
 Three booted troopers strode, 
 From spur to feather spotted and splashed 
 
 With the mud of a winter road. 
 In each of their cups they dropped a crust, 
 
 And stared at the guests with a frown ; 
 Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, 
 
 " God send this Crum-well-down !" 
 
 A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, 
 Their sword blades were still wet ; 
 
 There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, 
 As they the table overset.
 
 86 Poetry of the People 
 
 Then into their cups they stirred the crusts, 
 And cursed old London town ; 
 
 They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, 
 " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 
 
 The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, 
 
 The host turned pale as a clout ; 
 The ruby nose of the toping squires 
 
 Grew white at the wild men's shout. 
 Then into their cups they flung their crusts, 
 
 And shewed their teeth with a frown ; 
 They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, 
 
 " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 
 
 The gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, 
 
 The waiting-women screamed, 
 As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, 
 
 On the wild men's sabres gleamed. 
 Then into their cups they splashed their crusts, 
 
 And cursed the fool of a town, 
 And leapt on the table, and roared a toast, 
 
 " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 
 
 Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, 
 
 And the troopers sprang to horse 
 The eldest muttered between his teeth, 
 
 Hot curses deep and coarse. 
 In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, 
 
 And cried as they spurred through the town, 
 With their keen swords drawn and their pistols 
 cocked, 
 
 " God send this Crum-well-down ! "
 
 The British Grenadiers 87 
 
 Away they dashed through Temple Bar, 
 
 Their red cloaks flowing free, 
 Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone 
 
 None like to touch the three. 
 The silver cups that held the crusts 
 
 They flung to the startled town, 
 Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, 
 
 " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 
 
 Walter Thornbury 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 (EJrenaitere 
 
 c. 1690 
 
 Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules ; 
 
 Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these ; 
 
 But of all the world's brave heroes, there 's none that can 
 
 compare, 
 With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British 
 
 Grenadier. 
 
 Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, 
 Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal ; 
 But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, 
 Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 
 Grenadiers. 
 
 Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, 
 Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades ; 
 We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, 
 Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 
 Grenadiers.
 
 88 Poetry of the People 
 
 And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, 
 
 The townsmen cry Hurra, boys, here comes a Grenadier, 
 
 Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts 
 
 or fears, 
 Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 
 
 Grenadiers. 
 
 Then let us fill a bumper and drink a health to those 
 Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes ; 
 May they and their commanders live happy all their years, 
 With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 
 Grenadiers. Anonymous 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Ettle, -Britannia 
 1740 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main, 
 This was the charter of the land, 
 
 And guardian angels sung this strain: 
 " Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 " The nations not so blessed as thee 
 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; 
 While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves.
 
 Rule, Britannia! 89 
 
 " Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 " Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 
 But work their woe and thy renown. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 " To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
 All thine shall be the subject main, 
 And every shore it circles, thine. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves. . 
 
 " The Muses, still with freedom found, 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair : 
 Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned, 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves." 
 
 James Thomson
 
 90 Poetry of the People 
 
 XXX 
 toe, SISftrttten in t&e pear 1746 
 
 How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blest ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung: 
 There Honor conies, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 William Collins 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Battle of tbc -Baltic 
 
 1801 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 All the might of Denmark's crown, 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 
 In a bold, determined hand, 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 Led them on.
 
 Battle of the Baltic 9 1 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime ; 
 
 As they drifted on their path 
 
 There was silence deep as death, 
 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 " Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried, when each gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again! again! again! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 
 
 Then ceased and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail, 
 
 Or in conflagration pale, 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then, 
 
 As he hailed them o'er the wave : 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save ;
 
 92 Poetry of the People 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring : 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King." 
 
 Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day : 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise ! 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
 And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 
 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 On the deck of fame that died, 
 
 With the gallant, good Riou : 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls, 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 Of the brave ! Thomas Campbell
 
 Ye Mariners of England 93 
 
 XXXII 
 
 P* partners of SnglanB 
 1805 
 
 Ye mariners of England, 
 
 That guard our native seas, 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze, 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again, 
 
 To match another foe ! 
 
 And sweep through the deep 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ! 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And ocean was their grave. 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak
 
 94 Poetry of the People 
 
 She quells the iloods below, 
 
 As they roar on the shore 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the storm)' winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor fla|; of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn, 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart, 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 Thomas Campbell 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Character of Ihe fjjappp SISIarrior 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
 
 It is the generouii spirit, who, when brought 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought : 
 Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ;
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior 95 
 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain 
 And Fear and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 By objects which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 
 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 He fixes good on good alone, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 On honorable terms, or else retire, 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire ; 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim, 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
 Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all :
 
 g6 Poetry of the People 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 
 
 Is happy as a lover ; and attired 
 
 With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 
 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
 
 Or, if an unexpected call succeed, 
 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
 
 He who, though thus endued, as with a sense 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love. 
 
 'T is, finally, the man, who, lifted high, 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be won: 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray : 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
 From well to better, daily self-surpassed : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 97 
 
 Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, 
 Or he must go to dust without his fame, 
 And leave a dead, unprofitable name, 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 This is the happy warrior ; this is he 
 Whom every man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Burial of S>ir ^oljn JHoorc at Conmna 
 
 1809 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 
 The sod with our bayonets turning ; 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
 
 98 Poetry of the People 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 But little he '11 reck if they let him sleep on, 
 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone 
 But we left him alone in his glory 1 
 
 Charles Wolfe 
 
 XXXV 
 
 J left of 
 
 1815 
 
 Stop! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
 An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow !
 
 The Field of Waterloo 99 
 
 i 
 
 And is this all the world has g ained by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory? 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? No ; 't was but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. 
 But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ; 
 Arm! arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
 
 ioo Poetry of the People 
 
 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness. 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who would guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips " The foe ! they come ! 
 they come ! " 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill ! but with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave alas !
 
 The Lost Leader 101 
 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor rolling on the foe, 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshaling in arms, the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
 Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent ! 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 C&e lost IcaUer 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us, 
 
 Just for a riband to stick in his coat 
 Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 
 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
 They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 
 
 So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
 How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
 
 Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
 We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, 
 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
 Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 
 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die !
 
 IO2 
 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 
 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their 
 
 graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 
 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves 1 
 
 We shall march prospering, not thro' his presence; 
 
 Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence, 
 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : 
 Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 
 
 One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
 One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, 
 
 One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
 Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 
 
 There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
 Forced praise on our part the glimmer of twilight, 
 
 Never glad confident morning again ! 
 Best fight on well, for we taught him strike gallantly 
 
 Menace our heart ere we master his own ; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 
 
 Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 
 
 Robert Browning 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 ^tutorial Serge* on t&e >eat& of S5BorB6toatt& 
 1850 
 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remained to come 
 The last poetic voice is dumb, 
 We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.
 
 Memorial Verses on the Death of Wordsworth 103 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bowed our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little ; but our soul 
 Had/2r// him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law ; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watched the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we said: 
 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 
 Physician of the iron age, 
 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 
 He took the suffering human race, 
 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear; 
 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 
 And said : Thou ailest here, and here! 
 
 He looked on Europe's dying hour 
 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 
 His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 
 
 The turmoil of expiring life 
 
 He said : The end is everywhere, 
 
 Art still has truth, take refuge there! 
 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 
 Causes of things, and far below 
 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth ! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice ! 
 For never has such soothing voice 
 Been to your shadowy world conveyed, 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
 
 104 Poetry of the People 
 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 Wordsworth has gone from us and ye, 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we 1 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 Had fallen on this iron time 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth, 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 Our youth returned ; for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead, 
 Spirits dried up and closely furled, 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
 Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power ? 
 Others will teach us how to dare, 
 And against fear our breast to steel ; 
 Others will strengthen us to bear 
 But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny, 
 Others will front it fearlessly 
 But who, like him, will put it by?
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 105 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 Matthew Arnold 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 He on tbe >eat|) of t(je )ttfee of SSIeUtnjrton 
 
 1852 
 
 Bury the Great Duke 
 
 With an empire's lamentation, 
 Let us bury the Great Duke 
 
 To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, 
 Mournig when their leaders fall, 
 Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
 And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 
 
 Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
 Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
 Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
 And the feet of those he fought for, 
 Echo round his bones for evermore. 
 
 <c 
 
 Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
 
 As fits an universal woe, 
 
 Let the long long procession go, 
 
 And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 
 
 And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
 
 The last great Englishman is low. 
 
 Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
 Remembering all his greatness in the Past
 
 io6 Poetry of the People 
 
 No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
 
 With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
 
 O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
 
 Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
 
 The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
 
 Whole in himself, a common good. 
 
 Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
 
 Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
 
 Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
 
 Great in council and great in war, 
 
 Foremost captain of his time, 
 
 Rich in saving common-sense, 
 
 And, as the greatest only are, 
 
 In his simplicity sublime. 
 
 O good gray head which all men knew, 
 
 O voice from which their omens all men drew, 
 
 O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
 
 O fall'n at length that tower of strength 
 
 Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! 
 
 Such was he whom we deplore. 
 
 The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
 
 The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 
 
 All is over and done : 
 Render thanks to the Giver, 
 England, for thy son. 
 Let the bell be toll'd. 
 Render thanks to the Giver, 
 And render him to the mould. 
 Under the cross of gold 
 That shines over city and river, 
 There he shall rest forever 
 Among the wise and the bold.
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 107 
 
 Let the bell be toll'd : 
 
 And a reverent people behold 
 
 The towering car, the sable steeds : 
 
 Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds, 
 
 Dark in its funeral fold. 
 
 Let the bell be toll'd : 
 
 And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; 
 
 And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 
 
 Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
 
 And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 
 
 He knew their voices of old. 
 
 For many a time in many a clime 
 
 His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
 
 Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
 
 When he with those deep voices wrought, 
 
 Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
 
 With those deep voices our dead captain taught 
 
 The tyra.it, and asserts his claim 
 
 In that dread sound to the great name, 
 
 Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
 
 In praise and in dispraise the same, 
 
 A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
 
 O civic muse, to such a name, 
 
 To such a name for ages long, 
 
 To such a name, 
 
 Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
 
 And ever-echoing avenues of song. 
 
 Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, 
 
 With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, 
 
 With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 
 
 Mighty Seaman, this is he 
 
 Was great by land as thou by sea.
 
 1 08 Poetry of the People 
 
 Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 
 
 The greatest sailor since our world began. 
 
 Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
 
 To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
 
 For this is he 
 
 Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
 
 His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
 
 O give him welcome, this is he 
 
 Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
 
 And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
 
 For this is England's greatest son, 
 
 He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
 
 Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
 
 This is he that far away 
 
 Against the myriads of Assaye 
 
 Clash'd with his fiery few and won 5 
 
 And underneath another sun, 
 
 Warring on a later day, 
 
 Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
 
 The treble works, the vast designs 
 
 Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
 
 Where he greatly stood at bay, 
 
 Whence he issued forth anew, 
 
 And ever great and greater grew, 
 
 Beating from the wasted vines 
 
 Back to France her banded swarms, 
 
 Back to France with countless blows, 
 
 Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
 
 Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
 
 Follow'd up in vallejr and glen 
 
 With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
 
 Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
 
 And England pouring on her foes. _,
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 1 09 
 
 Such a war had such a close. 
 
 Again their ravening eagle rose 
 
 In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 
 
 And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
 
 Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
 
 On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; 
 
 A day of onsets of despair ! 
 
 Dash'd on every rocky square 
 
 Their surging charges f oam'd themselves away j 
 
 Last, the Prussian trumpet blew : 
 
 Thro' the long-tormented air 
 
 Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
 
 And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 
 
 So great a soldier taught us there, 
 
 What long-enduring hearts could do 
 
 In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
 
 Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
 
 And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 
 
 O savior of the silver-coasted isle, 
 
 O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
 
 If aught of things that here befall 
 
 Touch a spirit among things divine, 
 
 If love of country move thee there at all, 
 
 Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine J 
 
 And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 
 
 In full acclaim, 
 
 A people's voice, 
 
 The proof and echo of all human fame, 
 
 A people's voice, when they rejoice 
 
 At civic revel and pomp and game, 
 
 Attest their great commander's claim 
 
 With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
 
 Eternal honor to his name.
 
 no Poetry of the People 
 
 A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
 Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget 
 Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
 Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
 His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, 
 We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
 Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
 To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
 And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
 O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
 Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
 And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
 Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
 That sober freedom out of which there springs 
 Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
 For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
 Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
 And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 
 Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just 
 But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
 Remember him who led your hosts; 
 He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
 Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
 His voice is silent in your council-hall 
 Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 
 Forever silent ; even if they broke 
 In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
 He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; 
 Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
 Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
 Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
 Thro' either babbling world of high and low; 
 Whose life was work, whose language rife
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 1 1 1 
 
 With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
 Who never spoke against a foe ; 
 Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
 All great self-seekers trampling on the right: 
 Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; 
 Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
 Whatever record leap to light 
 He never shall be shamed. 
 
 Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
 
 Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
 
 Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
 
 He, on whom from both her open hands 
 
 Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
 
 And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
 
 Yea, let all good things await 
 
 Him who cares not to be great, 
 
 But as he saves or serves the state. 
 
 Not once or twice in our rough island-story,, 
 
 The path of duty was the way to glory : 
 
 He that walks it, only thirsting 
 
 For the right, and learns to deaden 
 
 Love of self, before his journey closes, 
 
 He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
 
 Into glossy purples, which outredden 
 
 All voluptuous garden-roses. 
 
 Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
 
 The path of duty was the way to glory : 
 
 He, that ever following her commands, 
 
 On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
 
 Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 
 
 His path upward, and prevail'd, 
 
 Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 
 
 Are close upon the shining table-lands
 
 H2 Poetry of the People 
 
 To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 
 
 Such was he : his work is done. 
 
 But while the races of mankind endure, 
 
 Let his great example stand 
 
 Colossal, seen of every land, 
 
 And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ; 
 
 Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
 
 The path of duty be the way to glory : 
 
 And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 
 
 For many and many an age proclaim 
 
 At civic revel and pomp and game, 
 
 And when the long-illumined cities flame, 
 
 Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
 
 With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
 
 Eternal honor to his name. 
 
 Peace, his triumph will be sung 
 
 By some yet unmoulded tongue 
 
 Far on in summers that we shall not see : 
 
 Peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one about whose patriarchal knee 
 
 Late the little children clung: 
 
 O peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 
 
 Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
 
 Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
 
 More than is of man's degree 
 
 Must be with us, watching here 
 
 At this, our great solemnity. 
 
 Whom we see not we revere ; 
 
 We revere, and we refrain 
 
 From talk of battles loud and vain, 
 
 And brawling memories ail too free 
 
 For such a wise humility
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 113 
 
 As befits a solemn fane : 
 
 We revere, and while we hear 
 
 The tides of Music's golden sea 
 
 Setting toward eternity, 
 
 Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
 
 Until we doubt not that for one so true 
 
 There must be other nobler work to do 
 
 Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
 
 And Victor he must ever be. 
 
 For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
 
 And break the shore, and evermore 
 
 Make and break, and work their will ; 
 
 Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 
 
 Round us, each with different powers, 
 
 And other forms of life than ours, 
 
 What know we greater than the soul ? 
 
 On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
 
 Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 
 
 The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : 
 
 The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 
 He is gone who seem'd so great. 
 
 Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
 
 Of the force he made his own 
 
 Being here, and we believe him 
 
 Something far advanced in State, 
 
 And that he wears a truer-crown 
 
 Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
 
 Speak no more of his renown, 
 
 Lay your earthly fancies down, 
 
 And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
 
 God accept him, Christ receive him. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson
 
 1 1 4 Poetry of the People 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 C&e logs of t&e " 33irien&eaa " 
 
 1852 
 
 Right on our flank the crimson sun went down, 
 
 The deep sea rolled around in dark repose, 
 When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, 
 A cry of women rose. 
 
 The stout ship Birkenhead lay hard and fast, 
 Caught, without hope, upon a hidden rock ; 
 Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when through them passed 
 The spirit of that shock. 
 
 And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks 
 
 In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, 
 Drifted away, disorderly, the planks 
 
 From underneath her keel. 
 
 Confusion spread, for, though the coast seemed near, 
 
 Sharks hovered thick along that white sea-brink. 
 The boats could hold ? not all ; and it was clear 
 She was about to sink. 
 
 " Out with those boats, and let us haste away," 
 
 Cried one, " ere yet yon sea the bark devours." 
 The man thus clamoring was, I scarce need say, 
 No officer of ours. 
 
 We knew our duty better than to care 
 
 For such loose babblers, and made no reply, 
 Till our good colonel gave the word, and there 
 Formed us in line to die.
 
 The Loss of the "Birkenhead " 115 
 
 There rose no murmur from the ranks, no thought, 
 
 By shameful strength, unhonored life to seek ; 
 Our post to quit we were not trained, nor taught 
 To trample down the weak. 
 
 So we made women with their children go, 
 The oars ply back again, and yet again ; 
 Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, 
 Still under steadfast men. 
 
 What follows, why recall ? The brave who died, 
 
 Died without flinching in the bloody surf; 
 They sleep as well, beneath that purple tide, 
 As others, under turf ; 
 
 They sleep as well, and, roused from their wild grave, 
 
 Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, 
 Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save 
 His weak ones, not in vain. 
 
 If that day's work no clasp or medal mark, 
 
 If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press, 
 Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower and Park, 
 This feel we, none the less : 
 
 That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill 
 
 Those also, left His martyrs in the bay 
 Though not by siege, though not in battle, still 
 Full well had earned their pay. 
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle
 
 1 1 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 XL 
 
 C&atffe of t&e Its&t 
 1854 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade 1 " 
 Was there a man dismay'd ? 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered. 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die : ' 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well : 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred.
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade 117 
 
 Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
 Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wonder'd : 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
 Right through the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 
 
 Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
 Then they rode back, but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 
 O, the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 Alfred Tennyson
 
 1 1 8 Poetry of the People 
 
 XLI 
 Santa jFtlotnena 
 
 (A TRIBUTE TO FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE) 
 1854 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
 Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 
 
 Our hearts, in glad surprise, 
 
 To higher levels rise. 
 
 The tidal wave of deeper souls 
 Into our inmost being rolls, 
 
 And lifts us unawares 
 
 Out of all meaner cares. 
 
 Honor to those whose words or deeds 
 Thus help us in our daily needs, 
 And by their overflow 
 Raise us from what is low ! 
 
 Thus thought I, as by night I read 
 Of the great army of the dead, 
 The trenches cold and damp, 
 The starved and frozen camp, 
 
 The wounded from the battle-plain, 
 In dreary hospitals of pain, 
 
 The cheerless corridors, 
 
 The cold and stony floors. 
 
 Lo ! in that house of misery 
 
 A lady with a lamp I see 
 
 Pass through the glimmering gloom, 
 And flit from room to room.
 
 The Song of the Camp 119 
 
 And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
 The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
 
 Her shadow, as it falls 
 
 Upon the darkening walls. 
 
 As if a door in heaven should be 
 Opened and then closed suddenly, 
 
 The vision came and went, 
 
 The light shone and was spent. 
 
 On England's annals, through the long 
 Hereafter of her speech and song, 
 
 That light its rays shall cast 
 
 From portals of the past. 
 
 A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
 In the great history of the land, 
 
 A noble type of good, 
 
 Heroic womanhood. 
 
 Nor even shall be wanting here 
 The palm, the lily, and the spear, 
 The symbols that of yore 
 
 Saint Filomena bore. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow 
 
 XLII 
 
 C|je Song; of t&e Camp 
 
 1855 
 
 " Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 
 
 The outer trenches guarding, 
 When the heated guns of the camps allied 
 
 Grew weary of bombarding.
 
 120 Poetry of the People 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
 Lay, grim and threatening, under; 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belched its thunder. 
 
 There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
 " We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
 
 Sing while we may, another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side, 
 Below the smoking cannon, 
 
 Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame ; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory ; 
 Each heart recalled a different name, 
 
 But all sang Annie Laurie. 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song, 
 
 Until its tender passion 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, 
 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
 But, as the song grew louder, 
 
 Something upon the soldier's cheek 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
 The bloody sunset's embers, 
 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 How English love remembers.
 
 The Relief of Lucknow 121 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 
 Rained on the Russian quarters, 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
 
 For a singer, dumb and gory; 
 And English Mary mourns for him 
 
 Who sang of Annie Laurie. 
 
 Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
 
 Your truth and valor wearing ; 
 The bravest are the tenderest, 
 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Cfce Eeltef of Ittrftnoto 
 
 1857 
 
 Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort ! 
 
 We knew that it was the last ; 
 That the enemy's mines crept surely in, 
 
 And the end was coming fast. 
 
 To yield to that foe meant worse than death ; 
 
 And the men and we all worked on ; 
 It was one day more of smoke and roar, 
 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 
 A fair, young, gentle thing, 
 Wasted with fever in the siege, 
 
 And her mind was wandering.
 
 122 Poetry of the People 
 
 She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 
 And I took her head on my knee ; 
 
 When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," 
 
 she said, 
 " Oh ! then please wauken me." 
 
 She slept like a child on her father's floor, 
 In the flecking of wood-bine shade, 
 
 When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, 
 And the mother's wheel is stayed. 
 
 It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, 
 
 And hopeless waiting for death ; 
 And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, 
 
 Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 
 
 I sank to sleep ; and I had my dream 
 
 Of an English village-lane, 
 And wall and garden ; but one wild scream 
 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 There Jessie Brown stood listening 
 
 Till a sudden gladness broke 
 All over her face ; and she caught my hand 
 
 And drew me near and spoke : 
 
 "The Hielanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 
 
 The slogan far awa? 
 The McGregor's? Oh ! I ken it weel; 
 
 It 's the grandest o' them a' ! 
 
 " God bless thae bonny Hielanders ! 
 
 We 're saved ! we 're saved ! " she cried ; 
 And fell on her knees ; and thanks to God 
 
 FJpwed forth like a full
 
 The Relief of Lucknow 123 
 
 Along the battery line her cry 
 
 Had fallen among the men, 
 And they started back ; they were there to die ; 
 
 But was life so near them, then ? 
 
 They listened for life; the rattling fire 
 
 Far off, and the far-off roar, 
 Were all ; and the colonel shook his head, 
 
 And they turned to their guns once more. 
 
 Then Jessie said, " That slogan 's done ; 
 
 But can ye hear them noo, 
 The Campbells are comiri 1 ? It 's no a dream; 
 
 Our succors hae broken through." 
 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 
 But the pipes we could not hear ; 
 So the men plied their work of hopeless war, 
 
 And knew that the end was near. 
 
 It was not long ere it made its way, 
 
 A thrilling, ceaseless sound : 
 It was no noise from the strife afar, 
 
 Or the sappers under ground. 
 
 It was the pipers of the Highlanders ! 
 
 And now they played Auld Lang Syne, 
 It came to our men like the voice of God, 
 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they wept, and shook one another's hands, 
 
 And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 
 And every one knelt down where he stood, 
 
 And we all thanked God aloud.
 
 124 Poetry of the People 
 
 That happy day, when we welcomed them, 
 
 Our men put Jessie first ; 
 And the general gave her his hand, and cheers 
 
 Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, 
 Marching round and round our line ; 
 
 And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, 
 As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 Robert Trail! Sfence Lowell 
 
 XLIV 
 
 C&e ;$Hatc& of t&e SMorfcera 
 
 1885 
 
 What is this, the sound and rumor? What is this that all 
 
 men hear, 
 Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing 
 
 near, 
 
 Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear ? 
 'T is the people marching on. 
 
 Whither go they, and whence come they ? What are these 
 
 of whom ye tell ? 
 In what country are they dwelling 'twixt the gates of heaven 
 
 and hell ? 
 
 Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a 
 master well ? 
 
 Still the rumor 's marching on. 
 Hark the rolling of the thunder ! 
 Lo, the sun! and lo, thereunder, 
 Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, 
 And the host comes marching on.
 
 The March of the Workers 125 
 
 Forth they come from grief and torment ; on they wend 
 
 toward health and mirth, 
 All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the 
 
 earth. 
 Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain 
 
 what 't is worth 
 
 For the days are marching on. 
 
 These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, 
 
 win thy wheat, 
 Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into 
 
 sweet. 
 
 All for thee this day and ever. What reward for them 
 is meet? 
 
 Till the host comes marching on. 
 Hark the rolling of the thunder ! 
 Lo, the sun! and lo, thereunder, 
 Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, 
 And the host comes marching on. 
 
 Many a hundred years passed over have they labored deaf 
 
 and blind ; 
 Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil 
 
 might find. 
 Now at last they Ve heard and hear it, and the cry comes 
 
 down the wind, 
 
 And their feet are marching on. 
 
 O ye rich men hear and tremble ! for with words the sound 
 is rife : 
 
 *' Once for you and death we labored ; changed hencefor- 
 ward is the strife. 
 
 We are men, and we shall battle for the world of men and life :
 
 126 Poetry of the People 
 
 And our host is marching on." 
 Hark the rolling of the thunder ! 
 Lo, the sun ! and lo, thereunder, 
 Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, 
 
 And the host comes marching on. 
 
 " Is it war, then? Will ye perish as the dry wood in the fire? 
 Is it peace ? Then be ye of us, let your hope be our desire. 
 Come and live ! for life awaketh, and the world shall never 
 
 tire; 
 
 And hope is marching on." 
 
 " On we march then, we the workers, and the rumor that 
 
 ye hear 
 
 Is the blended sound of battle and deliv'rance drawing near ; 
 For the hope of every creature is the banner that we bear, 
 
 And the world is marching on." 
 Hark the rolling of the thunder ! 
 Lo, the sun ! and lo, thereunder, 
 Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, 
 And the host comes marching on. 
 
 William Morris 
 
 XLV 
 
 Heceemonal 
 
 i8 97 
 
 God of our fathers, known of old 
 Lord of our far-flung battle-line 
 
 Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold 
 Dominion over palm and pine 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget !
 
 Recessional 127 
 
 The tumult and the shouting dies 
 The captains and the kings depart 
 
 Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 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 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 For heathen heart that puts her trust 
 
 In reeking tube and iron shard, 
 All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
 
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard 
 For frantic boast and foolish word, 
 Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 
 
 Amen. 
 Rudyard Kipling
 
 128 Poetry of the People 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 XLVI 
 Barbara SUlen 
 
 All in the merry month of May, 
 
 When green buds they were swelling, 
 
 Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay 
 For love o' Barbara Allen. 
 
 He sent his man unto her then, 
 
 To the town where she was dwelling : 
 
 " O haste and come to my master dear, 
 If your name be Barbara Allen." 
 
 Slowly, slowly rase she up, 
 
 And she cam' where he was lying; 
 
 And when she drew the curtain by, 
 
 Says, " Young man, I think you 're dying." 
 
 " O it 's I am sick, and very, very sick, 
 
 And it 's a' for Barbara Allen." 
 " O the better for me ye'se never be, 
 
 Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! 
 
 " O dinna ye min', young man," she says, 
 " When the red wine ye were filling, 
 
 That ye made the healths gae round and round, 
 And ye slighted Barbara Allen ? "
 
 The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 129 
 
 He turn'd his face unto the wa', 
 
 And death was wi' him dealing : 
 " Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a' ; 
 
 Be kind to Barbara Allen." 
 
 As she was walking o'er the fields, 
 
 She heard the dead-bell knelling ; 
 And every jow the dead-bell gave, 
 
 It cried, " Woe to Barbara Allen! " 
 
 " O mother, mother, mak' my bed, 
 
 To lay me down in sorrow. 
 My love has died for me to-day, 
 
 I '11 die for him to-morrow." 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 XLVII 
 
 ^Bailiff's SDattg&tet of 
 
 There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, 
 
 And he was a squire's son ; 
 He loved a bailiff's daughter dear, 
 
 That lived in Islington. 
 
 Yet she, being coy, would not believe 
 
 That he did love her so, 
 Nor would she any countenance 
 
 Unto this young man show. 
 
 But when his friends did understand 
 
 His fond and foolish mind, 
 They sent him up to fair London, 
 
 An apprentice him to bind.
 
 130 Poetry of the People 
 
 And now he 's gone 't is seven long years, 
 And never his love could see : 
 
 " O many a tear have I shed for her sake, 
 When she little thought of me ! " 
 
 One day the maids of Islington 
 Went forth to sport and play ; 
 
 And then the bailiff's daughter dear, 
 She secretly stole away. 
 
 She pull'd off her pretty gown of pink, 
 
 And put on ragged attire, 
 And to fair London she would go, 
 
 For her true love to enquire. 
 
 And as she went along the road, 
 The weather being hot and dry, 
 
 She sat her down on a grassy bank, 
 And her true love came riding by. 
 
 She started up, with a color so red ; 
 
 Catching hold of his bridle-rein : 
 " One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, 
 
 " Would ease me of much pain." 
 
 " Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, 
 Pray tell me where you were born." 
 
 " At Islington, kind sir," said she, 
 " Where I have had many a scorn." 
 
 " I prithee, sweetheart, then tell to me, 
 
 O tell me whether you know 
 The bailiff's daughter of Islington?" 
 
 " She is dead, sir, long ago."
 
 My True-Love hath my Heart 131 
 
 "If she be dead, then take my horse, 
 
 My saddle and bridle also ; 
 For I '11 sail away for some far country, 
 
 Where no man shall me know." 
 
 " O stay, good youth ! O look, dear love ! 
 
 She standeth by thy side ; 
 She 's here alive, she is not dead, 
 
 She 's ready to be thy bride." 
 
 " O farewell grief, and welcome joy, 
 
 Ten thousand times, therefore ! 
 For now I have found mine own true love, 
 
 Whom I thought I should never see more." 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Crtte=J.o\je (jatf) mj> peart 
 
 i 
 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
 By just exchange one for the other given : 
 I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ; 
 There never was a better bargain driven : 
 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 
 My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
 He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
 I cherish his because in me it bides : 
 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney
 
 132 Poetry of the People 
 
 XLIX 
 
 is 
 
 Who is Silvia? what is she, 
 
 That all our swains commend her? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
 
 The heaven such grace did lend her, 
 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness. 
 Love doth to her eyes repair, 
 
 To help him of his blindness, 
 And, being helped, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 
 That Silvia is excelling ; 
 She excels each mortal thing 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. shakespear* 
 
 Cafce, > Cafce t&ose lipe Slwap 
 
 Take, O, take those lips away, 
 
 That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 
 Lights that do mislead the morn: 
 But my kisses bring again, 
 
 Bring again ; 
 
 Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 
 Sealed in vain. 
 
 Shakespeare
 
 To Celia 133 
 
 LI 
 , Cfjott SSRintet SSEinU 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 
 Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
 
 Then, heigh ho, the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! etc. 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
 And I '11 not look for wine.
 
 134 Poetry of the People 
 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine ; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honoring thee 
 As giving it a hope that there 
 
 It could not wither'd be ; 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe 
 
 And sent'st it back to me ; 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
 
 Not of itself but thee ! 
 
 Ben Jonson 
 
 LIII 
 
 Gentlemen of 
 
 You Gentlemen of England, 
 
 That live at home at ease, 
 How little do you think upon 
 
 The dangers of the seas ; 
 Give ear unto the mariners, 
 
 And they will plainly show 
 All the cares and the fears 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The sailor must have courage, 
 No danger must he shun ; 
 
 In every kind of weather 
 
 His course he still must run ;
 
 You Gentlemen of England 135 
 
 Now mounted on the top-mast, 
 
 How dreadful 't is below ! 
 Then we ride, as the tide, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 If enemies oppose us, 
 
 And England is at war 
 With any foreign nation, 
 
 We fear not wound nor scar. 
 To humble them, come on, lads, 
 
 Their flags we '11 soon lay low ; 
 Clear the way for the fray, 
 
 Tho' the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Sometimes in Neptune's bosom 
 
 Our ship is toss'd by waves, 
 And every man expecting 
 
 The sea to be our graves ; 
 Then up aloft she 's mounted, 
 
 And down again so low, 
 In the waves, on the seas, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 But when the danger 's over, 
 
 And safe we come on shore, 
 The horrors of the tempest 
 
 We think about no more ; 
 The flowing bowl invites us, 
 
 And joyfully we go, 
 All the day drink away, 
 
 Tho' the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The words altered from Martin Parker
 
 136 Poetry of the People 
 
 LIV 
 f&allp in our SlUep 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 
 
 There 's none like pretty Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em; 
 Her mother she sells laces long 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em ; 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my work, 
 
 I love her so sincerely ; 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely 
 But let him bang his bellyful, 
 
 I '11 bear it all for Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that 's in the week 
 I dearly love but one day
 
 Sally in our Alley 137 
 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and Monday ; 
 For then I 'm drest all in my best 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 
 And often am I blamed 
 Because I leave him in the lurch 
 
 As soon as text is named ; 
 I leave the church in sermon-time 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again 
 
 then I shall have money ; 
 I '11 hoard it up, and box it all, 
 
 1 '11 give it to my honey ; 
 
 I would it were ten thousand pound, 
 
 I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master and the neighbors all 
 
 Make game of me and Sally ; 
 And, but for her, I 'd better be 
 
 A slave and row a galley ; 
 But when my seven long years are out 
 
 O then I '11 marry Sally, 
 O then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed, 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 H. Carey
 
 138 Poetry of the People 
 
 LV 
 C&e tear of 
 
 In good King Charles's golden days. 
 
 When loyalty no harm meant, 
 A zealous high-churchman was I, 
 
 And so I got preferment, 
 To teach my flock, I never miss'd, 
 
 Kings were by God appointed, 
 And lost all those that dare resist, 
 
 Or touch the Lord's anointed. 
 And this is law that I '11 maintain, 
 
 Until my dying day, Sir, 
 That whatsoever king shall reign, 
 
 I '11 still be Vicar of Bray, Sir. 
 
 When royal James possess'd the crown. 
 
 And Popery came in fashion, 
 The penal laws I hooted down, 
 
 And read the Declaration : 
 The Church of Rome I found would fit 
 
 Full well my constitution. 
 And I had been a Jesuit, 
 
 But for the Revolution. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 When William was our king declar'd, 
 To ease the nation's grievance, 
 
 With this new wind about I steer'd, 
 And swore to him allegiance. 
 
 Old principles I did revoke, 
 Set conscience at a distance ;
 
 The Vicar of Bray 139 
 
 Passive obedience was a joke, 
 
 A jest was non-resistance. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 When royal Anne became our queen, 
 
 The Church of England's glory, 
 Another face of things was seen, 
 
 And I became a Tory : 
 Occasional conformists base, 
 
 I blam'd their moderation ; 
 And thought the Church in danger was, 
 
 By such prevarication. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 When George in pudding-time came o'er, 
 
 And moderate men look'd big, Sir, 
 My principles I chang'd once more, 
 
 And so became a Whig, Sir ; 
 And thus preferment I procur'd 
 
 From our new f aith's-def ender ; 
 And almost every day abjur'd 
 
 The Pope and the Pretender. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 Th' illustrious house of Hanover, 
 
 And Protestant succession, 
 To them I do allegiance swear 
 
 While they can hold possession; 
 For in my faith and loyalty 
 
 I never more will falter, 
 And George my lawful king shall be 
 
 Until the times do alter. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 Anonymous
 
 140 Poetry of the People 
 
 LVI 
 
 of nttbmontJ l)i 
 
 On Richmond Hill there lives a lass, 
 
 More sweet than May-day morn, 
 Whose charms all other maids' surpass. 
 
 A rose without a thorn. 
 This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, 
 
 Has won my right good will, 
 I 'd crowns resign to call her mine 
 
 Sweet lass of Richmond Hill ! 
 
 Sweet lass of Richmond Hill ! Sweet lass of Richmond Hill ! 
 I 'd crowns resign to call her mine ; 
 
 Sweet lass of Richmond Hill ! 
 
 Ye Zephyrs gay, that fan the air, 
 
 And wanton through the grove, 
 Oh ! whisper to my charming fair, 
 
 I die for her, and love. 
 This lass so neat, etc. 
 
 How happy will the shepherd be, 
 Who calls this nymph his own ; 
 
 Oh ! may her choice be fix'd on me, 
 Mine 's fix'd on her alone. 
 
 This lass so neat, etc. 
 
 McNally
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 141 
 
 LVII 
 3Het >&eet auto a jFlotowj 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast 
 And fills the white and rustling sail 
 
 And bends the gallant mast ; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While like the eagle free 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 O for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the snoring breeze 
 
 And white waves heaving high ; 
 And white waves heaving high, my lads, 
 
 The good ship tight and free 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud ; 
 But hark the music, mariners I 
 
 The wind is piping loud; 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
 
 The lightning flashes free 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 A. Cunningham
 
 142 Poetry of the People 
 
 LVIII 
 Poor Com -Bawling; 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
 
 The darling of our crew, 
 No more he '11 hear the tempest howling, 
 
 For Death has broach'd him to : 
 His form was of the manliest beauty, 
 
 His heart was kind and soft ; 
 Faithful below he did his duty, 
 
 And now he 's gone aloft. 
 
 Tom never from his word departed, 
 
 His virtues were so rare ; 
 His friends were many, and true-hearted, 
 
 His Poll was kind and fair : 
 And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly, 
 
 Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
 But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, 
 
 For Tom is gone aloft. 
 
 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 
 
 When He who all commands 
 Shall give, to call life's crew together, 
 
 The word to pipe all hands. 
 Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 
 
 In vain Tom's life has doff'd ; 
 For though his body 's under hatches, 
 
 His soul is gone aloft 
 
 C. Dibdin
 
 BOOK THIRD POEMS OF SCOT- 
 
 LAND: HISTORICAL AND 
 
 PATRIOTIC 
 
 LIX 
 
 ifi tup ton, tnp .Battoe lanH 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim : 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 H3
 
 144 Poetry of the People 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 
 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band, 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 
 
 Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; 
 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 
 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 
 Although it chill my wither'd cheek ; 
 
 Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 
 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 Sir Walter Scoti. 
 
 LX 
 
 EannotUfcurn 
 ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to victorie !
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black 1 45 
 
 Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ; 
 See the front o' battle lower ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Freeman stand or freeman fa' 
 Let him follow me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 But they shall be free ! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty 's in every blow ! 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 Robert Burns 
 
 LXI 
 
 of 3D0naUj t&e 33lacfc 
 
 H3 1 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array, gentles and commons.
 
 146 Poetry of the People 
 
 Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky, 
 The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, 
 Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter ; 
 Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar ; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges . 
 Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come, when forests are rended ; 
 Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded : 
 Faster come, faster come, faster and faster, 
 Chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come ; see how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset ! 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 
 
 LXII 
 
 Cljr jFIotoew of the forest ; or, Cbc Battle of flatten 
 
 1513 
 PART FIRST 
 
 I 've heard them lilting, 
 
 At our yews' milking, 
 Lasses a' lilting afore break of day ; 
 
 But now there 's a moaning 
 
 On ilka green loaning 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
 
 The Flowers of the forest 1 47 
 
 At the bughts, in the morning, 
 
 Nae blithe lads are scorning ; 
 The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae : 
 
 Nae daffing, nae gabbing, 
 
 But sighing and sabbing, 
 Ilk lass takes her leglin, and hies her away. 
 
 At e'en in the gloaming, 
 
 Nae swankies are roaming, 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses, at bogle to play ; 
 
 But ilk ane sits dreary, 
 
 Lamenting her deary, 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 In har'st, at the shearing, 
 
 Nae younkers are jeering, 
 The bandsters are runkled, Heard, and gray ; 
 
 At fair and at preaching, 
 
 Nae wooing, nae fleeching, 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 O dool for the order, 
 
 Sent them to the border, 
 The English for anes by guile got the day ; 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, 
 
 That aye shone the fairest, 
 The prime of our land lies cauld in the clay. 
 
 And now there 's a' moaning, 
 
 On ilka green loaning, 
 The women and bairns are dowie and wae ; 
 
 There '11 be nae mair lilting, 
 
 At our yews' milking, 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Jane Elliot
 
 148 Poetry of the People 
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 I Ve seen the smiling, 
 
 Of Fortune beguiling, 
 I Ve felt all her favors, and found her decay ; 
 
 S weet were her blessings, 
 
 Most kind her caressings, 
 But now they are dead, or a' fled away. 
 
 I 've seen the Forest, 
 
 Adorn'd of the foremost, 
 With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant, and gay. 
 
 Sae bonny their blooming, 
 
 Their scent sae perfuming, 
 But now they are wither'd, and a' wede away. 
 
 I Ve seen the morning, 
 
 With gold hills adorning, 
 And the red storm roaring before middle-day. 
 
 I Ve seen Tweed streaming, 
 
 With sunbeams a-shining, 
 Turn drumlie and dark as he roll'd on his way ; 
 
 O fickle Fortune, 
 
 Why this cruel sporting, 
 Why still thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 
 
 No more thy frowns fear me, 
 
 No more thy smiles cheer me, 
 Since the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Alison Rutherford 
 (Mrs. Pair. Cockburn of Ormistori)
 
 Blue Bonnets over the Border 149 
 
 LXIII 
 38toe bonnets! otocr t&e 33orBer 
 
 c. 1560 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ; 
 
 Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order ? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
 
 All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border: 
 
 Many a banner spread 
 
 Flutters above your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in story. 
 
 Mount and make ready then, 
 
 Sons of the mountain glen ; 
 Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, 
 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
 Trumpets are sounding, 
 War-steeds are bounding, 
 Stand to your arms, and march in good order ; 
 England shall many a day 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott
 
 150 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXIV 
 
 C&e execution of ^ttontroec 
 1650 
 
 Come hither, Evan Cameron, 
 
 Come, stand beside my knee 
 I hear the river roaring down 
 
 Towards the wintry sea. 
 There 's shouting on the mountain-side, 
 
 There 's war within the blast 
 Old faces look upon me, 
 
 Old forms go trooping past ; 
 I hear the pibroch wailing 
 
 Amidst the din of fight, 
 And my dim spirit wakes again 
 
 Upon the verge of night. 
 
 'T was I that led the Highland host 
 
 Through wild Lochaber's snows, 
 What time the plaided clans came down 
 
 To battle with Montrose. 
 I 've told thee how the Southrons fell 
 
 Beneath the broad claymore, 
 And how we smote the Campbell clan, 
 
 By Inverlochy's shore. 
 I 've told thee how we swept Dundee, 
 
 And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; 
 But never have I told thee yet 
 
 How the great Marquis died. 
 
 A traitor sold him to his foes ; 
 O deed of deathless shame 1
 
 The Execution of Montrose 151 
 
 I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet 
 
 With one of Assynt's name 
 Be it upoa the mountain's side, 
 
 Or yet within the glen, 
 Stand he in martial gear alone, 
 
 Or backed by armed men 
 Face him as thou wouldst face the man 
 
 Who wronged thy sire's renown ; 
 Remember of what blood thou art, 
 
 And strike the caitiff down ! 
 
 They brought him to the Watergate, 
 
 Hard bound with hempen span, 
 As though they held a lion there, 
 
 And not a fenceless man. 
 They set him high upon a cart 
 
 The hangman rode below 
 They drew his hands behind his back, 
 
 And bared his noble brow. 
 Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, 
 
 They cheered, the common throng, 
 And blew the note with yell and shout, 
 
 And bade him pass along. 
 
 It would have made a brave man's heart 
 
 Grow sad and sick that day, 
 To watch the keen, malignant eyes 
 
 Bent down on that array. 
 There stood the Whig west-country lords, 
 
 In balcony and bow ; 
 There sat the gaunt and withered dames, 
 
 And their daughters all a-row.
 
 152 Poetry of the People 
 
 And every open window 
 
 Was full as full might be 
 With black-robed Covenanting carles, 
 
 That goodly sport to see ! 
 
 But when he came, though pale and wan, 
 
 He looked so great and high, 
 So noble was his manly front, 
 
 So calm his steadfast eye ; 
 The rabble rout forebore to shout, 
 
 And each man held his breath, 
 For well they knew the hero's soul 
 ' Was face to face with death. 
 And then a mournful shudder 
 
 Through all the people crept, 
 And some that came to scoff at him 
 
 Now turned aside and wept. 
 
 But onwards always onwards, 
 
 In silence and in gloom, 
 The dreary pageant labored, 
 
 Till it reached the house of doom. 
 Then first a woman's voice was heard 
 
 In jeer and laughter loud, 
 And an angry cry and a hiss arose 
 
 From the heart of the tossing crowd: 
 Then as the Graeme looked upwards, 
 
 He saw the ugly smile 
 Of him who sold his king for gold 
 
 The master-fiend Argyle ! 
 
 The Marquis gazed a moment, 
 And nothing did he say,
 
 The Execution of Man f rose 153 
 
 But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale 
 
 And he turned his eyes away. 
 The painted harlot by his side, 
 
 She shook through every limb, 
 For a roar like thunder swept the street, 
 
 And hands were clenched at him ; 
 And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, 
 
 " Back, coward, from thy place ! 
 For seven long years thou hast not dared 
 
 To look him in the face." 
 
 Had I been there with sword in hand, 
 
 And fifty Camerons by, 
 That day through high Dunedin's streets 
 
 Had pealed the slogan-cry. 
 Not all their troops of trampling horse, 
 
 Nor might of mailed men 
 Not all the rebels in the south 
 
 Had borne us backwards then ! 
 Once more his foot on highland heath 
 
 Had trod as free as air, 
 Or I, and all who bore my name, 
 
 Been laid around him there ! 
 
 It might not be. They placed him next 
 
 Within the solemn hall, 
 Where once the Scottish kings were throned 
 
 Amidst their nobles all. 
 But there was dust of vulgar feet 
 
 On that polluted floor, 
 And perjured traitors filled the place 
 
 Where good men sate before.
 
 154 Poetry of the People 
 
 With savage glee came Warristoun, 
 To read the murderous doom ; 
 
 And then uprose the great Montrose 
 In the middle of the room. 
 
 " Now, by my faith, as belted knight, 
 
 And by the name I bear, 
 And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross 
 
 That waves above us there 
 Yea, by a greater, mightier oath 
 
 And oh, that such should be ! 
 By that dark stream of royal blood 
 
 That lies 'twixt you and me 
 I have not sought in battle-field 
 
 A wreath of such renown, 
 Nor dared I hope on my dying day 
 
 To win the martyr's crown ! 
 
 " There is a chamber far away 
 
 Where sleep the good and brave, 
 But a better place ye have named for me 
 
 Than by my father's grave. 
 For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, 
 
 This hand hath always striven, 
 And ye raise it up for a witness still 
 
 In the eye of earth and heaven. 
 Then nail my head on yonder tower 
 
 Give every town a limb 
 And God who made shall gather them : 
 
 I go from you to Him ! " 
 
 The morning dawned full darkly, 
 The rain came flashing down,
 
 The Execution of Montrose 155 
 
 And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 
 
 Lit up the gloomy town : 
 The thunder crashed across the heaven, 
 
 The fatal hour was come ; 
 Yet aye broke in with muffled beat, 
 
 The 'larum of the drum. 
 There was madness on the earth below 
 
 And anger in the sky, 
 And young and old, and rich and poor, 
 
 Came forth to see him die. 
 
 Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! 
 
 How dismal 't is to see 
 The great, tall, spectral skeleton, 
 
 The ladder and the tree ! 
 Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms 
 
 The bells begin to toll 
 " He is coming ! he is coming ! 
 
 God's mercy on his soul ! " 
 One last, long peal of thunder 
 
 The clouds are cleared away, 
 And the glorious sun once more looks down 
 
 Amidst the dazzling day. 
 
 " He is coming ! he is coming ! " 
 
 Like a bridegroom from his room 
 Came the hero from his prison 
 
 To the scaffold and the doom. 
 There was glory on his forehead, 
 
 There was lustre in his eye, 
 And he never walked to battle 
 
 More proudly than to die ;
 
 156 Poetry of the People 
 
 There was color in his visage 
 
 Though the cheeks of all were wan, 
 
 And they marveled as they saw him pass, 
 That great and goodly man ! 
 
 He mounted up the scaffold, 
 
 And he turned him to the crowd; 
 But they dared not trust the people, 
 
 So he might not speak aloud. 
 But he looked upon the heavens, 
 
 And they were clear and blue, 
 And in the liquid ether 
 
 The eye of God shone through. 
 Yet a black and murky battlement 
 
 Lay resting on the hill, 
 As though the thunder slept within 
 
 All else was calm and still. 
 
 The grim Geneva ministers 
 
 With anxious scowl drew near, 
 As you have seen the ravens flock 
 
 Around the dying deer. 
 He would not deign them word nor sign, 
 
 But alone he bent the knee; 
 And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace 
 
 Beneath the gallows-tree. 
 Then radiant and serene he rose, 
 
 And cast his cloak away : 
 For he had ta'en his latest look 
 
 Of earth and sun and day. 
 
 A beam of light fell o'er him, 
 Like a glory round the shriven,
 
 The Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee 157 
 
 And he climbed the lofty ladder 
 
 As it were the path to heaven. 
 Then came a flash from out the cloud, 
 
 And a stunning thunder-roll; 
 And no man dared to look aloft, 
 
 For fear was on every soul. 
 There was another heavy sound, 
 
 A hush and then a groan ; 
 And darkness swept across the sky 
 
 The work of death was done ! 
 
 William Edmonstoune Aytoun 
 
 LXV 
 
 ^Sonnets 0* Bonnie SDtmUee 
 
 1689 
 
 To the Lords o' Convention 't was Claverhouse who spoke, 
 Ere the king's crown go down, there are crowns to be broke ; 
 Then each cavalier who loves honor and me 
 Let him follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee 1 
 
 Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; 
 Come saddle my horses, and call out my men; 
 Come open the Westport and let us gae free, 
 And it's room for the bonnets o" 1 bonnie Dundee! 
 
 Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 
 The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat ; 
 But the provost, douce man, said, " Just e'en let him be, 
 The gude toun is weel rid o' that deil o' Dundee ! "
 
 158 Poetry of the People 
 
 As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow, 
 
 Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; 
 
 But the young plants o' grace they looked cowthie and slee, 
 
 Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee ! 
 
 With sour-featured whigs the Grass-Market was thranged, 
 As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged; 
 There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee, 
 As they watched for the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 
 And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ; 
 But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free 
 At the toss o' the bonnet o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 He spurred to the foot o' the proud castle rock, 
 
 And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke : 
 
 " Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, 
 
 For the love o' the bonnet o' bonnie Dundee." 
 
 The Gordon demands of him which way he goes. 
 " Where'er shall direct me the shade o' Montrose! 
 Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
 Or that low lies the bonnet o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 " There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth ; 
 If there's lords in the lowland, there's chiefs in the north; 
 There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three 
 Will cry Hey! ' for the bonnet o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 " There 's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide, 
 There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside ; 
 The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, 
 At a toss o' the bonnet o' bonnie Dundee.
 
 The Old Scottish Cavalier 159 
 
 " Then awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks, 
 Ere I own a usurper I '11 couch with the fox: 
 And tremble, false whigs, in the midst o' your glee, 
 Ye hae no seen the last o' my bonnet and me." 
 
 He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, 
 The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, 
 Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea 
 Died away the wild war-notes o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 Come Jill up my cup, come fill up my can, 
 Come saddle the horses, and call up the men; 
 Come open your doors and let me gae free, 
 For it V up with the bonnets o" 1 bonnie Dundee. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 
 
 LXVI 
 
 in &cotti0!) Catoalier 
 1689-1746 
 
 Come, listen to another song, 
 
 Should make your heart beat high, 
 Bring crimson to your forehead, 
 
 And the lustre to your eye; 
 It is a song of olden time, 
 
 Of days long since gone by, 
 And of a baron stout and bold 
 
 As e'er wore sword on thigh ! 
 
 Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, 
 All of the olden time!
 
 160 Poetry of the People 
 
 He kept his castle in the North, 
 
 Hard by the thundering Spey ; 
 And a thousand vassals dwelt around, 
 
 All of his kindred they. 
 And not a man of all that clan 
 
 Had ever ceased to pray 
 For the Royal race they loved so well, 
 
 Though exiled far away 
 
 From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers. 
 All of the olden time ! 
 
 His father drew the righteous sword 
 
 For Scotland and her claims, 
 Among the loyal gentlemen 
 
 And chiefs of ancient names, 
 Who swore to fight or fall beneath 
 
 The standard of King James, 
 And died at Killiecrankie Pass, 
 
 With the glory of the Graemes, 
 Like a true old Scottish cavalier, 
 All of the olden time ! 
 
 He never owned the foreign rule, 
 
 No master he obeyed; 
 But kept his clan in peace at home 
 
 From foray and from raid; 
 And when they asked him for his oath, 
 
 He touched his glittering blade, 
 And pointed to his bonnet blue, 
 
 That bore the white cockade : 
 Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, 
 All of the olden time !
 
 The Old Scottish Cavalier 161 
 
 At length the news ran through the land, 
 
 THE PRINCE had come again! 
 That night the fiery cross was sped 
 
 O'er mountain and through glen ; 
 And our old Baron rose in might, 
 
 Like a lion from his den, 
 And rode away across the hills 
 
 To Charlie and his men, 
 
 With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, 
 All of the olden time ! 
 
 He was the first that bent the knee 
 
 When the Standard waved abroad; 
 He was the first that charged the foe 
 
 On Preston's bloody sod ; 
 And ever in the van of fight 
 
 The foremost still he trod, 
 Until on bleak Culloden's heath 
 
 He gave his soul to God, 
 
 Like a good old Scottish cavalier, 
 All of the olden time 1 
 
 Oh ! never shall we know again 
 
 A heart so stout and true 
 The olden times have passed away, 
 
 And weary are the new : 
 The fair White Rose has faded 
 
 From the garden where it grew, 
 And no fond tears, save those of heaven, 
 The glorious bed bedew 
 
 Of the last old Scottish cavalier, 
 All of the olden time ! 
 
 William Edmonstoune Aytoun
 
 1 62 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXVII 
 
 CI)c lament of flora #rlacoonalB 
 1746 
 
 Far over yon hills of the heather sae green, 
 
 An' doun by the Corrie that sings to the sea, 
 The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane, 
 
 The dew on her plaid an' the tear in her e'e. 
 She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, 
 
 Away on the wave, like a bird of the main ; 
 An' aye as it lessen'd she sighed an' she sung, 
 
 " Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ; 
 Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young, 
 
 Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! 
 
 " The moorcock that crows on the brows o' Ben-ConnaJ, 
 
 He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame ; 
 The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs o' Clan-Ronald, 
 
 Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim ; 
 The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shores ; 
 
 The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea ; 
 But, ah ! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, 
 
 Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he ; 
 The conflict is past, and our name is no more, 
 
 There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland an' me ! 
 
 " The target is torn from the arm of the just, 
 The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, 
 
 The claymore forever in darkness must rust ; 
 But red is the sword of the stranger and slave ; 
 
 The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, 
 Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue ;
 
 Woe 's Me for Prince Charlie 163 
 
 Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud 
 When tyranny reveled in blood of the true ? 
 
 Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good ! 
 The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow." 
 
 Arranged by James Hogg 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 (SSHae's JKe for Prince C&arltt 
 
 1746 
 
 A wee bird cam' to our ha' door, 
 
 He warbled sweet an' clearly, 
 An' aye the o'er-come o' his sang 
 
 Was " Wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 Oh ! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, 
 
 The tears cam' drappin' rarely, 
 I took my bannet aff my head, 
 
 For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 
 
 Quoth I, " My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 
 
 Is that a sang ye borrow, 
 Are these some words ye 've learnt by heart, 
 
 Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow? " 
 " Oh ! no, no, no," the wee bird sang, 
 
 " I 've flown sin' mornin' early, 
 But sic a day o' wind an' rain 
 
 Oh ! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! 
 
 " On hills that are, by right, his ain, 
 
 He roves a lanely stranger, 
 On every side he 's pressed by want, 
 
 On every side is danger ;
 
 164 Poetry of the People 
 
 Yestreen I met him in a glen, 
 
 My heart maist burstit fairly, 
 For sadly changed indeed was he 
 
 Oh ! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! 
 
 " Dark night cam' on, the tempest roared 
 
 Loud o'er the hills an' valleys, 
 An' where was 't that your Prince lay doun, 
 
 Wha 's hame should been a palace? 
 He rowed him in a Highland plaid, 
 
 Which covered him but sparely, 
 An' slept beneath a bush o' broom 
 
 Oh ! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 
 But now the bird saw some redcoats, 
 
 An' he shook his wings wi' anger, 
 " Oh ! this is no a land for me ; 
 
 I '11 tarry here nae langer ! " 
 He hovered on the wing a while 
 
 Ere he departed fairly, 
 But weel I mind the fareweel strain 
 
 Was, " Wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 
 Attributed to William Glen 
 
 The Campbells are comin', Oho, Oho, 
 
 The Campbells are comin', Oho, Oho, 
 
 The Campbells are comin' to bonnie Lochleven, 
 
 The Campbells are comin', Oho, Oho !
 
 The Blue Bell of Scotland 165 
 
 Upon the Lomonds, 'I lay, I lay, 
 Upon the Lomonds, I lay, I lay, 
 I lookit down to bonnie Lochleven, 
 And saw three bonnie perches play. 
 
 The Campbells are comin', etc. 
 
 Great Argyle he goes before, 
 He makes his cannons and guns to roar ; 
 Wi' sound o' trumpet, fife, and drum, 
 The Campbells are comin', Oho, Oho ! 
 The Campbells are comin', etc. 
 
 The Campbells they are a' wi' arms, 
 Their loyal faith and truth to show, 
 Wi' banners rattlin' in the wind 
 The Campbells are comin', Oho, Oho ! 
 The Campbells are comin', etc. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 LXX 
 
 Che 33ltte -Sell of ^cotton* 
 
 Oh, where ? and oh, where is your Highland laddie gone ? 
 Oh, where? and oh, where is your Highland laddie gone? 
 He 's gone to fight the French for King George upon the 
 
 throne, 
 
 And it 's oh, in my heart how I wish him safe at home ! 
 He 's gone to fight the French for King George upon the 
 
 throne, 
 And it 's oh, in my heart how I wish him safe at home ! 
 
 Oh, where ? and oh, where does your Highland laddie dwell ? 
 Oh, where ? and oh, where does your Highland laddie dwell ?
 
 1 66 Poetry of the People 
 
 He dwells in merrie Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell ; 
 And it 's oh, in my heart that I lo'e my laddie well ! 
 He dwells in merrie Scotland, etc. 
 
 What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad? 
 What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad ? 
 His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the 
 
 plaid, 
 
 And it's oh, in my heart that I lo'e my Highland lad! 
 His bonnet 's of the Saxon green, etc. 
 
 Suppose, oh suppose that your Highland lad should die ? 
 Suppose, oh suppose that your Highland lad should die? 
 The bagpipes shall play o'er him, I '11 lay me doun and cry; 
 And it's oh, in my heart, that I wish he may not die ! 
 
 The bagpipes shall play o'er him, etc. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 LXXI 
 ftnnie Laurie 
 
 c. 1700 
 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie, 
 
 Where early fa's the dew ; 
 An' it 's there that Annie Laurie 
 
 Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
 Gi'ed me her promise true, 
 
 Which ne'er forgot sail be;
 
 Lochaber No More 167 
 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I 'd lay me doun and dee. 
 
 Her brow is like the snaw-drift, 
 
 Her throat is like the swan, 
 Her face it is the fairest 
 
 That e'er the sun shone on ; 
 That e'er the sun shone on 
 
 An' dark blue is her ee ; 
 An' for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I 'd lay me doun and dee. 
 
 Like dew on the gowan lying 
 
 Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
 Like simmer breezes sighing, 
 
 Her voice is low an' sweet ; 
 Her voice is low an' sweet 
 
 An' she 's a' the world to me ; 
 An' for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I 'd lay me doun and dee. 
 
 William Douglas of Fingland 
 
 and Lady John Scott 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Lotljaber Jfto JHore 
 
 c. 1720 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, 
 Where heartsome with thee I Ve mony days been ; 
 For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
 We '11 may be return to Lochaber no more.
 
 1 68 Poetry of the People 
 
 These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
 And no for the dangers attending on weir' ; 
 Tho' bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
 May be to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 Tho' hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
 They '11 ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind. 
 Tho' loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, 
 That 's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
 To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain'dc 
 By ease that 's inglorious, no fame can be gain'd ; 
 And beauty and love 's the reward of the brave, 
 And I must deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse, 
 Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
 Without it I ne'er can have honor for thee ; 
 And without thy favor, I 'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
 And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
 A heart I '11 bring to thee with love running o'er, 
 And then I '11 leave thee and Lochaber no more. 
 
 Allan Ramsay 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 'a J&ae Lttrft about t&e 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 
 
 And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
 Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jauds fling by your wheel ! 
 Is this a time to think o' wark, 
 
 When Colin 's at the door ?
 
 There 's Nae Luck about the House 169 
 
 Rax doun my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there 's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There 's nae luck at a', 
 There 's nae luck about the house, 
 
 When our guidman 's awa'. 
 
 Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gie little Kate her button goun, 
 
 And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 
 And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 It's a' to pleasure our guidman, 
 
 He likes to see them braw. 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 There 's twa fat hens upo' the bauk 
 
 Hae fed this month and mair, 
 Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare : 
 And spread the table neat and clean, 
 
 Gar ilka thing look braw ; 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared, 
 
 When he was far awa' ? 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 Come, g!e me doun my bigonet, 
 
 My bishop-satin goun ; 
 And rin and tell the Bailie's wife 
 
 That Colin 's come to town : 
 My Turkey-slippers maun gae on, 
 
 My hose o' pearl blue ;
 
 1 7 o Poetry of the People 
 
 It's a' to pleasure our guidman, 
 For he 's baith leal and true. 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue. 
 
 His breath like caller air ! 
 His very fit has music in 't 
 
 As he comes up the stair : 
 And will I see his face again? 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I 'm dounricht dizzy wi' the thocht, 
 
 In troth I 'm like to greet. 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, 
 
 That thirled through my heart, 
 They 're a' blawn by, I hae him safe, 
 
 Till death we '11 never part : 
 But what puts parting in my held, 
 
 It may be far awa' ; 
 The present moment is our ain, 
 
 The neist we never saw ! 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 Since Colin 's weel, I 'm weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave ; 
 Could I but live to mak' him blest, 
 
 I 'm blest aboon the lave. 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I 'm dounricht dizzy wi' the thocht, 
 
 In troth I 'm like to greet. 
 For there 's nae luck, etc. 
 
 Attributed to William Julius Micklf
 
 For a' that, and a' that 171 
 
 LXXIV 
 21 EeS, EeU Host 
 
 O, my luve 's like a red, red rose, 
 
 That's newly sprung in June : 
 O, my luve 's like the melodie 
 
 That 's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 
 I will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 And fare thee weel, my only luve, 
 
 And fare thee weel awhile ! 
 And I will come again, my luve, 
 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 Revised by Robert Burns 
 
 LXXV 
 
 jFor a* t&at. anto a* t&at 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 
 We dare be poor for a' that !
 
 172 Poetry of the People 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that : 
 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
 The man 's the gowd for a' that ! 
 
 What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 
 Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ? 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man 's a man for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that : 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
 Is king o' men for a' that ! 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that: 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that : 
 The man of independent mind, 
 He looks and laughs at a' that! 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
 But an honest man 's aboon his might : 
 Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that, 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may 
 As come it will for a' that
 
 John Anderson, my Jo 173 
 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 May bear the gree, and a' that : 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 It's comin' yet for a' that, 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 Shall brothers be for a' that ! 
 
 Robert Burns 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is beld, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw, 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We Ve had wi' ane anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand-in-hand we '11 go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 Robert Burns
 
 174 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 (Mlater 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
 Flow gently, I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
 Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills ; 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
 Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
 There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
 As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Robert Burns
 
 Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon 175 
 
 LXXVIII 
 |3c 4San&0 ani -Braes o' -iSonnte 3Daan 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fair ! 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae f u' o' care ! 
 
 Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
 
 That sings upon the bough ; 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause Luve was true. 
 
 Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 
 
 To see the woodbine twine, 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve ; 
 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 
 Frae aff its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause luver staw the rose, 
 
 But left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 Robert Burns
 
 1 76 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXIX 
 jlp peart 'B in t(je 
 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
 The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
 Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
 Robert Burns 
 
 LXXX 
 
 of 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride : 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen "
 
 Jock of Hazddean 177 
 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen " 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair, 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
 And you the foremost o' them a' 
 
 Shall ride our forest-queen " 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And dame and knight are there : 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The ladie was not seen ! 
 She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott
 
 1 78 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXXI 
 ioclnnbat 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
 And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 
 
 He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
 
 He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 
 
 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 
 Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers, and all 
 
 Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 
 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 
 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
 
 Lochinvar 179 
 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 
 " Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; 
 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by far 
 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 
 When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood 
 
 near; 
 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
 " She is won ! we are gone over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
 They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 
 
 Forsters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : 
 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 
 
 Sir Walter Scott
 
 180 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 GiSUcn tljc t\j'c Comes f)amc 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds 
 
 That whistle through the glen, 
 I '11 tell ye of a secret 
 
 That courtiers dinna ken : 
 What is the greatest bliss 
 
 That the tongue o' man can name ? 
 'T is to woo a bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 'T is not beneath the coronet, 
 
 Nor canopy of state, 
 'T is not on couch of velvet, 
 
 Nor arbor of the great : 
 'T is beneath the spreading birk, 
 
 In the dell without a name, 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 There the blackbird bigs his nest 
 For the mate he lo'es to see, 
 
 And up upon the tapmost bough, 
 O, a happy bird is he ! 
 
 Then he pours his melting ditty, 
 And love 't is a' the theme,
 
 When the Kye Comes Hamc 181 
 
 And he '11 woo his bonnie lassie 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the bluart bears a pearl, 
 
 And the daisy turns a pea, 
 And the bonnie lucken gowan 
 
 Has fauldit up his e'e, 
 Then the laverock frae the blue lift 
 
 Doops down, and thinks nae shame 
 To woo his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 Then since all nature joins 
 
 In this love without alloy, 
 Wha wad prove a traitor 
 
 To Nature's dearest joy ? 
 O, wha wad choose a crown, 
 
 Wi' its perils and its fame, 
 And miss his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame ? 
 
 See yonder pawky shepherd 
 
 That lingers on the hill 
 His yowes are in the fauld, 
 
 And his lambs are lying still ; 
 Yet he downa gang to rest, 
 
 For his heart is in a flame 
 To meet his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the little wee bit heart 
 
 Rises high in the breast, 
 Art' the little wee bit starn 
 
 Rises red in the east,
 
 1 8 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 O, there 's a joy so dear 
 That the heart can hardly frame, 
 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 James Hogg 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 ie, t&e Jlotoer of SDttm&lane 
 
 The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, 
 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
 While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' 
 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. 
 How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, 
 
 And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. 
 
 She 's modest as ony, and blythe as she 's bonny ; 
 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
 And far be the villain, divested o' feeling, 
 
 Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, 
 
 Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, 
 The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie, 
 
 Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
 
 2'he Bonnie Banks 0' Loch Lomond 183 
 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, 
 Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain ; 
 
 And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. 
 
 Robert Tannahill 
 
 LXXXIV 
 -Bonnie 3Sanfc6 a' Loci) Lomonti 
 
 By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes, 
 Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomon', 
 Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae, 
 On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'. 
 
 O ye '11 tak the high road and I '11 tak the low road, 
 
 And I '11 be in Scotland afore ye ; 
 
 But me and my true love will never meet again 
 
 On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'. 
 
 'T was there that we parted in yon shady glen, 
 On the steep, steep side o' Ben Lomon', 
 Where in purple hue the Hieland hills we view, 
 And the moon coming out in the gloamin'. Cho. 
 
 The wee birdies sing and the wild flowers spring, 
 And in sunshine the waters are sleepin' ; 
 But the broken heart it kens nae second spring again 
 Though the waefu' may cease from their greetin.' Cho 
 
 Anonymous
 
 1 84 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 CI)c Lanti o' tljc leal 
 
 I 'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean ; 
 
 I 'm wearin' awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Ye 've been leal and true, Jean, 
 Your task is ended noo, Jean, 
 And I '11 welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean, 
 And we grudged her sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 
 And joy is comin' fast, Jean, 
 Joy that 's aye to last 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 Then dry that glist'nin' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 A' our friends are gane, Jean, 
 We Ve lang been left alane, Jean,
 
 Auld Lang Syne 185 
 
 We '11 a' meet again 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean, 
 We '11 meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Lady Nairne 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 lanj 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
 But we 've wandered mony a weary foot 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i' the burn 
 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid hae roared 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, etc.
 
 i86 Poetry of the People 
 
 And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie 's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we '11 tak a right guid willie-waught 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 
 
 And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 
 
 And surely I '11 be mine ; 
 And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 
 
 Robert Burns
 
 BOOK FOURTH POEMS OF IRE- 
 
 LAND: HISTORICAL AND 
 
 PATRIOTIC 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 careen little >&amrorft of 
 
 1806 
 
 There 's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 
 'T was St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; 
 
 And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile, 
 And with dew from his eye often wet it. 
 
 It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the 
 mireland ; 
 
 And its name is the dear little shamrock of Ireland 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland 1 
 
 This dear little plant still grows in our land, 
 
 Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, 
 Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, 
 
 In what climate they chance to appear in ; 
 For they shine through the bog, through the brake, and 
 
 the mireland ; 
 Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland. 
 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, 
 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland ! 
 187
 
 i88 Poetry of the People 
 
 This dear little plant that springs from our soil, 
 
 When its three little leaves are extended, 
 Betokens that each for the other should toil, 
 
 And ourselves by ourselves be befriended, 
 And still through the bog, through the brake, and the 
 
 mireland, 
 From one root should branch, like the shamrock of 
 
 Ireland. 
 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland I 
 
 Andrew Cherry 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 3frtfiil) SSEife 
 
 (EARL DESMOND'S APOLOGY) 
 1376 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For the Queen of France's hand ; 
 For she to me is dearer 
 
 Than castles strong, or lands, or life 
 An outlaw, so I 'm near her, 
 
 To love till death my Irish wife. 
 
 Oh, what would be this home of mine? 
 
 A ruined, hermit-haunted place, 
 But for the light that still will shine 
 
 Upon its walls from Kathleen's face !
 
 The Irish Wife 189 
 
 What comfort in a mine of gold ? 
 
 What pleasure in a royal life ? 
 If the heart within lay dead and cold, 
 
 If I could not wed my Irish wife. 
 
 I knew the laws forbade the banns, 
 
 I knew my King abhorred her race : 
 Who never bent before their clans 
 
 Must bow before their ladies' grace. 
 Take all my forfeited domain, 
 
 I cannot wage with kinsmen strife, 
 Take knightly gear and noble name, 
 
 And I will keep my Irish wife. 
 
 My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, 
 
 My heaven by day, my stars by night, 
 And, twin-like, truth and fondness lie 
 
 Within her swelling bosom white. 
 My Irish wife has golden hair 
 
 Apollo's harp had once such strings, 
 Apollo's self might pause to hear 
 
 Her birdlike carol when she sings. 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For the Queen of France's hand. 
 For she to me is dearer 
 
 Than castles strong, or lands, or life ; 
 In death I would lie near her, 
 
 And rise beside my Irish wife. 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy Me Gee
 
 190 Poetry of the People 
 
 LXXXIX 
 JDarfc Koealeen 
 
 [FROM THE IRISH, c. 1590] 
 
 O my Dark Rosaleen, 
 
 Do not sigh, do not weep I 
 The priests are on the ocean green, 
 
 They march along the Deep. 
 There 's wine . . . from the royal Pope, 
 
 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 
 
 Have I roamed for your sake ; 
 All yesterday I sailed with sails 
 
 On river and on lake. 
 The Erne, ... at its highest flood, 
 
 I dashed across unseen, 
 For there was lightning in my blood, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 O ! 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,
 
 Dark Rosaleen 191 
 
 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, 
 My life, my love, my saint of saints, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Woe and pain, pain and woe, 
 
 Are my lot, night and noon, 
 To see your bright face clouded so, 
 
 Like to the mournful moon. 
 But yet . . . will I rear your throne 
 
 Again in golden sheen ; 
 'T is you shall reign, shall reign alone, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
 'T is you shall have the golden throne, 
 'T is you shall reign, and reign alone, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Over dews, over sands, 
 
 Will I fly for your weal : 
 Your holy, delicate white hands 
 
 Shall girdle me with steel. 
 At home ... in your emerald bowers, 
 
 From morning's dawn till e'en, 
 You '11 pray for me, my flower of flowers, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My fond Rosaleen !
 
 192 Poetry of the People 
 
 You '11 think of me through daylight's hours, 
 My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
 My Dark Rosaleen? 
 
 I could scale the blue air, 
 
 I could plough the high hills, 
 O, I could kneel all night in 'prayer, 
 
 To heal your many ills ! 
 And one . . . beamy smile from you 
 
 Would float like light between 
 My toils and me, my own, my true, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My fond Rosaleen ! 
 Would give me life and soul anew, 
 A second life, a soul anew, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 O ! the Erne shall run red 
 
 With redundance of blood, 
 The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 
 
 And flames warp hill and wood, 
 And gun-peal and slogan cry, 
 
 Wake many a glen serene, 
 Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
 The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
 Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 James Clarence Mangan
 
 The Battle of the Boyne 193 
 
 XC 
 
 (&e battle of tbe 3Sopne 
 
 1690 
 
 July the first, in Oldbridge town, there was a grievous battle, 
 Where many a man lay on the ground by cannons that did 
 
 rattle. 
 King James he pitched his tents between the lines for to 
 
 retire ; 
 But King William threw his bomb-balls in, and set them all 
 
 on fire. 
 
 Thereat enraged they vowed revenge upon King William's 
 
 forces, 
 
 And oft did vehemently cry that they would stop their courses. 
 A bullet from the Irish came and grazed King William's arm, 
 They thought his .majesty was slain, yet it did him little harm. 
 
 Duke Schomberg then, in friendly care, his King would 
 
 often caution 
 To shun the spot where bullets hot retained the.ir rapid 
 
 motion ; 
 But William said, he don't deserve the name of Faith's 
 
 defender, 
 Who would not venture life and limb to make a foe surrender. 
 
 When we the Boyne began to cross, the enemy they 
 
 descended ; 
 
 But few of our brave men were lost, so stoutly we defended ; 
 The horse was the first that marched o'er, the foot soon 
 
 followed after ; 
 But brave Duke Schomberg was no more by venturing over 
 
 the water.
 
 194 Poetry of the People 
 
 When valiant Schomberg he was slain, King William did 
 
 accost 
 
 His warlike men for to march on and he would be foremost ; 
 " Brave boys," he said, " be not dismayed for the loss of 
 
 one commander, 
 For God will be our king this day, and I '11 be general 
 
 under." 
 
 Then stoutly we the Boyne did cross, to give the enemies 
 
 battle : 
 Our cannon, to our foe's great cost, like thundering claps 
 
 did rattle. 
 In majestic mien our Prince rode o'er, his men soon 
 
 followed after, 
 With blow and shout put our foes to the rout the day we 
 
 crossed the water. 
 
 The Protestants of Drogheda have reason to be thankful, 
 That they were not to bondage brought, they being but a 
 
 handful, 
 First to the Tholsel they were brought, and tried at the 
 
 Millmount after ; 
 But brave King William set them free by venturing over 
 
 the water. 
 
 The cunning French near to Duleek had taken up their 
 
 quarters, 
 And fenced themselves on every side, still waiting for new 
 
 orders ; 
 But in the dead time of the night, they set the fields on 
 
 fire, 
 And long before the morning light, to Dublin they did 
 
 retire.
 
 After Aughrim 195 
 
 Then said King William to his men, after the French 
 departed, 
 
 "I 'm glad" (said he) "that none of ye seem to be faint- 
 hearted ; 
 
 So sheath your swords and rest awhile, in time we '11 follow 
 after " ; 
 
 Those words he uttered with a smile the day he crossed the 
 water. 
 
 Come let us all with heart and voice applaud our lives' 
 
 defender, 
 Who at the Boyne his valor showed and made his foe 
 
 surrender. 
 To God above the praise we '11 give both now and ever 
 
 after ; 
 And bless the glorious memory of King William that crossed 
 
 the water. 
 
 Attributed to Captain Blacker 
 
 XCI 
 
 1691 
 
 Do you remember long ago, 
 
 Kathaleen ? 
 
 When your lover whispered low, 
 " Shall I stay or shall I go, 
 
 Kathaleen ? " 
 
 And you answered proudly, " Go ! 
 And join King James and strike a blow 
 
 For the Green."
 
 196 Poetry of the People 
 
 Mavrone, your hair is white as snow, 
 
 Kathaleen ; 
 
 Your heart is sad and full of woe, 
 Do you repent you bade him go, 
 
 Kathaleen ? 
 
 But quick you answer proudly, " No ! 
 For better die with Sarsfield so, 
 Than live a slave without a blow 
 
 For the Green." 
 
 Arthur Gerald Geoghegan 
 
 XCII 
 
 Cljr S>I)an Han Uorljt 
 1797 
 
 The sainted isle of old, 
 
 Says the shan van vocht, 
 The parent and the mould 
 Of the beautiful and bold, 
 Has her sainted heart waxed cold? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 
 Oh ! the French are on the say, 
 
 Says the shan van vocht; 
 Oh ! the French are in the bay ; 
 They '11 be here without delay, 
 And the Orange will decay, 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 
 Oh / the French are in the bay, 
 They '// be here by break of day, 
 And the Orange will decay, 
 Says the shan van vocht.
 
 The Shan Van Vocht 197 
 
 And their camp it shall be where? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht j 
 Their camp it shall be where ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 On the Currach of Kildare ; 
 The boys they will be there 
 With their pikes in good repair, 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 To the Currach of Kildare 
 The boys they will repair, 
 And Lord Edward will be there, 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 
 Then what will the yeomen do ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht ; 
 What will the yeomen do ? 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 What should the yeomen do, 
 But throw off the red and blue, 
 And swear that they '11 be true 
 To the shan van vocht ? 
 
 What should the yeomen do, 
 But throw off the red and blue, 
 And swear that they '// be true 
 To the shan van vocht ? 
 
 And what color will they wear ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht j 
 What color will they wear ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 What color should be seen, 
 Where our fathers' homes have been, 
 But our own immortal green ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht.
 
 198 Poetry of the People 
 
 What color should be seen, 
 Where our fathers' 1 homes have been, 
 But our own immortal green ? 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 
 And will Ireland then be free ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht j 
 Will Ireland then be free ? 
 
 Says the shan van vocht; 
 Yes ! Ireland shall be free, 
 From the centre to the sea ; 
 Then hurrah for liberty ! 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 Yes! Ireland SHALL be free, 
 From the centre to the sea; 
 Then hurrah for Liberty ! 
 Says the shan van vocht. 
 
 Anonymous 
 \ 
 
 XCIII 
 
 C&e Shearing; of tfce <5reen 
 1798 
 
 Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that 's going 
 
 round ? 
 
 The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground ; 
 St. Patrick's day no more we '11 keep, his colors can't be 
 
 seen, 
 For there 's a bloody law agin' the wearing of the green. 
 
 1 met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, 
 And he said, " How 's poor old Ireland, and how does she 
 
 stand?"
 
 The Wearing of the Green 199 
 
 She 's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen, 
 They are hanging men and women there for wearing of the 
 green. 
 
 Then since the color we must wear is England's cruel red, 
 Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they 
 
 have shed : 
 You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on 
 
 the sod, 
 But 't will take root and flourish still, though under foot 
 
 't is trod. 
 When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as 
 
 they grow, 
 And when the leaves in summer-time their color cease to 
 
 show, 
 
 Then I will change the favor that I wear in my caubeen, 
 But till that day, please God, I '11 stick to wearing of the 
 
 green. 
 
 But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart, 
 Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will 
 
 part; 
 
 I 've heard whisper of a country that lies far beyond the sea, 
 Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's 
 
 day : 
 
 O Erin, must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's hand ? 
 Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and dis- 
 tant land? 
 
 Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen, 
 And where, please God, we '11 live and die still wearing of 
 the green. 
 
 Street Ballad
 
 Poetry of the People 
 XCIV 
 
 ;fftemorj of t&e SDeaB 
 
 1798 
 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 
 
 Who blushes at the name? 
 When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 
 
 Who hangs his head for shame ? 
 He 's all a knave or half a slave 
 
 Who slights his country thus ; 
 But a true man, like you, man, 
 
 Will fill your glass with us. 
 
 We drink the memory of the brave, 
 
 The faithful and the few 
 Some lie far off beyond the wave, 
 
 Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
 All, all are gone but still lives on 
 
 The fame of those who died ; 
 All true men, like you, men, 
 
 Remember them with pride. 
 
 Some on the shores of distant lands 
 
 Their weary hearts have laid, 
 And by the stranger's heedless hands 
 
 Their lonely graves were made ; 
 But, though their clay be far away 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic foam, 
 In true men, like you, men, 
 
 Their spirit 's still at home.
 
 The Memory of the Deaa 201 
 
 The dust of some is Irish earth; 
 
 Among their own they rest ; 
 And the same land that gave them birth 
 
 Has caught them to her breast ; 
 And we will pray that from their clay 
 
 Full many a race may start 
 Of true men, like you, men, 
 
 To act as brave a part. 
 
 They rose in dark and evil days 
 
 To right their native land ; 
 They kindled here a living blaze 
 
 That nothing shall withstand. 
 Alas! that Might can vanquish Right 
 
 They fell, and passed away ; 
 But true men, like you, men, 
 
 Are plenty here to-day. 
 
 Then here 's their memory may it be 
 
 For us a guiding light, 
 To cheer our strife for liberty, 
 
 And teach us to unite ! 
 Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 
 
 Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
 And true men, like you, men, 
 
 Like those of Ninety-Eight. 
 
 John Kells Ingrain
 
 202 Poetry of the People 
 
 XCV 
 
 The Geraldines! the Geraldines! 'tis full a thousand 
 
 years 
 Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their 
 
 battle-spears ; 
 When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields 
 
 were known, 
 And their sabre dint struck terror on the banks of the 
 
 Garonne ; 
 Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by Wil- 
 
 liam's side, 
 And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they 
 
 dyed ; 
 But never then, nor thence till now, have falsehood or 
 
 disgrace 
 Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face. 
 
 The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! 't is true, in Strong- 
 
 bow's van, 
 
 By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began ; 
 And, O ! through many a dark campaign they proved their 
 
 prowess stern, 
 In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and 
 
 chief, and kerne : 
 
 But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won, 
 And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such 
 
 slaughter done ! 
 How gay their laugh ! how proud their mien ! you 'd ask 
 
 no herald's sign 
 Among a thousand you had known the princely Geraldine.
 
 The Geraldincs 203 
 
 These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! not long our air 
 
 they breathed, 
 
 Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed, 
 Not often had their children been by Irish mothers 
 
 nursed, 
 When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling 
 
 burst ! 
 The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, 
 
 and bribe, 
 To win from Irish thoughts and ways this " more than 
 
 Irish " tribe ; 
 For still they clung to fosterage, to Brehon, cloak, and 
 
 bard: 
 
 What king dare say to Geraldine, " Your Irish wife dis- 
 card?" 
 
 Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! how royally ye reigned 
 O'er Desmond broad and rich Kildare, and English arts 
 
 disdained : 
 Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was 
 
 your bugle call 
 By Glyn's green slopes, and Dingle's tide, from Barrow's 
 
 banks to Eochaill, 1 
 What gorgeous shrines, what Brehon lore, what minstrel 
 
 feasts there were 
 In and around Magh Nuadhaid's 2 keep, and palace-filled 
 
 Adare ! 
 But not for rite or feast ye stayed when friend or kin were 
 
 pressed ; 
 And foemen fled when " Crom abu " bespoke your lance 
 
 in rest. 
 
 l Engl. Youghal 2 Engl. Maynooth.
 
 ao4 Poetry of the People 
 
 Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! since Silken Thomas flung 
 King Henry's sword on council board, the English thanes 
 
 among, 
 
 Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway, 
 Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut 
 
 away. 
 Of Desmond's blood through woman's veins passed on the 
 
 exhausted tide ; 
 
 His title lives a Sassanach churl usurps the lion's hide ; 
 And though Kildare tower haughtily, there's nun at the 
 
 root, 
 Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no 
 
 fruit? 
 
 True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines 1 as torrents mould the 
 
 earth, 
 You channeled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy and 
 
 worth : 
 
 When Ginckle leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed 
 To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed! 
 And still it is the peasants' hope upon the Curragh's mere, 
 " They live who '11 see ten thousand men with good Lord 
 
 Edward here." 
 So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward's 
 
 shade, 
 But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed ! 
 
 These Geraldines! these Geraldines! rain wears away the 
 
 rock, 
 And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's 
 
 shock, 
 
 But ever, sure, while one is left of all that honored race, 
 In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place ;
 
 Soggarth Aroon 205 
 
 And though the last were dead and gone, how many a field 
 
 and town, 
 From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their 
 
 renown ! 
 
 And men will say of valor's rise, or ancient power's decline, 
 " 'T will never soar, it never shone, as did the Geraldine." 
 
 The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! and are there any fears 
 Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years ? 
 Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyrs' 
 
 blood? 
 Or has that grown a purling brook which long rushed down 
 
 a flood ? 
 By Desmond swept with sword and fire, by clan and keep 
 
 laid low, 
 
 By Silken Thomas and his kin, by sainted Edward ! No! 
 The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line 
 COMMAND THEIR SONS TO TAKE THE POST THAT FITS 
 
 THE GERALDINE! 
 
 Thomas Davis 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Am I the slave they say, 
 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 Since you did show the way, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Their slave no more to be, 
 While they would work with me 
 Old Ireland's slavery, 
 
 Soggarth aroon.
 
 206 Poetry of the People 
 
 Why not her poorest man, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Try and do all he can, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 
 Her commands to fulfil 
 
 Of his own heart and will, 
 
 Side by side with you still, 
 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 
 Loyal and brave to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Yet be not slave to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 
 Nor, out of fear to you 
 
 Stand up so near to you 
 
 Och ! out of fear to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! 
 
 Who in the winter's night, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 When the cold blast did bite, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Came to my cabin door, 
 And, on my earthen floor, 
 Knelt by me, sick and poor, 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 
 Who, on the marriage day, 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 
 Made the poor cabin gay, 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 
 And did both laugh and sing, 
 
 Making our hearts to ring,
 
 The Girl I Left behind Me 207 
 
 At the poor christening, 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 
 Who, as friend only met, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Never did flout me yet, 
 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 And when my heart was dim, 
 Gave, while his eye did brim, 
 What I should give to him, 
 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 
 Och ! you, and only you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! 
 And for this I was true to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ; 
 In love they '11 never shake, 
 When for ould Ireland's sake, 
 We a true part did take, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! 
 
 John Banim 
 
 XCVII 
 
 C&e <0irl 3f left be&ttrt f&t 
 
 The dames of France are fond and free, 
 
 And Flemish lips are willing, 
 And soft the maids of Italy, 
 
 And Spanish eyes are thrilling ; 
 Still, though I bask beneath their smile, 
 
 Their charms fail to bind me, 
 And my heart falls back to Erin's Isle, 
 
 To the girl I left behind me.
 
 2o8 Poetry of the People 
 
 For she 's as fair as Shannon's side, 
 
 And purer than its water, 
 But she refus'd to be my bride 
 
 Though many a year I sought her ; 
 Yet, since to France I sail'd away, 
 
 Her letters oft remind me, 
 That I promis'd never to gainsay 
 
 The girl I left behind me. 
 
 She says, " My own dear love, come home, 
 
 My friends are rich and many, 
 Or else, abroad with you- 1 '11 roam, 
 
 A soldier stout as any ; 
 If you '11 not come, nor let me go, 
 
 I '11 think you have resign'd me," 
 My heart nigh broke when I answer'd " No,' 
 
 To the girl I left behind me. 
 
 For never shall my true love brave 
 
 A life of war and toiling, 
 And never as a skulking slave 
 
 I '11 tread my native soil on ; 
 But, were it free or to be freed, 
 
 The battle's close would find me 
 To Ireland bound, nor message need 
 
 From the girl I left behind me. 
 
 Anonymous
 
 The Meeting of the Waters 209 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS 
 
 XCVIII 
 ibarp tfjat once tbnrajft Cara'a 
 
 The harp that once through Tara's halls 
 
 The soul of music shed, 
 Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls . 
 
 As if that soul were fled. 
 So sleeps the pride of former days, 
 
 So glory's thrill is o'er, 
 And hearts that once beat high for praise 
 
 Now feel that pulse no more. 
 
 No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
 
 The harp of Tara swells : 
 The chord alone that breaks at night 
 
 Its tale of ruin tells. 
 Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 
 
 The only throb she gives 
 Is when some heart indignant breaks, 
 
 To show that still she lives. 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 XCIX 
 
 of t&e 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 
 Oh ! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
 
 2io Poetry of the People 
 
 Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill 
 Oh, no 1 it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should 
 
 cease, 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 me, if all t&oce eirtJearttiff pontiff 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 
 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 
 
 Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
 Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will ; 
 And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear ;
 
 The Last Rose of Summer 211 
 
 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose. 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 CI 
 
 Laet L\occ of Shimmer 
 
 'T is the last rose of summer 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flow'r of her kindred, 
 
 No rose-bud is nigh, 
 To reflect back her blushes, 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh. 
 
 I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 
 Go, sleep thou with them. 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may 7 follow, 
 When friendships decay, 
 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 The gems drop away.
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 When true hearts lie wither'd, 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone? 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 CII 
 
 Oft, in tljr fitillp nts&t 
 
 Oft, in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears, 
 Of boyhood's years, 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shone, 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus, in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends, so link'd together, 
 I 've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead,
 
 The Coolun 213 
 
 And all but he departed ! 
 Thus in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 cm 
 
 C&e Coolttti 
 
 [FROM THE IRISH] 
 
 Oh, had you seen the Coolun 
 
 Walking down by the cuckoo's street, 
 With the dew of the meadow shining 
 
 On her milk-white twinkling feet, 
 Oh, my love she is and my colleen oge, 
 
 And she dwells in Balnagar ; 
 And she bears the palm of beauty bright 
 
 From the fairest that in Erin are. 
 
 In Balnagar is the Coolun, 
 
 Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
 Bright beauty dwells for ever 
 
 On her fair neck and ringlets sleek. 
 Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music 
 
 Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
 Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 
 
 Farewell to the setting sun. 
 
 Rise up, my boy, make ready 
 
 To horse, for I forth would ride, 
 To follow the modest damsel 
 
 Where she walks on the green hillside ;
 
 2 1 4 Poetry of the People 
 
 For ever since our youth were we plighted 
 In faith, truth, and wedlock true. 
 
 O sweeter her voice is nine times over 
 Than organ or cuckoo ! 
 
 And ever since my childhood 
 
 I 've loved the dair and darling child ; 
 But our people came between us, 
 
 And with lucre our pure love denied. 
 Oh, my woe it is and my bitter pain, 
 
 And I weep it night and day 
 That the colleen bawn of my early love 
 
 Is torn from my heart away. 
 
 Sir Samuel Ferguson 
 
 CIV 
 
 (Tbc Erllfi of Canton 
 
 With deep affection and recollection 
 I often think of the Shandon bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, 
 
 Fling round my cradle their magic spells 
 On this I ponder, where'er I wander, 
 
 And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in, 
 
 Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; 
 While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, 
 
 But all their music spoke naught like thine ;
 
 Kathleen Mavourneen 215 
 
 For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, 
 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 I have heard bells tolling " old Adrian's Mole " in, 
 
 Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 
 And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; 
 But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly : 
 Oh, the bells of Shandon, 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 There 's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosk, O ! 
 
 In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air, calls men to prayer, 
 
 From the tapering summit of tall minarets, 
 Such empty phantom I freely grant them, 
 But there 's an anthem more dear to me : 
 'T is the bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 Francis Mahony 
 
 cv 
 
 Kathleen Mavourneen ! the gray dawn is breaking, 
 The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, 
 
 The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking 
 Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumbering still ?
 
 2 1 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 Oh ! hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever* 
 Oh ! hast thou forgotten how soon we must part? 
 
 It may be for years and it may be for ever, 
 
 Oh ! why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? 
 
 Kathleen Mavourneen ! awake from thy slumbers, 
 
 The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light ; 
 Ah ! where is the spell that once hung on thy numbers ? 
 
 Arise in thy beauty, thou star of the night ! 
 Mavourneen ! Mavourneen ! my sad tears are falling, 
 
 To think that from Erin and thee I must part : 
 It may be for years, and it may be for ever, 
 
 Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? 
 
 Mrs. Crawford 
 
 CVI 
 C&e lament of tjje %n6\) (Emigrant 
 
 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side 
 On a bright May mornin', long ago, when first you were my 
 
 bride ; 
 The corn was springin' fresh and green, and the lark sang 
 
 loud and high ; 
 And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in 
 
 your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green 
 
 again : 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath 
 
 warm on my cheek, 
 And I still keep list'nin' for the words you nevermore will 
 
 speak.
 
 The Lament of the Irish Emigrant 217 
 
 'T.is but a step down yonder lane, and the little church 
 
 stands near, 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from 
 
 here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might 
 
 break your rest, 
 For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on 
 
 your breast. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new 
 
 friends ; 
 
 But, oh ! they love the better still the few our Father sends ! 
 And you were all / had, Mary my blessin' and my pride : 
 There 's no thin' left to care for now, since my poor Mary 
 
 died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, that still kept 
 
 hopin' on, 
 
 When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's 
 
 young strength was gone ; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on 
 
 your brow, 
 I bless you, Mary, for that same, though you cannot hear 
 
 me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile when your heart was fit 
 
 to break, 
 When the hunger pain was gnawing there, and you hid it 
 
 for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word when your heart was sad 
 
 and sore, 
 Oh, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can't 
 
 reach you more!
 
 2 1 8 Poetry of the People 
 
 I 'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and 
 
 true ! 
 
 But I '11 not forget you, darling, in the land I 'm goin' to ; 
 They say there 's bread and work for all, and the sun shines 
 
 always there, 
 But I '11 not forget old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods I '11 sit, and shut my 
 
 eyes, 
 And my heart will travel back again to the place where 
 
 Mary lies ; 
 
 And I '11 think I see the little stile where we sat side by side, 
 And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, when 
 
 first you were my bride. 
 
 Lady Dufferin 
 
 CVII 
 
 SDear LanU* 
 
 When comes the day all hearts to weigh, 
 
 If staunch they be, or vile, 
 Shall we forget the sacred debt 
 
 We owe our mother isle ? 
 My native heath is brown beneath, 
 
 My native waters blue, 
 But crimson red o'er both shall spread, 
 
 Ere I am false to you, 
 
 Dear land 
 
 Ere I am false to you. 
 
 When I behold your mountains bold 
 
 Your noble lakes and streams 
 A mingled tide of grief and pride 
 
 Within my bosom teems.
 
 Dear Land 
 
 I think of all your long, dark thrall 
 
 Your martyrs brave and true ; 
 And dash apart the tears that start 
 
 We must not weep for you, 
 
 Dear land 
 
 We must not weep for you. 
 
 My grandsire died his home beside ; 
 
 They seized and hanged him there ; 
 His only crime, in evil time 
 
 Your hallowed green to wear. 
 Across the main his brothers twain 
 
 Were sent to pine and rue ; 
 And still they turned, with hearts that burned, 
 
 In hopeless love to you, 
 
 Dear land 
 
 In hopeless love to you. 
 
 My boyish ear still clung to hear 
 
 Of Erin's pride of yore, 
 Ere Norman foot had dared pollute 
 
 Her independent shore 
 Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head 
 
 Some gallant patriot few ; 
 Till all my aim on earth became 
 
 To strike one blow for you, 
 
 Dear land 
 
 To strike one blow for you. 
 
 What path is best your rights to wrest 
 
 Let other heads divine ; 
 By work or word, with voice or sword, 
 
 To follow them be mine. 
 
 219
 
 220 Poetry of the People 
 
 The breast that zeal and hatred steel, 
 
 No terrors can subdue ; 
 If death should come, that martyrdom 
 Were sweet, endured for you, 
 
 Dear land 
 Were sweet, endured for you. 
 
 Sliabh Cuilinn 
 
 CVIII 
 of ^Dublin 
 
 O bay of Dublin ! my heart you 're troublin', 
 
 Your beauty haunts me like a fevered dream ; 
 Like frozen fountains that the sun sets bubblin', 
 
 My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name. 
 And never till this life pulse ceases, 
 
 My earliest thought you '11 cease to be ! 
 O there 's no one here knows how fair that place is, 
 
 And no one cares how dear it is to me. 
 
 Sweet Wicklow mountains ! the sunlight sleeping 
 
 On your green banks is a picture rare : 
 You crowd around me like young girls peeping, 
 
 And puzzling me to say which is most fair ! 
 As though you 'd see your own sweet faces 
 
 Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. 
 O ! my blessing on those lovely places, 
 
 Though no one cares how dear they are to me. 
 
 How often when at work I 'm sitting, 
 And musing sadly on the days of yore,
 
 Killarney 221 
 
 I think I see my Katey knitting, 
 
 And the children playing round the cabin door ; 
 I think I see the neighbors' faces 
 
 All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see. 
 O ! though no one knows how fair that place is, 
 
 Heaven knows how dear my poor home was to me. 
 
 Lady Ditfferin 
 
 CIX 
 feillarnep 
 
 By Killarney's lakes and fells, 
 
 Emerald isles and winding bays, 
 Mountain paths and woodland dells, 
 
 Memory ever fondly strays. 
 Bounteous Nature loves all lands ; 
 
 Beauty wanders everywhere, 
 Footprints leaves on many strands, 
 
 But her home is surely there ! 
 Angels fold their wings and rest 
 
 In the Eden of the West, 
 Beauty's home, Killarney, 
 
 Ever fair Killarney. 
 
 Inisfallen's ruined shrine 
 
 May suggest a passing sigh, 
 But man's faith can ne'er decline, 
 
 Such God's wonders passing by: 
 Castle Lough and Glenna Bay, 
 
 Mountain Tore and Eagle's Nest ; 
 Still at Muckross you must pray, 
 
 Though the monks are now at rest ;
 
 222 Poetry of the People 
 
 Angels wonder not that man 
 
 There would fain prolong life's span ; 
 
 Beauty's home, Killarney, 
 Ever fair Killarney. 
 
 No place else can charm the eye 
 
 With such bright and varied tints, 
 Every rock that you pass by 
 
 Verdure broiders or besprints, 
 Virgin there the green grass grows, 
 
 Every morn Spring's natal day, 
 Bright-hued berries daff the snows, 
 
 Smiling Winter's frown away. 
 Angels often pausing there, 
 
 Doubt if Eden were more fair ; 
 Beauty's home, Killarney, 
 
 Ever fair Killarney. 
 
 Music there for Echo dwells, 
 
 Makes each sound a harmony, 
 Many-voiced the chorus swells, 
 
 Till it faints in ecstasy : 
 With the charmful tints below 
 
 Seems the heaven above to vie, 
 All rich colors that we know 
 
 Tinge the cloud-wreaths in the sky; 
 Wings of angels so might shine, 
 
 Glancing back soft light divine 
 Beauty's home, Killarney, 
 
 Ever fair Killarney. 
 
 Edmund O'Rourke
 
 Song from the Backwoods 223 
 
 CX 
 >onff from tl)c -13nrltttioolJ6 
 
 Deep in Canadian woods we Ve met, 
 
 From one bright island flown! 
 Great is the land we tread, but yet 
 
 Our hearts are with our own. 
 And ere we leave this shanty small, 
 
 While fades the autumn day, 
 We '11 toast old Ireland ! dear old Ireland! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray! 
 
 We Ve heard her faults a hundred times, 
 
 The new ones and the old, 
 In songs and sermons, rants and rhymes, 
 
 Enlarged some fifty-fold. 
 But take them all, the great and small, 
 
 And this we 've got to say : 
 Here's dear old Ireland! good old Ireland! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray! 
 
 We know that brave and good men tried 
 
 To snap her rusty chain, 
 That patriots suffered, martyrs died, 
 
 And all, 't is said, in vain ; 
 But no, boys, no! a glance will show 
 
 How far they Ve won their way 
 Here 's good old Ireland ! loved old Ireland ! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray ! 
 
 We Ve seen the wedding and the wake, 
 The patron and the fair ;
 
 224 Poetry of the People 
 
 The stuff they take, the fun they make, 
 And the heads they break down there, 
 
 With a loud " hurroo " and a " pillalu," 
 And a thundering " clear the way! " 
 
 Here's gay old Ireland! dear old Ireland! 
 Ireland, boys, hurray! 
 
 And well we know in the cool grey eves, 
 
 When the hard day's work is o'er, 
 How soft and sweet are the words that greet 
 
 The friends who meet once more ; 
 With "Mary machree! " and " My Pat! 'tis he! " 
 
 And " My own heart night and day ! " 
 Ah, fond old Ireland ! dear old Ireland ! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray ! 
 
 And happy and bright are the groups that pass 
 
 From their peaceful homes, for miles 
 O'er fields, and roads, and hills, to Mass, 
 
 When Sunday morning smiles! 
 And deep the zeal their true hearts feel 
 
 When low they kneel and pray. 
 O, dear old Ireland ! blest old Ireland ! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray! 
 
 But deep in Canadian woods we Ve met, 
 
 And we never may see again 
 The dear old isle where our hearts are set, 
 
 And our first fond hopes remain ! 
 But come, fill up another cup, 
 
 And with every sup let 's say 
 Here 's loved old Ireland ! good old Ireland ! 
 
 Ireland, boys, hurray ! 
 
 T. D. Sullivan
 
 To God and Ireland True 225 
 
 CXI 
 Co <25oU anB Sfrelatrti Crtte 
 
 I sit beside my darling's grave 
 
 Who in the prison died, 
 And though my tears fall thick and fast 
 
 I think of him with pride ; 
 Ay, softly fall my tears like dew, 
 For one to God and Ireland true. 
 
 " I love my God o'er all," he said, 
 
 " And then I love my land, 
 And next I love my Lily sweet 
 
 Who pledged me her white hand : 
 To each, to all, I 'm ever true, 
 To God to Ireland, and to you." 
 
 No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed, 
 
 Or softly raised his head : 
 He fell asleep and woke in heaven 
 
 Ere I knew he was dead ; 
 Yet why should I my darling rue ? 
 He was to God and Ireland true. 
 
 Oh, 't is a glorious memory ; 
 
 I 'm prouder than a queen 
 To sit beside my hero's grave 
 
 And think on what has been: 
 And O my darling, I am true 
 To God to Ireland, and to you ! 
 
 Ellen CfLeary
 
 BOOK FIFTH POEMS OF AMERICA 
 HISTORICAL AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 cxn 
 America 
 
 My country, 't is of thee, 
 Sweet Land of Liberty, 
 
 Of thee I sing ; 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
 From every mountain-side 
 
 Let Freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee, 
 Land of the noble free, 
 
 Thy name I love ; 
 I love thy rocks and rills, 
 Thy woods and templed hills, 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 Let music swell the breeze, 
 And ring from all the trees, 
 
 Sweet Freedom's song; 
 Let mortal tongues awake ; 
 Let all that breathe partake ; 
 Let rocks their silence break, 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 227
 
 228 Poetry of the People 
 
 Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
 Author of Liberty, 
 
 To Thee I sing ; 
 Long may our land be bright 
 With Freedom's holy light ; 
 Protect us by Thy might, 
 
 Great God, our King. 
 
 S. F. Smith 
 
 CXI II 
 
 Columbus 
 
 1492 
 
 Behind him lay the gray Azores, 
 
 Behind the Gates of Hercules ; 
 Before him not the ghost of shores, 
 
 Before him only shoreless seas. 
 The good mate said : " Now must we pray, 
 
 For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
 Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say? " 
 
 " Why, say, ' Sail on! sail on ! and on! '" 
 
 " My men grow mutinous day by day ; 
 
 My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
 The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 
 
 Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
 " What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, 
 
 If we sight naught but seas at dawn? " 
 " Why, you shall say at break of day, 
 
 ' Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on! ' "
 
 Columbus 229 
 
 They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 
 
 Until at last the blanched mate said : 
 " Why, now not even God would know 
 
 Should I and all my men fall dead. 
 These very winds forget their way, 
 
 For God from these dread seas is gone. 
 Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say " 
 
 He said : " Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 
 
 They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate : 
 
 " This mad sea shows his teeth to-night 
 He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 
 
 With lifted teeth, as if to bite ! 
 Brave Admiral, say but one good word : 
 
 What shall we do when hope is gone? " 
 The words leapt like a leaping sword : 
 
 " Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on! " 
 
 Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 
 
 And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
 Of all dark nights ! And then a speck 
 
 A light! A light ! A light ! A light! 
 It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 
 
 It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
 He gained a world; he gave that world 
 
 Its grandest lesson : " On ! sail on!" 
 
 Joaquin Miller
 
 230 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXIV 
 
 Lantttng of t&e plffrim fathers in JQeto 
 
 1620 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark, 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence and in fear ; 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To the anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white waves' foam ; 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared 
 
 This was their welcome home.
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers 231 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine I 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod; 
 They have left unstained what there they found 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 Felicia Hcmans 
 
 CXV 
 
 Jatfjere 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they ? 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore ; 
 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day 
 
 When the Mayflower moored below, 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 
 And white the shore with snow.
 
 232 Poetry of the People 
 
 The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, 
 
 When the heavens looked dark, is gone, 
 As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgrim exile, sainted name ! 
 
 The hill whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hillside and the sea, 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head, 
 
 But the Pilgrim ! where is he ? 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : 
 
 When summer 's throned on high, 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light ; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And still guards this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 John Pierfoni
 
 The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor 233 
 
 CXVI 
 
 in Boston patriot 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord ! " The psalm to-day 
 
 Still rises on our ears, 
 Borne from the hills of Boston Bay 
 
 Through five times fifty years, 
 When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept 
 
 Out to the open main, 
 And through the widening waters swept, 
 In April sun and rain. 
 
 " Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
 
 The leader shouted, " pray ; " 
 And prayer arose from all the ships 
 As faded Yarmouth Bay. 
 
 They passed the Scilly Isles that day, 
 
 And May-days came, and June, 
 And thrice upon the ocean lay 
 
 The full orb of the moon. 
 And as that day on Yarmouth Bay, 
 
 Ere England sunk from view, 
 While yet the rippling Solent lay 
 In April skies of blue, 
 
 " Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
 
 Each morn was shouted, "pray ;" 
 And prayer arose from all the ships, 
 As first in Yarmouth Bay. 
 
 Blew warm the breeze o'er western seas, 
 Through Maytime morns, and June, 
 
 Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, 
 Low 'neath the summer moon ;
 
 234 Poetry of the People 
 
 And as Cape Ann arose to view, 
 
 And Norman's Woe they passed, 
 The wood-doves came the white mists through, 
 And circled round each mast. 
 
 " Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
 
 Then called the leader, " pray ; " 
 And prayer arose from all the ships, 
 As first in Yarmouth Bay. 
 
 Above the sea the hill-tops fair 
 
 God's towers began to rise, 
 And odors rare breathe through the air, 
 
 Like the balms of Paradise. 
 Through burning skies the ospreys flew, 
 
 And near the pine-cooled shores 
 Danced airy boat and thin canoe, 
 To flash of sunlit oars. 
 
 " Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," 
 
 The leader shouted, " pray ! " 
 Then prayer arose, and all the ships 
 Sailed into Boston Bay. 
 
 The white wings folded, anchors down, 
 
 The sea-worn fleet in line, 
 Fair rose the hills where Boston town 
 
 Should rise from clouds of pine ; 
 Fair was the harbor, summit- walled, 
 
 And placid lay the sea. 
 " Praise ye the Lord," the leader called ; 
 " Praise ye the Lord," spake he. 
 
 " Give thanks to God with fervent lips, 
 
 Give thanks to God to-day," 
 The anthem rose from all the ships 
 Safe moored in Boston Bay.
 
 The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor 235 
 
 "Praise ye the Lord! " Primeval woods 
 
 First heard the ancient song, 
 And summer hills and solitudes 
 
 The echoes rolled along. 
 The Red Cross flag of England blew 
 
 Above the fleet that day, 
 While Shawmut T s triple peaks in view 
 In amber hazes lay. 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 
 
 Praise ye the Lord to-day," 
 The anthem rose from all the ships 
 Safe moored in Boston Bay. 
 
 The Arabella leads the song 
 The Mayflower sings below, 
 That erst the Pilgrims bore along 
 
 The Plymouth reefs of snow. 
 Oh! never be that psalm forgot 
 
 That rose o'er Boston Bay, 
 When Winthrop sang, and Endicott, 
 And Saltonstall, that day : 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 
 
 Praise ye the Lord to-day ; " 
 And praise arose from all the ships, 
 Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay. 
 
 That psalm our fathers sang we sing, 
 
 That psalm of peace and wars, 
 While o'er our heads unfolds its wing 
 
 The flag of forty stars. 
 And while the nation finds a tongue 
 
 For nobler gifts to pray, 
 'Twill ever sing the song they sung 
 
 That first Thanksgiving Day:
 
 236 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, 
 
 Praise ye the Lord to-day ; " 
 So rose the song from all the ships, 
 
 Safe moored in Boston Bay. 
 
 Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms, 
 
 As David's treasures old 
 Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, 
 
 To lily-work of gold. 
 Ho ! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, 
 
 Ho! ships of Boston Bay, 
 Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide 
 To this Thanksgiving Day! 
 
 We pray to God with fervent lips, 
 
 We praise the Lord to-day, 
 As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, 
 But psalms from Boston Bay. 
 
 Hezekiah Butterworth 
 
 CXVII 
 
 CoiuorU |)j>mn 
 
 [COMMEMORATING BATTLE or 1775] 
 
 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
 
 Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 The foe long since in silence slept ; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
 
 Warren's Address 237 
 
 On the green bank, by this soft stream, 
 
 We set to-day a votive stone ; 
 That memory may their deed redeem, 
 
 When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 
 
 Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
 
 To die, and leave their children free, 
 Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
 
 The shaft we raise to them and thee. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves! 
 Will ye give it up to slaves? 
 Will ye look for greener graves ? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still? 
 What 's the mercy despots feel ? 
 Hear it in that battle-peal! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel ! 
 
 Ask it, ye who will. 
 
 Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
 Will ye to your homes retire ? 
 Look behind you ! they 're a-fire ! 
 
 And, before you, see 
 Who have done it ! From the vale 
 On they come ! and will ye quail ? 
 Leaden rain and iron hail 
 
 Let their welcome be !
 
 238 Poetry of the People 
 
 In the God of battles trust ! 
 
 Die we may, and die we must ; 
 
 But, oh, where can dust to dust 
 
 Be consign'd so well, 
 As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
 On the martyr'd patriot's bed, 
 And the rocks shall raise their head 
 
 Of his deeds to tell? 
 
 John Pierpont 
 
 CXIX 
 
 Battalion 
 1776 
 
 Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, 
 
 Tidy and dapper and gallant were we ; 
 
 Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall, 
 
 Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball ; 
 
 Prancing soldados so martial and bluff, 
 
 Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff, 
 
 But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer, 
 
 And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair. 
 
 There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, 
 And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the mills ; 
 By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, 
 And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane ; 
 For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, 
 And the grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead. 
 
 Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, 
 The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.
 
 The Maryland Battalion 239 
 
 The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers 
 
 Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers 
 
 For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, 
 
 And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray ! 
 
 Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right ! 
 The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight ! 
 When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, 
 And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain ;' 
 When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, 
 And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the 
 dead! 
 
 " O Stirling, good Stirling ! how long must we wait? 
 Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? 
 Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, 
 With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? 
 Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, 
 When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?" 
 
 Tralara! Tralara! Now praise we the Lord 
 
 For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! 
 
 Tralara! Tralara ! Now forward to die ; 
 
 For the banner, hurrah ! and for sweethearts, good-bye ! 
 
 ' Four hundred wild lads !" Maybe so. I '11 be bound 
 
 'T will be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. 
 
 If we hold the road open, tho' Death take the toll, 
 
 We '11 be missed on parade when the States call the roll 
 
 When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, 
 
 And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West. 
 
 John W. Palmer
 
 240 Poetry of the People 
 
 cxx 
 
 "Columbia, Columbia, to (Slorp 
 1777 
 
 Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
 
 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies! 
 
 Thy genius commands thee ; with rapture behold, 
 
 While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. 
 
 Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time, 
 
 Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; 
 
 Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name, 
 
 Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame. 
 
 To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; 
 Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire ; 
 Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, 
 And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. 
 A world is thy realm : for a world be thy laws, 
 Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause ; 
 On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise, 
 Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. 
 
 Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, 
 And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star. 
 New bards, and new sages, unrival'd shall soar 
 To fame unextinguish'd, when time is no more ; 
 To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, 
 Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; 
 Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring 
 Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. 
 
 Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend 
 And genius and beauty in harmony blend ;
 
 Song of Marion's Men 241 
 
 The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 
 And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire ; 
 Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, 
 And virtue's bright image, instamp'd on the mind, 
 With peace, and soft rapture, shall teach life to glow, 
 And light up a smile in the aspect of woe. 
 
 Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, 
 The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 
 Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, 
 And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. 
 As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, 
 And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow : 
 While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurl'd, 
 Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. 
 
 Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, 
 From war's dread confusion I pensively stray'd 
 The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired ; 
 The winds ceased to murmur ; the thunders expired ; 
 Perfumes, as of Eden, flow'd sweetly along, 
 And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 
 " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." 
 
 Timothy Dwight 
 
 CXXI 
 
 >0nff of Barton's fSlsn 
 
 1780-1781 
 
 Our band is few but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told.
 
 242 Poetry of the People 
 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
 
 Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 We know its walls of thorny vines, 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near. ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear 
 When, waking to their tents on fire, 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again ; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil : 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout ; 
 
 As if a hunt were up, 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves.
 
 Song of Marion's Men 243 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'T is life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain ; 
 'T is life to feel the night-wind 
 
 That lifts the tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp 
 
 A moment and away 
 Back to the pathless forest, 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 And lovely ladies greet our band, 
 
 With kindliest welcoming, 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton, 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant
 
 244 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXXII 
 
 (Eutaiu Spring 
 1781 
 
 At Eutaw Springs the valiant died : 
 Their limbs with dust are covered o'erj 
 
 Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; 
 How many heroes are no more ! 
 
 If in this wreck of ruin they 
 
 Can yet be thought to claim a tear, 
 
 O smite thy gentle breast, and say 
 The friends of freedom slumber here ! 
 
 Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, 
 If goodness rules thy generous breast, 
 
 Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; 
 
 Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest! 
 
 Stranger, their humble graves adorn; 
 
 You too may fall, and ask a tear : 
 'T is not the beauty of the morn 
 
 That proves the evening shall be clear. 
 
 They saw their injured country's woe, 
 The flaming town, the wasted field ; 
 
 Then rushed to meet the insulting foe ; 
 They took the spear but left the shield 
 
 Led by thy conquering standards, Greene, 
 The Britons they compelled to fly : 
 
 None distant viewed the fatal plain, 
 None grieved in such a cause to die 
 
 But, like the Parthians famed of old, 
 Who, flving, still their arrows threw,
 
 Carmen Bellicosum 245 
 
 These routed Britons, full as bold, 
 Retreated, and retreating slew. 
 
 Now rest in peace our patriot band ; 
 
 Though far from nature's limits thrown, 
 We trust they find a happier land, 
 
 A brighter Phoebus of their own. 
 
 Philip Freneau 
 
 CXXIII 
 Carmen 38eIIicasttm 
 
 In their ragged regimentals 
 Stood the old Continentals, 
 
 Yielding not, 
 
 When the grenadiers were lunging, 
 And like hail fell the plunging 
 
 Cannon-shot ; 
 
 When the files 
 
 Of the isles, 
 
 From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the 
 rampant 
 
 Unicorn ; 
 
 And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the 
 drummer 
 
 Through the morn ! 
 
 Then with eyes to the front all, 
 And with guns horizontal, 
 
 Stood our sires ; 
 And the balls whistled deadly, 
 And in streams flashing redly 
 
 Blazed the fires :
 
 246 Poetry of the People 
 
 As the roar 
 
 On the shore 
 Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres 
 
 Of the plain ; 
 And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, 
 
 Cracking amain! 
 
 Now like smiths at their forges 
 Worked the red St. George's 
 
 Cannoneers, 
 
 And the villainous saltpetre 
 Rung a fierce, discordant metre 
 
 Round their ears ; 
 
 As the swift 
 
 Storm-drift, 
 With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor 
 
 On our flanks. 
 Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire 
 
 Through the ranks! 
 
 Then the bare-headed Colonel 
 Galloped through the white infernal 
 
 Powder-cloud; 
 
 And his broadsword was swinging, 
 And his brazen throat was ringing 
 Trumpet-loud ; 
 Then the blue 
 Bullets flew, 
 And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden 
 
 Rifle-breath ; 
 
 And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, 
 Hurling death ! 
 
 Guy Humphrey McMaster
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill 247 
 
 CXXIV 
 Cbe Stoarti of Ctmfcer Dill 
 
 He lay upon his dying bed ; 
 
 His eye was growing dim, 
 When with a feeble voice he called 
 
 His weeping son to him : 
 " Weep not, my boy ! " the vet'ran said, 
 
 " I bow to Heaven's high will, 
 But quickly from yon antlers bring 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill." 
 
 The sword was brought, the soldier's eye 
 
 Lit with a sudden flame ; 
 And as he grasp'd the ancient blade, 
 
 He murmured WARREN'S name : 
 Then said, " My boy, I leave you gold, 
 
 But what is richer still, 
 I leave you, mark me, mark me now 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 " 'T was on that dread, immortal day, 
 
 I dared the Briton's band, 
 A Captain raised this blade on me 
 
 I tore it from his hand ; 
 And while the glorious battle raged, 
 
 It lightened freedom's will 
 For, boy, the God of freedom blessed 
 
 The sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 " Oh, keep the sword ! " his accents broke 
 
 A smile and he was dead 
 But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade 
 
 Upon that dying bed.
 
 248 Poetry of the People 
 
 The son remains; the sword remains 
 
 Its glory growing still 
 And twenty millions bless the sire, 
 
 And sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 William Ross Wallace 
 
 cxxv 
 
 'c &tattte 
 
 The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung 
 
 Has peopled earth with grace, 
 Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung, 
 
 A bright and peerless race ; 
 But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before 
 
 A shape of loftier name 
 Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore, 
 
 The noblest son of Fame. 
 Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained ; 
 
 His gaze around is cast, 
 As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained, 
 
 Before his vision passed ; 
 As if a nation's shout of love and pride 
 
 With music filled the air, 
 And his calm soul was lifted on the tide 
 
 Of deep and grateful prayer ; 
 As if the crystal mirror of his life 
 
 To fancy sweetly came, 
 With scenes of patient toil and noble strife, 
 
 Undimmed by doubt or shame ; 
 As if the lofty purpose of his soul 
 
 Expression would betray,
 
 Hail, Columbia 249 
 
 The high resolve Ambition to control, 
 
 And thrust her crown away ! 
 O, it was well in marble firm and white 
 
 To carve our hero's form, 
 Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight, 
 
 Our star amid the storm ! 
 Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, 
 
 And human freedom sure, 
 His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine, 
 
 While man and time endure ! 
 And it is well to place his image there 
 
 Upon the soil he blest : 
 Let meaner spirits, who its councils share, 
 
 Revere that silent guest ! 
 Let us go up with high and sacred love 
 
 To look on his pure brow, 
 And as, with solemn grace, he points above, 
 
 Renew the patriot's vow ! 
 
 Henry Theodore Tuckerman 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 |)atl, Columbia 
 1798 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
 Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band! 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 Enjoyed the peace your yalpr won.
 
 250 Poetry of the People 
 
 Let independence be your boast, 
 Ever mindful what it cost ; 
 Ever grateful for the prize, 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Firm, united, let us be, 
 Rallying round our Liberty; 
 As a band of brothers joined, 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Immortal patriots ! rise once more : 
 Defend your rights, defend your shore : 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 While offering peace, sincere and just, 
 In Heaven we place a manly trust, 
 That truth and justice will prevail, 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. Cho. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of fame ! 
 
 Let WASHINGTON'S great name 
 
 Ring thro' the world with loud applause, 
 
 Ring thro' the world with loud applause ; 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 With equal skill, and godlike pow'r, 
 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 
 Of horrid war, or guides with ease 
 
 The happier time of honest peace. Cho.
 
 The " Constitution's " Last Fight 251 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands, 
 Once more to serve his country stands ! 
 The rock on which the storm will beat, 
 The rock on which the storm will beat ; 
 But armed in virtue, firm and true, 
 His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
 When hope was sinking in dismay, 
 When glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 Resolved on death or Liberty. Cho. 
 
 Joseph Hopkinson 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 " Cimattttttion'a " Laet 
 1815 
 
 A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew 
 Constitution, where ye bound for? 
 
 Wherever, my lad, there 's fight to be had 
 Acrost the Western ocean. 
 
 Our captain was married in Boston town 
 
 And sailed next day to sea ; 
 For all must go when the State says so ; 
 
 Blow high, blow low, sailed we. 
 
 " Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift 
 When my home-bound pennant flies ? 
 
 The rarest that be on land or sea 
 It shall be my lady's prize."
 
 2 5 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 " There 's never a prize on sea or land 
 
 Could bring such joy to me 
 As my true love sound and homeward bound 
 
 With a king's ship under his lee." 
 
 The Western ocean is wide and deep, 
 
 And wild its tempests blow, 
 But bravely rides Old Ironsides, 
 
 A-cruising to and fro. 
 
 We cruised to the east and we cruised to north, 
 
 And southing far went we, 
 And at last off Cape de Verd we raised 
 
 Two frigates sailing free. 
 
 Oh, God made man, and man made ships, 
 
 But God makes very few 
 Like him who sailed our ship that day, 
 
 And fought her, one to two. 
 
 He gained the weather gauge of both, 
 
 He held them both a-lee ; 
 And gun for gun, till set of sun, 
 . He spoke them fair and free ; 
 
 Till the night fog fell on spar and sail, 
 
 And ship, and sea, and shore, 
 And our only aim was the bursting flame 
 
 And the hidden cannon's roar. 
 
 Then a long rift in the mist showed up 
 
 The stout Cyane, close-hauled 
 To swing in our wake and our quarter rake, 
 
 And a boasting Briton bawled :
 
 The " Constitution's " Last Fight 253 
 
 " Starboard and larboard, we 've got him fast 
 Where his heels won't take him through ; 
 
 Let him luff or wear, he '11 find us there, 
 Ho, Yankee, which will you do? " 
 
 We did not luff and we did not wear, 
 
 But braced our topsails back, 
 Till the sternway drew us fair and true 
 
 Broadsides athwart her track. 
 
 Athwart her track and across her bows 
 
 We raked her fore and aft, 
 And out of the fight and into the night 
 
 Drifted the beaten craft 
 
 The slow Levant came up too late ; 
 
 No need had we to stir ; 
 Her decks we swept with fire, and kept 
 
 The flies from troubling her. 
 
 We raked her again, and her flag came down, 
 
 The haughtiest flag that floats, 
 And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs, 
 
 With never a bark in their throats. 
 
 With never a bark and never a bite, 
 
 But only an oath to break, 
 As we squared away for Praya Bay 
 
 With our prizes in our wake. 
 
 Parole they gave and parole they broke, 
 
 What matters the cowardly cheat, 
 If the captain's bride was satisfied 
 
 With the one prize laid at her feet ?
 
 254 Poetry of the People 
 
 A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew 
 
 Constitution, where ye bound for? 
 Wherever the British prizes be, 
 Though it 's one to two, or one to three, 
 Old Ironsides means victory, 
 
 Acrost the Western ocean. 
 
 James Jeffrey Reche 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 
 
 Long has it waved on high, . 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky ; 
 Beneath it rung the battle shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar ; 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more. 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 
 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
 
 And waves were white below, 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquered knee ; 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 
 The eagle of the sea ! 
 
 O, better that her shattered hulk 
 Should sink beneath the wave ; 
 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 And there should be her grave ;
 
 The Warship of 1812 255 
 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms, 
 
 The lightning and the gale ! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 
 CXXIX 
 Q&lavsbtj) of 1812 
 
 She was no armored cruiser of twice six thousand tons, 
 With the thirty foot of metal that make your modern guns ; 
 She did n't have a free board of thirty foot in clear, 
 An' she did n't need a million repairin' fund each year. 
 She had no rackin' engines to ramp an' stamp an' strain, 
 To work her steel-clad turrets an' break her hull in twain ; 
 She did not have electric lights, the battle-lantern's glare 
 Was all the light the 'tween decks had, an' God's own 
 good fresh air. 
 
 She had no gapin' air-flumes to throw us down our breath, 
 An' we did n't batten hatches to smother men to death ; 
 She did n't have five hundred smiths two hundred men 
 
 would do 
 
 In the old-time Yankee frigate for an old-time Yankee crew, 
 An' a fightin' Yankee captain, with his old-time Yankee 
 
 clothes, 
 
 A-cursin' Yankee sailors with his old-time Yankee oaths. 
 She was built of Yankee timber and manned by Yankee 
 
 men, 
 An' fought by Yankee sailors Lord send their like again \
 
 256 Poetry of the People 
 
 With the wind abaft the quarter and the sea foam flyin' free, 
 An' every tack and sheet housed taut and braces eased to lee, 
 You could hear the deep sea thunder from the knightheads 
 
 where it broke, 
 As she trailed her lee guns under a blindin' whirl o' smoke. 
 
 She did n't run at twenty knots, she was n't built to run, 
 An' we did n't need a half a watch to handle every gun. 
 Our captain did n't fight his ship from a little pen o' steel ; 
 He fought her from his quarter-deck, with two hands at the 
 
 wheel, 
 An' we fought in Yankee fashion, half naked, stripped to 
 
 board, 
 An' when they hauled their red flag down we praised the 
 
 Yankee Lord. 
 
 We fought like Yankee sailors, an' we '11 do it, too, again ; 
 You 've changed the ships an' methods, but you can't 
 
 change Yankee men! 
 
 Philadelphia Record 
 
 cxxx 
 
 Banner 
 
 1814 
 
 Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
 
 gleaming ? 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the clouds 
 
 of the fight, 
 
 O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
 streaming ?
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner 257 
 
 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there ; 
 
 Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Oh, say, does the Star-Spangled Banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep, 
 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 
 In full glory reflected now shines in the stream ; 
 'T is the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
 Cho. 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore, 
 
 Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
 A home and a country they 'd leave us no more ? 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From terror of flight or the gloom, of the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved home, and the war's desolation ! 
 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 
 Praise the Power that made and preserved us a nation.
 
 258 Poetry of the People 
 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust ! " 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
 Cho. 
 Francis Scott Key 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 Columbia, tjje on of t&e cean 
 
 O Columbia, the gem of the ocean, 
 
 The home of the brave and the free, 
 The shrine of each patriot's devotion, 
 
 A world offers homage to thee ! 
 Thy mandates make heroes assemble, 
 
 When Liberty's form stands in view ; 
 Thy banners make Tyranny tremble, 
 
 When borne by the red, white, and blue. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 When borne by the red, white, and blue, 
 When borne by the red, white, and blue, 
 Thy banners make Tyranny tremble, 
 When borne by the red, white, and blue. 
 
 When war winged its wide desolation 
 
 And threatened the land to deform, 
 The ark then of Freedom's foundation, 
 
 Columbia, rode safe thro' the storm ; 
 With her garlands of vict'ry around her, 
 
 When so proudly she bore her brave crew, 
 With her flag proudly floating before her, 
 
 The boast of the red, white, and blue. Cho.
 
 The American Flag 259 
 
 The wine cup, the wine cup bring hither, 
 
 And fill you it true to the brim ; 
 May the wreaths they have won never wither, 
 
 Nor the star of their glory grow dim ! 
 May the service united ne'er sever, 
 
 But they to their colors prove true ! 
 The Army and Navy forever ! 
 
 Three cheers for the red, white, and blue ! Cho. 
 
 D. T. Shaw 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 American jFIaj 
 
 1819 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 And set the stars of glory there. 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 
 She called her eagle bearer down, 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 When strive the warriors of the storm,
 
 2 6 o Poetry of the People 
 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, 
 Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet^ 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack,
 
 God Bless our Native Land 261 
 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 
 
 By angel hands to valor given ; 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drake 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 our JRatitoc lanU 
 
 God bless our native land ! 
 Firm may she ever stand, 
 
 Through storm and night: 
 When the wild tempests rave, 
 Ruler of wind and wave, 
 Do Thou our country save 
 
 By Thy great might ! 
 
 For her our prayers shall rise 
 To God, above the skies ; 
 
 On Him we wait : 
 Thou who art ever nigh, 
 Guarding with watchful eye, 
 To Thee aloud we cry, 
 
 " God save the State ! " 
 
 C. T. Brooks (1834) and/. S. Dwight (1844)
 
 262 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 C&e Defence of t&e 
 
 1840 
 
 Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come ; 
 
 There was rumble of cannon ; there was rattle of blade; 
 There was cavalry, infantry, bugle, and drum, 
 
 Full seven thousand, in pomp and parade, 
 The chivalry, flower of Mexico ; 
 And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo ! 
 
 And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through ; 
 
 For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long. 
 " Surrender, or die ! " " Men, what will you do ? " 
 
 And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong ; 
 Drew a line at his feet ..." Will you come ? Will you go ? 
 I die with my wounded, in the Alamo." 
 
 Then Bowie gasped, " Lead me over that line ! " 
 
 Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun, 
 
 Crossed with him ; then never a word or a sign 
 Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one, 
 
 One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow 
 
 Across ; to die at her post in the Alamo. 
 
 Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night 
 
 When all men silently prayed and thought 
 Of home ; of to-morrow ; of God and the right, 
 
 Till dawn: and with dawn came Travis's cannon shot, 
 In answer to insolent Mexico, 
 From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 263 
 
 Then came Santa Ana ; a crescent of flame ! 
 
 Then the red " escalade " ; then the fight hand to hand ; 
 Such an unequal fight as never had name 
 
 Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan 
 
 band. 
 
 All day, all day and all night, and the morning ? so slow 
 Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo. 
 
 Now silence ! Such silence ! Two thousand lay dead 
 In a crescent outside ! And within ? Not a breath 
 
 Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head, 
 All alone, all alone there, waiting for death; 
 
 And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know 
 
 Another like this of the Alamo ? 
 
 Shout " Victory, victory, victory ho ! " 
 
 I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win; 
 
 I say that the victory, high or low, 
 
 Is given the hero who grapples with sin, 
 
 Or legion or single ; just asking to know 
 
 When duty fronts death in his Alamo. 
 
 Joaquin Miller 
 
 CXXXV 
 
 33toottac of t&e SDeafc 
 
 1847 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo ; 
 No more on Life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few.
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 
 And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind ; 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms ; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud. 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast, 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout, are past ; 
 Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 That sweeps his great plateau,
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 265 
 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was " Victory or Death." 
 
 Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain, 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide ; 
 Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'T was in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 
 The flower of his beloved land, 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His firstborn laurels grew, 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 
 
 Their lives for glory too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain, 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its mouldered slain. 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray.
 
 266 Poetry of the People 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 
 Ye must not slumber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air. 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave : 
 She claims from war his richest spoil 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield ; 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 
 When many a vanished age hath flown, 
 
 The story how ye fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
 
 That gilds your deathless tomb. 
 
 Theodort Q'ffara
 
 John Brown's Body 267 
 
 CXXXVI 
 3T0|)n Proton's 330Up 
 
 John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave, 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Glory ! Glory Hallelujah ! 
 Glory! Glory Hallelujah ! 
 Glory ! Glory Hallelujah ! 
 His soul is marching on. 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 
 His soul is marching on. Cho. 
 
 John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back. 
 His soul is marching on. Cho. 
 
 His pet lambs will meet him on the way, 
 
 And they '11 go marching on. Cho. 
 
 They '11 hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple tree, 
 As they go marching on. Cho. 
 
 Now for the Union let 's give three rousing cheers, 
 As we go marching on. 
 
 Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah! 
 
 Anonymous
 
 268 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXXXVII 
 38attlc--|)pran of t&e Etpttblit 
 
 1861 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 
 
 are stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift 
 
 sword: 
 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 
 
 camps ; 
 They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 
 
 damps ; 
 I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 
 
 lamps. 
 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : 
 " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 
 
 shall deal; 
 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
 
 retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat : 
 Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant, my 
 
 feet! 
 
 Our God is marching on.
 
 The Battle- Cry of Freedom 269 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
 With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me : 
 As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 C&e 38attIe=Crj> of JreeUom 
 
 Yes, we '11 rally 'round the flag, boys, we '11 rally once again, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 We will rally from the hillside, we '11 gather from the plain, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 
 Chorus 
 The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah ! 
 
 Down with the traitor, up with the star, 
 While we rally 'round the flag, boys, rally once again, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 
 We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 
 And we '11 fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. Cho. 
 
 We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 
 And altho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. Cho. 
 
 So we 're springing to the call from the East and from the 
 
 West, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 
 
 And we '11 hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. Cho. 
 
 George F. Root
 
 270 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 !)* HetetUe 
 
 Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, 
 
 And of armed men the hum ; 
 Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
 Round the quick-alarming drum, 
 Saying, " Come, 
 Freemen, come ! 
 Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum. 
 
 " Let me of my heart take counsel : 
 
 War is not of life the sum ; 
 Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
 When the autumn days shall come ? " 
 But the drum 
 Echoed, " Come ! 
 
 Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- 
 sounding drum. 
 
 " But when won the coming battle, 
 
 What of profit springs therefrom ? 
 What if conquest, subjugation, 
 Even greater ills become ? " 
 But the drum 
 Answered, " Come ! 
 
 You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answeriag 
 drum. 
 
 " What if, mid the cannon's thunder, 
 Whistling shot, and bursting bomb, 
 When my brothers fall around me, 
 . Should my heart grow cold and numb ? "
 
 The "Cumberland" 271 
 
 But the drum 
 Answered, " Come ! 
 
 Better there in death united, than in life a recreant 
 Come ! " 
 
 Thus they answered, hoping, fearing, 
 Some in faith, and doubting some, 
 Till a trumpet-voice, proclaiming, 
 Said, " My chosen people, come ! " 
 Then the drum, 
 Lo ! was dumb ; 
 
 For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 
 " Lord, we come ! " 
 
 Bret Harte 
 
 CXL 
 
 Che " CumierlanU " 
 
 1862 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
 
 On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
 And at times from the fortress across the bay 
 The alarum of drums swept past, 
 Or a bugle blast , 
 
 From the camp on the shore. 
 
 Then far away to the south uprose 
 
 A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
 And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
 Was steadily steering its course 
 To try the force 
 Of our ribs of oak,
 
 272 Poetry of the People 
 
 Down upon us heavily runs, 
 
 Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
 Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
 And leaps the terrible death, 
 With fiery breath, 
 From each open port. 
 
 We are not idle, but send her straight 
 Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
 Rebounds our heavier hail 
 From each iron scale 
 Of the monster's hide. 
 
 " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 
 
 In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
 " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
 
 " It is better to sink than to yield ! :; 
 And the whole air pealed 
 With the cheers of our men. 
 
 Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
 
 She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp I 
 Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
 With a sudden shudder of death, 
 And the cannon's breath 
 For her dying gasp. 
 
 Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
 
 Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
 Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
 Every waft of the air 
 Was a whisper of prayer, 
 Or a dirge for the dead.
 
 Kearney at Seven Pines 273 
 
 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 
 
 Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
 Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
 Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
 Shall be one again, 
 And without a seam ! 
 
 Henry Wads-worth Longfellow 
 
 CXLI 
 
 Ixrarnrp at i&etoen JJtnrs 
 1862 
 
 So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, 
 
 That story of Kearney who knew not to yield ! 
 'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, 
 
 Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
 Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, 
 
 Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and 
 
 pine, 
 Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest, 
 
 No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line. 
 
 When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
 
 Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, 
 He rode down the length of the withering column, 
 
 And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound. 
 He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder, 
 
 His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign ; 
 Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder ; 
 
 " There 's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line I "
 
 274 Poetry of the People 
 
 How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his blade 
 brighten 
 
 In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth ! 
 He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
 
 But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 
 Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 
 
 Asking where to go in, through the clearing or pine? 
 " Oh, anywhere ! Forward ! 'T is all the same, Colonel ; 
 
 You '11 find lovely fighting along the whole line ! " 
 
 Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 
 
 That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! 
 Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 
 
 The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride ! 
 Yet we dream that he still in that shadowy region 
 
 Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's 
 
 sign 
 Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 
 
 And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 
 
 CXLII 
 
 38atiara Jrietcfjie 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
 
 Barbara Frietchie 275 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as the garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 
 
 In her attic window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast 
 " Fire ! " out blazed the rifle-blast.
 
 276 Poetry of the People 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face, of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word; 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet : 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
 
 And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
 
 Vicksburg 277 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewatl's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 1862-1863 
 
 For sixty days and upwards, 
 
 A storm of shell and shot 
 Rained round us in a flaming shower, 
 
 But still we faltered not. 
 " If the noble city perish," 
 
 Our grand young leader said, 
 " Let the only walls the foe shall scale 
 
 Be the ramparts of the dead ! " 
 
 For sixty days and upwards, 
 The eye of heaven waxed dim ; 
 
 And even throughout God's holy morn, 
 O'er Christian prayer and hymn,
 
 278 Poetry of the People 
 
 Arose a hissing tumult, 
 
 As if the fiends in air 
 Strove to engulf the voice of faith 
 
 In the shrieks of their despair. 
 
 There was wailing in the houses, 
 
 There was trembling on the marts, 
 While the tempest raged and thundered, 
 
 Mid the silent thrill of hearts ; 
 But the Lord, our shield, was with us, 
 
 And ere a month had sped, 
 Our very women walked the streets 
 
 With scarce one throb of dread. 
 
 And the little children gambolled, 
 
 Their faces purely raised, 
 Just for a wondering moment, 
 
 As the huge bombs whirled and blazed; 
 Then turned with silvery laughter 
 
 To the sports which children love, 
 Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought 
 
 That the good God watched above. 
 
 Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, 
 
 From scores of flame-clad ships, 
 And about us, denser, darker, 
 
 Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, 
 Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, 
 
 Like a type of doom and ire, 
 Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 
 
 Of forked and vengeful fire. 
 
 But the unseen hands of angels 
 Those death-shafts warned aside,
 
 Keenan's Charge 279 
 
 And the dove of heavenly mercy 
 
 Ruled o'er the battle tide ; 
 In the houses ceased the wailing, 
 
 And through the war-scarred marts 
 The people strode, with step of hope, 
 
 To the music in their hearts. 
 
 Paul Hamilton Haynt 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 1863 
 i 
 
 The sun had set ; 
 
 The leaves with dew were wet : 
 
 Down fell a bloody dusk 
 
 On the woods, that second of May, 
 
 Where Stonewall's corps, like the beast of prey, 
 
 Tore through, with angry tusk. 
 
 "They Ve trapped us, boys ! " 
 Rose from our flank a voice. 
 With a rush of steel and smoke 
 On came the rebels straight, 
 Eager as love and wild as hate ; 
 And our line reeled and broke : 
 
 Broke and fled. 
 
 No one stayed but the dead! 
 
 With curses, shrieks, and cries, 
 
 Horses and wagons and men 
 
 Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, 
 
 And above us the fading skies. 
 
 From Dreams and Days, by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
 
 280 Poetry of the People 
 
 There 's one hope still, 
 Those batteries parked on the hill ! 
 " Battery, wheel ! " (mid the roar) 
 " Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire 
 Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire 
 A bugle rings " Trot ! " and no more. 
 
 The horses plunged, 
 
 The cannon lurched and lunged, 
 
 To join the hopeless rout. 
 
 But suddenly rode a form 
 
 Calmly in front of the human storm, 
 
 With a stern, commanding shout : 
 
 " Align those guns ! " 
 
 (We knew it was Pleasonton's.) 
 
 The cannoneers bent to obey, 
 
 And worked with a will at his word : 
 
 And the black guns moved as if they had heard. 
 
 But ah the dread delay! 
 
 " To wait is crime ; 
 O God, for ten minutes' time ! " 
 The General looked around. 
 There Keenan sat, like a stone, 
 With his three hundred horse alone, 
 Less shaken than the ground. 
 
 " Major, your men ?" 
 
 " Are soldiers, General." " Then 
 
 Charge, Major ! Do your best : 
 
 Hold the enemy back, at all cost, 
 
 Till my guns are placed, else the army is lost 
 
 You die to save the rest ! "
 
 Keenan' 3 Charge 281 
 
 ii 
 
 By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 
 Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes 
 For an instant, clear, and cool, and still ; 
 Then, with a smile, he said : " I will." 
 
 " Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them shrank. 
 
 Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, 
 
 Rose joyously, with a willing breath, 
 
 Rose like a greeting hail to death. 
 
 Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed ; 
 
 Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed ; 
 
 Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, 
 
 In their faded coats of the blue and yellow ; 
 
 And above in the air, with an instinct true, 
 
 Like a bird of war their pennon flew. 
 
 With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, 
 And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 
 And strong brown faces bravely pale 
 For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 
 Three hundred Pennsylvanians close 
 On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 
 
 Line after line the troopers came 
 
 To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame ; 
 
 Rode in and sabred and shot and fell ; 
 
 Nor came one back his wounds to tell. 
 
 And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 
 
 In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, 
 
 While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 
 
 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. 
 
 Line after line ay, whole platoons, 
 
 Struck dead in their saddles - of brave dragoons
 
 282 Poetry of the People 
 
 By the maddened horses were onward borne 
 And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn ; 
 As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. 
 So they rode, till there were no more to ride. 
 
 But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, 
 What deep echo rolls ? 'T is a death-salute 
 From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved 
 Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! 
 
 Over them now year following year 
 
 Over their graves the pine-cones fall, 
 
 And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call ; 
 
 But they stir not again ; they raise no cheer : 
 
 They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, 
 
 Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. 
 
 The rush of their charge is resounding still 
 
 That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 
 
 George Parsons Lathrop 
 
 CXLV 
 
 1863 
 
 Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the 
 
 North, 
 And from the fields your arms have won to-day go proudly 
 
 forth ! 
 For now, O comrades dear and leal from whom no ills 
 
 could part, 
 Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's 
 
 constant heart
 
 Gettysburg 283 
 
 Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in 
 
 vain, 
 
 Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again, 
 At last we have our heart's desire, from them we met have 
 
 wrung 
 
 A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung! 
 It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, 
 That gave the grand old army strength to conquer on this 
 
 day! 
 
 Oh, now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow, 
 The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the woe ; 
 The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full 
 
 sore 
 How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no 
 
 more ; 
 The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun 
 
 and rain 
 That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied 
 
 slain ! 
 
 There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, 
 And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track ; 
 But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark 
 
 afar 
 The paths of yon retreating host that shun the northern 
 
 star. 
 
 At night before the closing fray, when all the front was still, 
 
 We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. 
 
 Ours was the dauntless Second Corps ; and many a soldier 
 
 knew 
 How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet 
 
 to do.
 
 284 Poetry of the People 
 
 Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated 
 breath 
 
 Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynolds' 
 death, 
 
 Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous 
 volleys swept, 
 
 How well the Stone, the Iron, brigades their bloody out- 
 posts kept: 
 
 'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes 
 all, 
 
 And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them 
 to fall. 
 
 And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day 
 
 just done, 
 
 The fight by Round Top's craggy spur of all the dead- 
 liest one ; 
 It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too 
 
 well, 
 And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with 
 
 shot and shell. 
 There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed 
 
 and red, 
 And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and 
 
 the dead : 
 The mangled corpses fallen above the peaceful dead 
 
 below, 
 Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years 
 
 ago; 
 It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of 
 
 our slain, 
 What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still 
 
 had lain !
 
 Gettysburg 285 
 
 Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning tide, 
 And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height 
 
 replied. 
 
 Hark ! from the east already goes up the rattling din ; 
 The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well 
 
 the day begin ! 
 They whirl fierce Ewell from their front ! Now we of the 
 
 Second pray, 
 As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might 
 
 to-day. 
 
 But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, 
 While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his 
 
 power; 
 And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or 
 
 fear, 
 And along the lines, where'er they came, went up the ringing 
 
 cheer. 
 
 'T was past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were 
 
 blue ; 
 
 Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view ; 
 So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, 
 It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far 
 
 away ; 
 When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire 
 
 and smoke, 
 Against our lines from seven score guns the dreadful tempest 
 
 broke ! 
 
 Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, 
 And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west ; 
 Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur cloud. 
 And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its 
 
 shroud.
 
 286 Poetry of the People 
 
 The guns are still : the end is nigh : we grasp our arms anew 
 Oh, now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true ! 
 For look ! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's further 
 
 marge, 
 
 The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. 
 By heaven ! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank 
 Come with a hundred battle-flags a mile from flank to 
 
 flank! 
 Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men 
 
 abreast ; 
 Their standards wave their hearts are brave they hasten 
 
 not, nor rest, 
 But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, 
 
 and nigher, 
 And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire. 
 
 Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath 
 
 has vent ! 
 They die, they wither ; through and through their wavering 
 
 lines are rent. 
 But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and 
 
 land, 
 Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand 
 
 to hand : 
 
 Vain, vain ! give way, as well ye may the crimson die is cast! 
 Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing 
 
 fast; 
 They yield, they turn, they fly the field : we smite them as 
 
 they run ; 
 Their arms, their colors, are our spoil ; the furious fight is 
 
 done! 
 
 Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray : 
 Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day I
 
 Gettysburg 287 
 
 Hurrah ! the day has won the cause ! No gray-clad host 
 
 henceforth 
 Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the 
 
 North ! 
 
 'T was such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore, 
 The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge 
 
 and roar: 
 
 It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire 
 Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, 
 
 and higher ; 
 
 But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, 
 Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, 
 
 and fall. 
 
 Even thus, unsta'yed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe 
 His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go. 
 
 Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover 
 
 dead; 
 But with a price the fight was ours we too have tears to 
 
 shed! 
 The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the 
 
 brave, 
 Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hill-side grasses 
 
 wave ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, 
 The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring 
 
 appear, 
 But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to 
 
 God; 
 Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as 
 
 the sod ; 
 
 Only their names and deeds are ours but, for a century yet, 
 The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.
 
 288 Poetry of the People 
 
 God send us peace ! and where for aye the loved and lost 
 
 recline 
 Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm O North, your 
 
 sprigs of pine ! / 
 
 But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest 
 
 home, 
 And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters 
 
 come, 
 When children's children throng the board in the old home' 
 
 stead spread, 
 
 And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, 
 Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell 
 Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground 
 
 so well : 
 
 " 'T was for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say, 
 " Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious 
 
 day!" 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 C&ottfiantj 
 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 
 more, 
 From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's 
 
 shore ; 
 We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children 
 
 dear, 
 
 With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; 
 We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before : 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 
 more!
 
 Three Hundred Thousand More 289 
 
 If you look across the hilltops that meet the northern sky, 
 Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry ; 
 And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, 
 And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, 
 And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music 
 
 pour: 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 
 more! 
 
 If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests 
 
 shine, 
 
 You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line ; 
 And children from their mothers' knees are pulling at the 
 
 weeds, 
 And learning how to reap and sow against their country's 
 
 needs ; 
 
 And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door ; 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 
 more! 
 
 You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's 
 bloody tide 
 
 To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones 
 beside, 
 
 Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murder- 
 ous blade, 
 
 And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. 
 
 Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before : 
 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 more ! " 
 
 James Sloane Gibbons
 
 290 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXLVII 
 Cramp, Cramp, Cramp 
 
 In the prison cell I sit, 
 
 Thinking, mother dear, of you, 
 And our bright and happy home so far away, 
 
 And the tears they fill my eyes, 
 
 Spite of all that I can do, 
 Tho' I try to cheer my comrades and be gay. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, 
 Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come, 
 
 And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again, 
 Of freedom in our own beloved home. 
 
 In the battle front we stood 
 
 When the fiercest charge they made, 
 And they swept us off a hundred men or more, 
 
 But before we reached their lines 
 
 They were beaten back dismayed, 
 And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er. Cho. 
 
 So, within the prison cell, 
 
 We are waiting for the day 
 That shall come to open wide the iron door, 
 
 And the hollow eye grows bright, 
 
 And the poor heart almost gay, 
 
 As we think of seeing friends and home once more. Cho. 
 
 George F. Root
 
 Farragut 291 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 MOBILE BAY, 5 AUGUST, 1864 
 
 Farragut, Farragut, 
 
 Old Heart of Oak, 
 Daring Dave Farragut, 
 
 Thunderbolt stroke, 
 Watches the hoary mist 
 
 Lift from the bay, 
 Till his flag, glory-kissed, 
 
 Greets the young day. 
 
 Far, by gray Morgan's walls, 
 
 Looms the black fleet. 
 Hark, deck to rampart calls 
 
 With the drums' beat ! 
 Buoy your chains overboard, 
 
 While the steam hums ; 
 Men! to the battlement, 
 
 Farragut comes. 
 
 See, as the hurricane 
 
 Hurtles in wrath 
 Squadrons of clouds amain 
 
 Back from its path ! 
 Back to the parapet, 
 
 To the guns' lips, 
 Thunderbolt Farragut 
 
 Hurls the black ships. 
 
 Now through the battle's roar 
 Clear the boy sings,
 
 292 Poetry of the People 
 
 " By the mark fathoms four," 
 
 While his lead swings. 
 Steady the wheelmen five 
 
 " Nor' by east keep her," 
 " Steady," but two alive : 
 
 How the shells sweep her I 
 
 Lashed to the mast that sways 
 
 Over red decks, 
 Over the flame that plays 
 
 Round the torn wrecks, 
 Over the dying lips 
 
 Framed for a cheer, 
 Farragut leads his ships, 
 
 Guides the line clear. 
 
 On by heights cannon-browed, 
 
 While the spars quiver ; 
 Onward still flames the cloud 
 
 Where the hulks shiver. 
 See, yon fort's star is set, 
 
 Storm and fire past. 
 Cheer him, lads, Farragut, 
 
 Lashed to the mast ! 
 
 Oh ! while Atlantic's breast 
 
 Bears a white sail, 
 While the Gulf's towering crest 
 
 Tops a green vale ; 
 Men thy bold deeds shall tell, 
 
 Old Heart of Oak, 
 Daring Dave Farragut, 
 
 Thunderbolt stroke ! 
 
 William Tuckey Meredith
 
 Marching through Georgia 293 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 1864 
 
 Bring the good old bugle, boys ! we '11 sing another song, 
 Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along, 
 Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, 
 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 i 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! we bring the jubilee ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! the flag that makes you free! 
 So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 
 How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound! 
 How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found ! 
 How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, 
 While we were marching through Georgia ! Cho. 
 
 Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears 
 When they saw the honor'd flag they had not seen for years, 
 Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in tears 
 While we were marching through Georgia. Che. 
 
 '-'- Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast ! 
 So the saucy rebels said, and 't was a handsome boast. 
 Had they not forgot, alas ! to reckon on a host, 
 While we were marching through Georgia -- Cho. 
 
 So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, 
 Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main ; 
 Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. Cho. 
 
 Henry Clay Work
 
 294 Poetry of the People 
 
 CL 
 
 SbfriBan'fif Btte 
 1864 
 
 Up from the South at break of day, 
 Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
 The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
 Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's dobr, 
 The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
 Telling the battle was on once more, 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
 And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 Making the blood of the listener cold, 
 As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there is a road from Winchester town, 
 
 A good broad highway leading down ; 
 
 And there, through the flush of the morning light 
 
 A steed as black as the steeds of night 
 
 Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, 
 
 As if he knew the terrible need ; 
 
 He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 
 
 Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 
 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 
 The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ;
 
 Sheridan's Ride 
 
 2 95 
 
 Or a trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
 
 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
 
 Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
 
 With Sheridan only ten miles away. 
 
 Under his spurning feet the road 
 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
 
 And the landscape sped away behind 
 
 Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
 
 Swept on with his wild eye full of fire. 
 
 But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 
 
 He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 The first that the General saw were the groups 
 
 Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 
 
 What was done ? what to do ? A glance told him both. 
 
 Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
 
 He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, 
 
 And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because 
 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 
 With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
 
 By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, 
 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
 
 " I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
 
 From Winchester down to save the day ! " 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And when their statues are placed on high, 
 Under the dome of the Union sky,
 
 296 Poetry of the People 
 
 The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 
 There with the glorious General's name, 
 Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
 From Winchester, twenty miles away ! " 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read 
 
 CLI 
 
 anto 
 
 Old man never had much to say 
 
 'Ceptin' to Jim, 
 And Jim was the wildest boy he had, 
 
 And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
 Never heerd him speak but once 
 Er twice in my life, and first time was 
 When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
 The old man backin' him, fer three months j 
 And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
 Was, jes' as we turned to start away, 
 
 " Well, good-by, Jim : 
 
 Take keer of yourse'f ! " 
 
 'Feared like he was more satisfied 
 
 Jes' lookiti 1 at Jim 
 And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? 
 
 Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! 
 And over and over I mind the day 
 The old man come and stood round in the way 
 While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim ;
 
 The Old Man and Jim 297 
 
 And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say, 
 " Well, good-by, Jim : 
 Take keer of yourse'f ! " 
 
 Never was no thin' about the farm 
 
 Disting'ished Jim ; 
 Neighbors all ust to wonder why 
 
 The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : 
 But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back 
 'At Jim was the bravest boy he had 
 In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
 And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad, 
 'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
 Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
 Through -the bloodiest battle you ever seen, 
 The old man wound up a letter to him 
 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said, " Tell Jim 
 
 Good-by ; 
 
 And take keer of hisse'f ! " 
 
 Jim come home jes' long enough 
 
 To take the whim 
 'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery 
 
 And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
 Jim 'lowed 'at he 'd had sich luck afore, 
 Guessed he 'd tackle her three years more. 
 And the old man give him a colt he 'd raised, 
 And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
 And laid around fer a week er so, 
 Watchin' Jim on dress-parade ; 
 'Tel finally he rid away, 
 And last he heerd was the old man say, 
 
 " Well, good-by, Jim : 
 
 Take keer of yourse'f ! "
 
 298 Poetry of the People 
 
 Tuk the papers, the old man did, 
 
 A-watchin' fer Jim, 
 Fully believin' he 'd make his mark 
 
 Some way jes' wrapped up in him I 
 And many a time the word 'ud come 
 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum : 
 At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 
 Jim rid right into their cannons there, 
 And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 
 And socked it home to the boys in gray, 
 As they skooted fer timber, and on and on 
 Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone, 
 And the old man's words in his mind all day, 
 
 " Well, good-by, Jim : 
 
 Take keer of yourse'f ! " 
 
 Think of a private, now perhaps, 
 
 We '11 say like Jim, 
 'At 's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps 
 
 And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
 Think of him with the war plum' through, 
 And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
 A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
 And the old man, bendin' over him 
 The surgeon turnin' away with tears 
 'At had n't leaked fer years and years, 
 As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
 His Father's, the old voice in his ears, 
 
 " Well, good-by, Jim : 
 
 Take keer of vourse'f ! " 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley
 
 Roll-Call 299 
 
 CLII 
 
 " Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried ; 
 " Here J " was the answer, loud and clear, 
 From the lips of a soldier who stood near, 
 
 And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. 
 
 " Cyrus Drew ! " then a silence fell ; 
 
 This time no answer followed the call ; 
 
 Only his rear-man had seen him fall : 
 Killed or wounded he could not tell. 
 
 There they stood in the failing light, 
 
 These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
 As plain to be read as open books, 
 
 While slowly gathered the shades of night. 
 
 The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood, 
 And down in the corn, where the poppies grew, 
 Were redder stains than the poppies knew, 
 
 And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 
 
 For the foe had crossed from the other side, 
 That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
 That swept them down in its terrible ire ; 
 
 And their life-blood went to color the tide. 
 
 " Herbert' Cline ! " At the call there came 
 Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
 Bearing between them this Herbert Cline, 
 
 Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
 
 300 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Ezra Kerr ! " and a voice answered " Here ! " 
 
 " Hiram Kerr ! " but no man replied. 
 
 They were brothers, these two ; the sad wind sighed, 
 And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 
 
 " Ephraim Deane ! " then a soldier spoke : 
 " Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, 
 " Where our ensign was shot ; I left him dead 
 
 Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 
 
 " Close to the roadside his body lies ; 
 
 I paused a moment and gave him to drink ; 
 
 He murmured his mother's name, I think, 
 And Death came with it and closed his eyes." 
 
 'Twas a victory, yes ; but it cost us dear : 
 For that company's roll, when called at night, 
 Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 
 
 Numbered but twenty that answered "Here / " 
 
 Nathaniel Graham Shepherd 
 
 CLIII 
 
 1861 
 
 Southrons, hear your country call you ! 
 Up, lest worse than death befall you ! 
 To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
 Lo ! all the beacon-fires are lighted, 
 Let all hearts be now united ! 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah !
 
 Dixie 301 
 
 For Dixie's land we take our stand, 
 And live or die for Dixie ! 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! 
 And conquer peace for Dixie 1 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! 
 And conquer peace for Dixie. 
 
 Hear the Northern thunders mutter ! 
 Northern flags in South winds flutter ! 
 Send them back your fierce defiance ! 
 Stamp upon the accursed alliance ! 
 
 Fear no danger ! Shun no labor 1 
 Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre ! 
 Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, 
 Let the odds make each heart bolder 1 
 
 How the South's great heart rejoices 
 At your cannons' ringing voices ! 
 For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, 
 Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. 
 
 Strong as lions, swift as eagles, 
 
 Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! 
 
 Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 
 
 Let them hence each other plunder ! 
 
 Swear upon your country's altar 
 Never to submit or falter, 
 Till the spoilers are defeated, 
 Till the Lord's work is completed. 
 
 Halt not till our Federation 
 
 Secures among earth's powers its station !
 
 302 Poetry of the People 
 
 Then at peace, and crowned with glory, 
 Hear your children tell the story ! 
 
 If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
 Victory soon shall bring them gladness, 
 
 To arms ! 
 
 Exultant pride soon banish sorrow, 
 Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 For Dixie's land we take our stand, 
 And live or die for Dixie ! 
 To arms ! To arms ! 
 And conquer peace for Dixie ! 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! 
 And conquer peace for Dixie I 
 
 Albert Pike (for the original see Page 354) 
 
 CLIV 
 
 1861 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland I 
 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland!
 
 My Maryland 303 
 
 Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 For life and death, for woe and weal, 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steelj 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, v 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come with thy panoplied array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
 With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland! 
 
 Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 She meets her sisters on the plain, 
 "Sic semper!' 1 ' 1 'tis the proud refrain
 
 304 Poetry of the People 
 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Come to thine own heroic throng, 
 Stalking with Liberty along, 
 And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Better the fire upon thee roll, 
 Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland, My Maryland! 
 
 I hear the distant thunder hum, 
 Maryland !
 
 The Bonnie Blue Flag 305 
 
 The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
 Huzza 1 she spurns the Northern scum ! 
 She breathes ! She burns 1 She '11 come ! She '11 come ! 
 
 Maryland, My Maryland ! 
 
 James Ryder Randall 
 
 CLV 
 C&e Bonnie 38ltte JFIaff 
 
 We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, 
 
 Fighting for the property we gain'd by honest toil ; 
 
 And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near 
 
 and far, 
 Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star ! 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Southern rights, hurrah ! 
 Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star! 
 
 First gallant South Carolina so nobly made the stand, 
 Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand ; 
 Next quickly Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida, 
 All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a 
 single star. Cho, 
 
 And here 's to brave Virginia ! the old Dominion State 
 That with the young Confed'racy at length has link'd her 
 
 fate; 
 
 Impell'd by her example, now other states prepare 
 To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single 
 
 star. Cho.
 
 306 Poetry of the People 
 
 Then here 's to our Confed'racy, for strong we are and 
 
 brave ! 
 
 Like patriots of old, we '11 fight our heritage to save ; 
 And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer, 
 So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. 
 
 Cho. 
 H. McCarthy^ or Annie Chambers Ketchum 
 
 CLVI 
 
 & Georgia Volunteer 
 
 Far up the lonely mountain-side 
 
 My wandering footsteps led ; 
 The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 
 
 The pine sighed overhead. 
 The trace of a dismantled fort 
 
 Lay in the forest nave, 
 And in the shadow near my path 
 
 I saw a soldier's grave. 
 
 The bramble wrestled with the weed 
 
 Upon the lowly mound ; 
 The simple head-board, rudely writ, 
 
 Had rotted to the ground ; 
 I raised it with a reverent hand, 
 
 From dust its words to clear, 
 But time had blotted all but these 
 
 " A Georgia Volunteer! " 
 
 I saw the toad and scaly snake 
 
 From tangled covert start, 
 And hide themselves among the weedr 
 
 Above the dead man's heart;
 
 A Georgia Volunteer 307 
 
 But undisturbed, in sleep profound, 
 
 Unheeding, there he lay; 
 His coffin but the mountain soil, 
 
 His shroud Confederate gray. 
 
 I heard the Shenandoah roll 
 
 Along the vale below, 
 I saw the Alleghanies rise 
 
 Towards the realms of snow. 
 The " Valley Campaign " rose to mind 
 
 Its leader's name and then 
 I knew the sleeper had been one 
 
 Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 
 
 Yet whence he came, what lip shall say 
 
 Whose tongue will ever tell 
 What desolated hearths and hearts 
 
 Have been because he fell? 
 What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, 
 
 Her hair which he held dear? 
 One lock of which perchance lies with 
 
 The Georgia Volunteer ! 
 
 What mother, with long watching eyes, 
 
 And white lips cold and dumb, 
 Waits with appalling patience for 
 
 Her darling boy to come ? 
 Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up 
 
 But one of many a scar, 
 Cut on the face of our fair land 
 
 By gory-handed war. 
 
 What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, 
 Are all unknown to fame ;
 
 308 Poetry of the People 
 
 Remember, on his lonely grave 
 
 There is not e'en a name ! 
 That he fought well and bravely too, 
 
 And held his country dear 
 We know, else he had never been 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer. 
 
 He sleeps what need to question now 
 
 If he were wrong or right? 
 He knows, ere this, whose cause was just 
 
 In God the Father's sight. 
 He wields no warlike weapons now, 
 
 Returns no foeman's thrust 
 Who but a coward would revile 
 
 An honest soldier's dust? 
 
 Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, 
 
 Adown thy rocky glen, 
 Above thee lies the grave of one 
 
 Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 
 Beneath the cedar and the pine, 
 
 In solitude austere, 
 Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer. 
 
 Mary Ashley Townsend 
 
 CLVII 
 >tonetoall 3farfe son's (jiHap 
 
 Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails, 
 
 Stir up the camp-fire bright ; 
 No growling if the canteen fails, 
 
 We '11 make a roaring night
 
 Stonewalljacksori 's Way 309 
 
 Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
 To swell the Brigade's rousing song 
 Of " Stonewall Jackson's Way." 
 
 We see him now the queer slouched hat 
 
 Cocked o'er his eye askew ; 
 The shrewd, dry smile ; the speech so pat, 
 
 So calm, so blunt, so true. 
 The " Blue-light Elder " knows 'em well ; 
 Says he, " That 's Banks, he 's fond of shell ; 
 Lord save his soul ! we '11 give him " well ! 
 
 That's Stonewall Jackson's Way." 
 
 Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off ! 
 
 Old Massa 's going to pray. 
 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff I 
 
 Attention ! it 's his way. 
 Appealing from his native sod, 
 \n forma pauperis to God : 
 11 Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy rod.' 
 
 Amen ! " That 's " Stonewall's Way." 
 
 He 's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
 
 Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
 Hill 's at the ford, cut off ; we '11 win 
 
 His way out, ball and blade ! 
 What matter if our shoes are worn ? 
 What matter if our feet are torn ? 
 " Quick step ! we 're with him before morn ! " 
 
 That 's " Stonewall Jackson's Way." 
 
 The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
 Of morning, and, by George !
 
 310 Poetry of the People 
 
 Here 's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 
 
 Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
 Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before ; 
 " Bay'nets and grape ! " hear Stonewall roar , 
 " Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score ! " 
 
 In " Stonewall Jackson's Way." 
 
 Ah, Maiden ! wait and watch and yearn 
 
 For news of Stonewall's band ! 
 Ah, Widow ! read, with eyes that burn, 
 
 That ring upon thy hand. 
 Ah, Wife ! sew on, pray on, hope on; 
 Thy life shall not be all forlorn ; 
 The foe had better ne'er been born 
 
 That gets in Stonewall's Way." 
 
 John Williamson Palmer 
 
 CLVIII 
 
 Conquered banner 
 
 Furl that Banner, for 't is weary ; 
 Round its staff 't is drooping dreary : 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
 For there 's not a man to wave it, 
 And there 's not a sword to save it, 
 And there 's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it, 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it : 
 
 Furl it, hide it, let it rest ! 
 
 Take that Banner down ! 't is tattered ; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered ;
 
 The Conquered Banner 311 
 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered, 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it, 
 Hard vo think there 's none to hold it, 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh ! 
 
 Furl that Banner furl it sadly! 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousands wildly, madly, 
 
 Swore it should forever wave ; 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave ! 
 
 Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low ; 
 And that Banner it is trailing, 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it, 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, 
 Weep for those who fell before it, 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it ; 
 And oh, wildly they deplore it, 
 Now to furl and fold it so ! 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, 't is gory, 
 Yet 't is wreathed around with glory, 
 And 't will live in song and story 
 Though its folds are in the dust !
 
 312 Poetry of the People 
 
 For its fame on brightest pages, 
 Penned by poets and by sages, 
 Shall go sounding down the ages 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
 Treat it gently it is holy, 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not unfold it never ; 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, 
 
 For its people's hopes are fled ! 
 
 Abram Joseph Ryan 
 
 CLIX 
 <&tre to tbe Confederate )eatt 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown, 
 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone ! 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
 
 Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 
 
 Behold ! your sisters bring their tears 
 And these memorial blooms.
 
 Dirge for a Soldier 313 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
 More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 
 
 Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies, 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned ! 
 
 Henry Timrod 
 
 CLX 
 
 for a 
 
 Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 
 
 What to him is friend or foeman, 
 Rise of moon, or set of sun, 
 
 Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? He cannot know : 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 As man may, he fought his fight, 
 
 Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
 Let him sleep in solemn night, 
 Sleep forever and forever. 
 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? He cannot know ; 
 Lay him low !
 
 314 Poetry of the People 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars, 
 
 Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
 What to him are all our wars, 
 
 What but death bemocking folly ? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? He cannot know : 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 Leave him to God's watching eye ; 
 
 Trust him to the hand that made him, 
 Mortal love weeps idly by ; 
 
 God alone has power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? He cannot know : 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 G. H. Boker 
 
 CLXI 
 
 Break not his sweet repose 
 
 Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground, 
 
 The sacred yard his ashes close, 
 
 But go thy way in silence ; here no sound 
 
 Is ever heard but from the murmuring pines, 
 
 Answering the sea's near murmur; 
 
 Nor ever here comes rumor 
 Of anxious world or war's foregathering signs. 
 
 The bleaching flag, the faded wreath, 
 
 Mark the dead soldier's dust beneath,
 
 Driving Home the Cows 315 
 
 And show the death he chose ; 
 Forgotten save by her who weeps alone, 
 And wrote his fameless name on this low stone : 
 
 Break not his sweet repose. 
 
 John Albee 
 
 CLXII 
 
 )rtoina; ^ome tjje Cotoa 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turned them into the river-lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 
 
 Under the willows, and over the hill, 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go : 
 
 Two already were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun 
 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 
 
 Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet 
 And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
 
 3 1 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; 
 
 And now, when the cows came back at night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 That three were lying where two had lain; 
 
 And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late. 
 
 He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 
 He saw them coming one by one : 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass 
 But who was it following close behind? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 
 
 For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb: 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood
 
 The Brave at Home 317 
 
 CLXIII 
 8Tbe 3Srate at l)0rae 
 
 The maid who binds her warrior's sash 
 
 With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 
 One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles ; 
 Though Heaven alone records the tear, 
 
 And fame shall never know her story, 
 Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
 
 As e'er bedewed the field of glory! 
 
 The wife who girds her husband's sword 
 
 Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
 And bravely speaks the cheering word, 
 
 What though her heart be rent asunder, 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
 
 The bolts of death around him rattle, 
 Has shed as sacred blood as e'er 
 
 Was poured upon the field of battle. 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 
 While to her breast her son she presses, 
 Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 With no one but her secret God 
 
 To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
 Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
 
 Received on Freedom's field of honor ! 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read
 
 3 1 8 Poetry of the People 
 
 CLXIV 
 anto tb 
 
 By the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 These in the robings of glory, 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory, 
 In the dusk of eternity meet : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 Lovingly laden with flowers 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor 
 The morning sun-rays fall,
 
 The Blue and the Gray 319 
 
 With a touch impartially tender, 
 On the blossoms blooming for all : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray., 
 
 So, when the summer calleth, 
 On forest and field of grain, 
 With an equal murmur falleth 
 The cooling drip of the rain : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 The generous deed was done, 
 In the storm of the years that are fading, 
 No braver battle was won : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war cry sever, 
 Or the winding rivers be red ; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 Francis Miles Finch
 
 320 Poetry of the PeepU 
 
 CLXV 
 Stbra&am Lincoln 
 
 Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 
 The sword of power a nation's trust 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
 
 Amid the awe that hushes all, 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. 
 
 Thy task is done the bond are free ; 
 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 
 Whose noblest monument shall be 
 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
 
 Among the noble host of those 
 
 Who perished in the cause of right. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 CLXVI 
 Captain! ffiy Captain! (Lincoln) 
 
 O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done ; 
 
 The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought 
 
 is won ; 
 
 The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
 While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
 
 daring :
 
 O Captain ! My Captain / 321 
 
 But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
 O the bleeding drops of red, 
 
 Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead ! 
 
 O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
 
 Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle 
 
 trills ; 
 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the 
 
 shores a-crowding; 
 
 For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
 turning ; 
 
 Here Captain ! dear father ! 
 This arm beneath your head ; 
 
 It is some dream that on the deck 
 You 've fallen cold and dead. 
 
 My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still ; 
 My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will : 
 The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 
 
 done ; 
 
 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won : 
 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 
 But I, with mournful tread, 
 
 Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 
 Walt Whitman
 
 322 Poetry of the People 
 
 CLXVII 
 Lincoln 
 
 [FROM THE ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORA- 
 TION OF JULY 21, 1865] 
 
 Life may be given in many ways, 
 
 And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
 As bravely in the closet as the field, 
 
 So bountiful is Fate ; 
 
 But then to stand beside her, 
 
 When craven churls deride her, 
 To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
 
 This shows, methinks, God's plan 
 
 And measure of a stalwart man, 
 
 Limbed like the old heroic breeds, 
 
 Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth, 
 
 Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, 
 Fed from within with all the strength he needs. 
 
 Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 
 Whom late the Nation he had led, 
 With ashes on her head, 
 Wept with the passion of an angry grief : 
 
 Forgive me, if from present things I turn 
 
 To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, 
 
 And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 
 
 Nature, they say, doth dote, 
 
 And cannot make a man 
 
 Save on some worn-out plan, 
 
 Repeating us by rote :
 
 Lincoln 323 
 
 For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw, 
 And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 
 
 Of the unexhausted West, 
 With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 
 Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 
 
 How beautiful to see 
 
 Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
 Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
 One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 
 
 Not lured by any cheat of birth, 
 
 But by his clear-grained human worth, 
 And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
 
 They knew that outward grace is dust ; 
 
 They could not choose but trust 
 In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 
 
 And supple-tempered will 
 
 That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 
 His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, 
 Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 
 A sea-mark now, now lost in vapor's blind; 
 Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
 Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
 Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. 
 
 Nothing of Europe here, 
 Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, 
 
 Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
 
 Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
 
 And thwart her genial will ; 
 Here was a type of the true elder race, 
 And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. 
 
 I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
 And some innative weakness there must be 
 In him who condescends to victory
 
 324 Poetry of the People 
 
 Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, 
 Safe in himself as in a fate. 
 So always firmly he : 
 He knew to bide his time, 
 And can fame abide, 
 Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 
 
 Till the wise years decide. 
 Great captains, with their guns and drums, 
 Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
 
 But at last silence comes ! 
 These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, 
 Our children shall behold his fame, 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
 New birth of our new soil, the first American. 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 CLXVIII 
 
 QTbc BqntMic 
 [FROM "THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP"] 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
 Sail on, O UNION, strong and great I 
 Humanity with all its fears, 
 With all the hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what Master laid thy keel, 
 What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
 In what a forge and what a heat
 
 Centennial Hymn 325 
 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
 'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
 'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
 And not a rent made by the gale ! 
 In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
 Are all with thee, are all with thee ! 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 Centennial Jj)pirai 
 1876 
 
 Our fathers' God ! from out whose hand 
 The centuries fall like grains of sand, 
 We meet to-day, united, free, 
 And loyal to our land and Thee, 
 To thank Thee for the era done, 
 And trust Thee for the opening one. 
 
 Here, where of old, by Thy design, 
 The fathers spake that word of Thine 
 Whose echo is the glad refrain 
 Of rended bolt and falling chain, 
 To grace our festal time, from all 
 The zones of earth our guests we call.
 
 326 Poetry of the People 
 
 Be with us while the New World greets 
 The Old World thronging all its streets, 
 Unveiling all the triumphs won 
 By art or toil beneath the sun ; 
 And unto common good ordain 
 This rivalship of hand and brain. 
 
 Thou, who hast here in concord furled 
 The war flags of a gathered world, 
 Beneath our Western skies fulfil 
 The Orient's mission of good-will, 
 And, freighted with love's Golden FleecCj 
 Send back its Argonauts of peace. 
 
 For art and labor met in truce, 
 And beauty made the bride of use, 
 We thank Thee ; but, withal, we crave 
 The austere virtues strong to save, 
 The honor proof to place or gold, 
 The manhood never bought nor sold ! 
 
 Oh make Thou us, through centuries long, 
 In peace secure, in justice strong ; 
 Around our gift of freedom draw 
 The safeguards of thy righteous law : 
 And, cast in some diviner mould, 
 Let the new cycle shame the old ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier
 
 America 327 
 
 CLXX 
 America 
 
 [FROM THE NATIONAL ODE, JULY 4, 1876] 
 
 Foreseen in the vision of sages, 
 Foretold when martyrs bled, 
 She was born of the longing of ages, 
 By the truth of the noble dead 
 And the faith of the living fed ! 
 No blood in her lightest veins 
 Frets at remembered chains, 
 Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. 
 In her form and features still 
 The unblenching Puritan will, 
 Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, 
 The Quaker truth and sweetness, 
 And the strength of the danger-girdled race 
 Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. 
 From the homes of all, where her being began. 
 She took what she gave to Man ; 
 Justice, that knew no station, 
 
 Belief, as soul decreed, 
 Free air for aspiration, 
 Free force for independent deed ! 
 
 She takes, but to give again, 
 As the sea returns the rivers in rain ; 
 And gathers the chosen of her seed 
 From the hunted of every crown and creed. 
 Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine ; 
 Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine ; 
 Her France pursues some dream divine ;
 
 328 Poetry of the People 
 
 Her Norway keeps his mountain pine; 
 Her Italy waits by the western brine ; 
 
 And, broad-based under all, 
 Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, 
 
 As rich in fortitude 
 As e'er went worldward from the island-wall ! 
 
 Fused in her candid light, 
 To one strong race all races here unite ; 
 Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen 
 Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan. 
 
 'T was glory, once, to be a Roman : 
 She makes it glory, now, to be a man ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 fur Ctt&a 
 
 No precedent, ye say, 
 
 To point the glorious way 
 Towards help for one downtrod in blood and tears? 
 
 Brothers, 't is time there were ! 
 
 We bare our swords for her, 
 And set a model for the coming years ! 
 
 This act, to end her pain, 
 
 Without a hope of gain, 
 Its like on history's page where can ye read? 
 
 Humanity and God 
 
 Call us to paths untrod ! 
 On, brothers, on ! we follow not, but lead ! 
 
 Robert Mowry Bell
 
 Answering to Roll-Calc 329 
 
 CLXXII 
 
 to Roll-Call 
 
 This one fought with Jackson, and faced the fight with Lee ; 
 That one followed Sherman as he galloped to the sea ; 
 But they 're marchin' on together just as friendly as can be, 
 And they '11 answer to the roll-call in the mornin' ! 
 
 They '11 rally to the fight, 
 
 In the stormy day and night, 
 In bonds that no cruel fate shall sever; 
 
 While the storm-winds waft on high 
 
 Their ringing battle-cry : 
 " Our country, our country forever ! " 
 
 The brave old flag above them is rippling down its red, 
 Each crimson stripe the emblem of the blood by heroes shed ; 
 It shall wave for them victorious or droop above them, 
 
 dead, 
 For they '11 answer to the roll-call in the mornin' ! 
 
 They '11 rally to the fight, 
 
 In the stormy day and night, 
 In bonds that no cruel fate shall sever ; 
 
 While their far-famed battle-cry 
 
 Shall go ringing to the sky : 
 " Our country, our country forever ! " 
 
 Frank L. Stanton
 
 330 Poetry of the People 
 
 A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here 's to the Cap- 
 tain bold, 
 
 And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of 
 might are told ! 
 
 They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the 
 great shells roar and screech 
 
 And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what 
 they preach : 
 
 But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's 
 true-blue sons, 
 
 The men below who batter the foe the men behind the 
 guns! 
 
 Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into 
 
 port once more, 
 When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," 
 
 they start for their leave-o'-shore ; 
 And you 'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who 
 
 loll along the street 
 Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce " mustache " 
 
 to eat 
 Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and 
 
 fairly stuns 
 The modest worth of the sailor boys the lads who serve 
 
 the guns. 
 
 " -i* say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight 
 
 is on, 
 Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships 
 
 of " Yank " and " Don,"
 
 The War-Ship "Dixie" 331 
 
 Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting 
 
 shell, 
 And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living 
 
 hell ; 
 Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the 
 
 midday suns, 
 You '11 find the chaps who are giving the raps the men 
 
 behind the guns ! 
 
 Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose 
 
 from their cloud of death, 
 And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten- 
 
 inch er saith ; 
 The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake 
 
 with the great recoil, 
 And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches 
 
 for his spoil 
 But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and 
 
 runs, 
 Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men 
 
 behind the guns ! 
 
 John Jerome Rooney 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 They 've named a cruiser Dixie, that 's whut the papers 
 
 say, 
 An' I hears they 're goin' to man her with the boys that 
 
 wore the gray ; 
 
 Good news ! It sorter thrills me, an' makes me want ter be 
 Whar the ban' is playin' " Dixie," an' the Dixie puts ter sea 1
 
 332 Poetry of the People 
 
 They 've named a cruiser Dixie. An', fellers, I '11 be boun' 
 You 're goin' ter see some fightin' when the Dixie swings 
 
 aroun' 1 
 
 Ef any o' them Spanish ships shall strike her east or west, 
 Jest let the ban' play " Dixie," an' the boys '11 do the rest ! 
 
 I want to see that Dixie^ I want ter take my stan' 
 
 On the deck of her and holler : " Three cheers fer Dixie 
 
 Ian' ! " 
 
 She means we 're all united, the war hurts healed away, 
 An' " Way down South in Dixie " is national to-day ! 
 
 I bet you she 's a good 'un ! I '11 stake my last red cent 
 Thar ain't no better timber in the whole blame settlement ! 
 An' all their shiny battle-ships beside that ship air tame, 
 Fer, when it comes to " Dixie " thar 's somethin' in a name ! 
 
 Here 's three cheers an' a tiger, as hearty as kin be ; 
 An' let the ban' play " Dixie " when the Dixie puts ter sea I 
 She '11 make her way an' win the day from shinin' East to 
 
 West 
 Jest let the ban' play " Dixie," an' the boys '11 do the rest. 
 
 Frank L. Stantott 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 Kate 
 
 " Read out the names ! " and Burke sat back, 
 
 And Kelly drooped his head. 
 While Shea they call him Scholar Jack 
 
 Went down the list of the dead. 
 Officers, seamen, gunners, marines, 
 
 The crews of the gig and yawl,
 
 The Fighting Race 333 
 
 The bearded man and the lad in his teens, 
 
 Carpenters, coal passers all. 
 Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe, 
 
 Said Burke in an offhand way : 
 " We 're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe ! 
 
 Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
 " Well, here 's to the Maine, and I 'm sorry for Spain," 
 
 Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 
 
 " Wherever there 's Kellys there 's trouble," said Burke. 
 
 " Wherever fighting 's the game, 
 Or a spice of danger in grown man's work," 
 
 Said Kelly, "you '11 find my name." 
 " And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, 
 
 " When it 's touch and go for life ? " 
 Said Shea, " It 's thirty-odd years, bedad, 
 
 Since I charged to drum and fife 
 Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen 
 
 Stopped a rebel ball on its way. 
 There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green 
 
 Kelly and Burke and Shea 
 And the dead did n't brag." " Well, here 's to the flag ! " 
 
 Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 
 
 " I wish 't was in Ireland, for there 's the place," 
 
 Said Burke, "that we 'd die by right, 
 In the cradle of our soldier race, 
 
 After one good stand-up fight. 
 My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, 
 
 And fighting was not his trade ; 
 But his rusty pike 's in the cabin still, 
 
 With Hessian blood on the blade." 
 " Aye, aye," said Kelly, " the pikes were great 
 
 When the word was clear the way ! '
 
 334 Poetry of the People 
 
 We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight 
 
 Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
 " Well, here 's to the pike and the sword and the like ! '' 
 
 Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 
 
 And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, 
 
 Said, " We were at Ramillies ; 
 We left our bones at Fontenoy 
 
 And up in the Pyrenees ; 
 Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, 
 
 Cremona, Lille, and Ghent, 
 We 're all over Austria, France, and Spain, 
 
 Wherever they pitched a tent. 
 We 've died for England from Waterloo 
 
 To Egypt and Dargai ; 
 And still there 's enough for a corps or crew, 
 
 Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
 " Well, here is to good honest fighting blood 1 " 
 
 Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 
 
 " Oh, the fighting races don't die out, 
 
 If they seldom die in bed, 
 For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," 
 
 Said Burke ; then Kelly said : 
 " When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands, 
 
 The angel with the sword, 
 And the battle-dead from a hundred lands 
 
 Are ranged in one big horde, 
 Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, 
 
 Will stretch three deep that day, 
 From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates 
 
 Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
 " Well, here 's thank God for the race and the sod ! " 
 
 Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 
 
 Joseph I. C. Clarke
 
 The New Memorial Day 335 
 
 CLXXVI 
 (E&e jBeto JHemorial 5Dap 
 
 " Under the roses the blue ; 
 Under the lilies the gray." 
 
 Oh, the roses we plucked for the blue, 
 And the lilies we twined for the gray. 
 
 We have bound in a wreath, 
 
 And in silence beneath 
 
 Slumber our heroes to-day. 
 
 Over the new-turned sod 
 
 The sons of our fathers stand, 
 And the fierce old fight 
 Slips out of sight 
 
 In the clasp of a brother's hand. 
 
 For the old blood left a stain 
 
 That the new has washed away, 
 And the sons of those 
 That have faced as foes 
 
 Are marching together to-day. 
 
 Oh, the blood that our fathers gave ! 
 
 Oh, the tide of our mothers' tears ! 
 And the flow of red, 
 And the tears they shed, 
 
 Embittered* a sea of years. 
 
 But the roses we plucked for the blue, 
 
 And the lilies we twined for the gray 
 We have bound in a wreath, 
 And in glory beneath, 
 
 Slumber our heroes to-day ! 
 
 Albert Sigelow Paint
 
 336 Poetry of the People 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 <8at& 38? 
 
 Hats off ! 
 
 Along the street there comes 
 A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 
 A flash of color beneath the sky : 
 
 Hats off! 
 The flag is passing by ! 
 
 Blue and crimson and white it shines, 
 Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 
 
 Hats off ! 
 
 The colors before us fly ; 
 But more than the flag is passing by. 
 
 Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
 Fought to make and save the State : 
 Weary marches and sinking ships ; 
 Cheers of victory on dying lips ; 
 
 Days of plenty and years of peace ; 
 March of a strong land's swift increase; 
 Equal justice, right, and law, 
 Stately honor and reverend awe ; 
 
 Sign of a nation, great and strong 
 To ward her people from foreign wrong : 
 Pride and glory and honor, all 
 Live in the colors to stand or fall.
 
 When the Great Gray Ships Come In 337 
 
 Hats off! 
 
 Along the street there comes 
 A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums ; 
 And loyal hearts are beating high: 
 
 Hats off! 
 The flag is passing by ! 
 
 Henry Holcomb Bennett 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 SlSHJjen t&e <25reat <0rap g^ips Come 3Tn 
 
 NEW YORK HARBOR, AUGUST 20, 1898 
 
 To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless 
 
 miles of sea, 
 On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost 
 
 isles are free, 
 And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, 
 
 and hill, 
 Breaker and beach cry, each to each, " 'T is the Mother 
 
 who calls ! Be still ! " 
 Mother ! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from 
 
 harm, 
 
 Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sover- 
 eign arm, 
 Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her 
 
 navies roam, 
 Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them 
 
 this time home ! 
 
 And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers 
 
 rest, 
 The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the 
 
 golden west
 
 338 Poetry of the People 
 
 Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, 
 And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars ! 
 Peace ! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, 
 Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long 
 
 blockade, 
 
 And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, 
 From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is " Peace ! Thank 
 
 God for peace." 
 
 Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show 
 
 The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them 
 
 rise and go, 
 How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's 
 
 ear, 
 South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole 
 
 land answered, " Here ! " 
 For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the 
 
 sailor's song 
 Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet 
 
 with wrong, 
 Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the 
 
 decks they trod, 
 Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their 
 
 country's God ! 
 
 Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, 
 To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends 
 
 of sea, 
 To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in 
 
 wait, 
 To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across 
 
 the strait : 
 But better the golden evening when the ships round heads 
 
 for home,
 
 The Parting of the Ways 339 
 
 And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seeth- 
 ing foam, 
 
 And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men 
 who win ! 
 
 Thank God for peace ! Thank God for peace, when the 
 great gray ships come in I 
 
 Guy Wetmore Carryl 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 flatting; of tfje 
 
 Untrammelled Giant of the West, 
 With all of Nature's gifts endowed, 
 
 With all of Heaven's mercies blessed, 
 Nor of thy power unduly proud 
 
 Peerless in courage, force, and skill, 
 
 And godlike in thy strength of will, 
 
 Before thy feet the ways divide : 
 
 One path leads up to heights sublime ; 
 
 Downward the other slopes, where bide 
 The refuse and the wrecks of Time. 
 
 Choose then, nor falter at the start, 
 
 O choose the nobler path and part ! 
 
 Be thou the guardian of the weak, 
 
 Of the unfriended, thou the friend ; 
 No guerdon for thy valor seek, 
 
 No end beyond the avowed end. 
 Wouldst thou thy godlike power preserve, 
 Be godlike in the will to serve ! 
 
 Joseph B. Gilder
 
 34 Poetry of the People 
 
 Father and I went down to camp, 
 
 Along with Cap'n Goodin', 
 And there we saw the men and boys 
 
 As thick as hasty pudding. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, keep it up, 
 Yankee Doodle dandy, 
 
 Mind the music and the step, 
 And with the girls be handy. 
 
 And there we see a thousand men, 
 
 As rich as Squire David ; 
 And what they wasted ev'ry day, 
 
 I wish it could be saved. 
 
 The 'lasses they eat ev'ry day, 
 Would keep a house a winter ; 
 
 They have so much that, I '11 be bound 
 They eat it when they Ve mind ter. 
 
 And there I see a swamping gun, 
 
 Large as a log of maple, 
 Upon a deuced little cart, 
 
 A load for father's cattle. 
 
 And every time they shoot it off, 
 
 It takes a horn of powder, 
 And makes a noise like father's gun, 
 
 Only a nation louder.
 
 Yankee Doodle 341 
 
 I went as nigh to one myself 
 
 As 'Siah's underpinning; 
 And father went as nigh agin, 
 
 I thought the deuce was in him. 
 
 Cousin Simon grew so bold, 
 
 I thought he would have cocked it ; 
 
 It scared me so I shrinked it off 
 And hung by father's pocket. 
 
 And Cap'n Davis had a gun, 
 
 He kind of clapt his hand on 't, 
 And stuck a crooked stabbing iron 
 
 Upon the little end on 't. 
 
 And there I see a pumpkin shell 
 
 As big as mother's basin ; 
 And every time they touched it off 
 
 They scampered like the nation. 
 
 I see a little barrel too, 
 
 The heads were made of leather ; 
 They knocked upon 't with little clubs 
 
 And called the folks together. 
 
 And there was Cap'n Washington, 
 
 And gentlefolks about him ; 
 They say he 's grown so 'tarnal proud, 
 
 He will not ride without 'em. 
 
 He got him on his meeting clothes 
 
 Upon a slapping stallion, 
 He set the world along in rows, 
 
 In hundreds and in millions.
 
 342 Poetry of the People 
 
 The flaming ribbons in his hat, 
 They looked so taring fine, ah, 
 
 I wanted dreadfully to get 
 To give to my Jemima. 
 
 I see another snarl of men 
 
 A digging graves, they told me, 
 
 So 'tarnal long, so 'tarnal deep, 
 They 'tended they should hold me. 
 
 It scared me so I hooked it off, 
 
 Nor stopped, as I remember, 
 Nor turned about till I got home, 
 
 Locked up in mother's chamber. 
 
 Richard Shuckburg 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 JQatfjan 
 1776 
 
 The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines, 
 
 A saying " oh I hu-ush ! " a saying " oh ! hu-ush ! " 
 
 As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, 
 
 For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. 
 
 " Keep still ! " said the thrush as she nestled her young, 
 In a nest by the road ; in a nest by the road. 
 
 " For the tyrants are near, and with them appear, 
 What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." 
 
 The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home, 
 In a cot by the brook ; in a cot by the brook.
 
 Nathan Hale 343 
 
 With mother and sister and memories dear, 
 He so gaily forsook ; he so gaily forsook. 
 
 Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, 
 
 The tattoo had beat ; the tattoo had beat. 
 The noble one sprang from his dark lurking place, 
 
 To make his retreat ; to make his retreat. 
 
 He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, 
 
 As he pass'd thro' the wood ; as he pass'd thro' the wood ; 
 And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore, 
 
 As she play'd with the flood ; as she play'd with the flood. 
 
 The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, 
 Had a murderous will ; had a murderous will. 
 
 They took him and bore him afar from the shore, 
 To a hut on the hill ; to a hut on the hill. 
 
 No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, 
 In that little stone cell ; in that little stone cell. 
 
 But he trusted in love, from his father above. 
 
 In his heart all was well ; in his heart all was well. 
 
 An ominous owl with his solemn base voice, 
 Sat moaning hard by ; sat moaning hard by. 
 
 "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, 
 For he must soon die ; for he must soon die." 
 
 The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd, 
 
 The cruel gen'ral ; the cruel gen'ral. 
 His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd, 
 
 And said that was all ; and said that was all. 
 
 They took him and bound him and bore him away, 
 
 Down the hill's grassy side ; down the hill's grassy side.
 
 344 Poetry of the People 
 
 'T was there the base hirelings, in royal array, 
 His cause did deride ; his cause did deride. 
 
 Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, 
 
 For him to repent ; for him to repent ; 
 He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another, 
 
 To Heaven he went ; to Heaven he went. 
 
 The faith of a martyr, the tragedy shew'd, 
 
 As he trod the last stage ; as he trod the last stage. 
 
 And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood, 
 As his words do presage, as his words do presage. 
 
 " Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
 Go frighten the slave, go frighten the slave ; 
 
 Tell tyrants, to you, their allegiance they owe. 
 No fears for the brave ; no fears for the brave." 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 SUl Otiift along tljr Potomac 
 
 " All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
 
 " Except now and then a stray picket 
 Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 
 
 By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
 'T is nothing : a private or two now and then 
 
 Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
 Not an officer lost, only one of the men 
 
 Moaning out all alone the death rattle." 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ;
 
 All Quiet along the Potomac 345 
 
 Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 
 Or the light of the watch-fires are gleaming. 
 
 A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
 Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
 
 While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
 Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 
 
 There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
 
 As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
 And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, 
 
 Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
 His musket falls slack, his face dark and grim, 
 
 Grows gentle with memories tender, 
 As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep ; 
 
 For their mother may Heaven defend her ! 
 
 The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
 
 That night, when the love yet unspoken 
 Leaped up to his lips, when low, murmured vows 
 
 Were pledged to be ever unbroken ; 
 Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 
 
 He dashes off tears that are welling, 
 And gathers his gun closer up to its place. 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 
 
 He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, 
 
 The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
 Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light? 
 
 Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves, 
 
 Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
 It looked like a rifle ..." Ha ! Mary, good-bye ! " 
 
 The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
 
 346 Poetry of the People 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night ; 
 
 No sound save the rush of the river ; 
 While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead 
 
 The picket's off duty forever. 
 
 Ethelinda Eliot Beers 
 
 CLXXXIII 
 
 Centing; on tlje IB Camp 
 
 We 're tenting to-night on the old camp ground, 
 
 Give us a song to cheer 
 Our weary hearts, a song of home, 
 
 And friends we love so dear. 
 
 Chorus 
 Many are the hearts that are weary to-night, 
 
 Wishing for the war to cease, 
 Many are the hearts looking for the right, 
 To see the dawn of peace. 
 
 Tenting to-night, 
 Tenting to-night, 
 Tenting on the old camp ground. 
 
 We Ve been tenting to-night on the old camp ground, 
 
 Thinking of days gone by, 
 Of the lov'd ones at home that gave us the hand, 
 
 And the tear that said " good bye ! " Cho. 
 
 We are tired of war on the old camp ground, 
 
 Many are dead and gone, 
 Of the brave and true who Ve left their homes; 
 
 Others have been wounded long. Cho.
 
 Home, Sweet Home 347 
 
 We 've been fighting to-day on the old camp ground. 
 
 Many are lying near ; 
 Some are dead, and some are dying, 
 
 Many are in tears. 
 
 Chorus 
 Many are the hearts that are weary to-night, 
 
 Wishing for the war to cease, 
 Many are the hearts looking for the right, 
 To see the dawn of peace. 
 
 Dying to-night, 
 Dying to-night, 
 Dying on the old camp ground. 
 
 Walter Kittredge 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 >toeet |)ome 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 
 Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ; 
 
 A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 
 
 Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 
 
 O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 
 The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, 
 
 Give me them, and the peace of mind, dearer than all ' 
 
 Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home !
 
 348 Poetry of the People 
 
 How sweet 't is to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, 
 And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! 
 Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, 
 But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home ! 
 
 Home ! Home ! sweet, sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 
 
 To thee I '11 return, overburdened with care ; 
 The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there ; 
 No more from that cottage again will I roam ; 
 Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home. 
 
 Home! Home ! sweet, sweet Home! 
 
 There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 
 
 John Howard Payne 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 a life on the cean SSHatoe 
 
 A life on the ocean wave ! 
 
 A home on the rolling deep, 
 Where the scatter'd waters rave, 
 
 And the winds their revels keep : 
 Like an eagle cag'd I pine 
 
 On this dull, unchanging shore : 
 Oh, give me the flashing brine, 
 
 The spray and the tempest-roar ! 
 
 Once more on the deck I stand. . . . 
 
 Of my own swift-gliding craft : . . 
 Set sail ! farewell to the land 1 
 
 The gale follows fair abaft.
 
 Ben Bolt 349 
 
 We shoot thro' the sparkling foam, 
 
 Like an ocean-bird set free ; 
 Like the ocean-bird, our home 
 
 We '11 find far out on the sea! 
 
 The land is no longer in view, 
 
 The clouds have begun to frown ; 
 But with a stout vessel and crew, 
 
 We '11 say, Let the storm come down ! 
 And the song of our hearts shall be, 
 
 While the winds and the waters rave, 
 A home on the rolling sea! 
 
 A life on the ocean wave ! 
 
 Efts Sargent 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown, 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, 
 
 And trembled with fear at your frown ? 
 In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone, 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 
 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Which stood at the foot of the hill, 
 Together we 've lain in the noonday shade, 
 
 And listened to Appleton's mill. 
 The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in,
 
 35 Poetry of the People 
 
 And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze 
 Has followed the olden din. 
 
 Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 
 At the edge of the pathless wood, 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 
 
 Which nigh by the doorstep stood? 
 The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The tree you would seek for in vain ; 
 And where once the lords of the forest waved 
 
 Are grass and the golden grain. 
 
 And don't you remembjer the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim, 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook 
 
 Where the children went to swim ? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is dry, 
 And of all the boys who were schoolmates then 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 
 
 They have changed from the old to the new ; 
 But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, 
 
 There never was change in you. 
 Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends yet I hail 
 Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, 
 
 Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale ! 
 
 Thomas Dunn English
 
 My Old Kentucky Home, Good-Night 351 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 g&V ft fcentucttp pome, (SooU'-Btff&t 
 
 The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home ; 
 
 'T is summer, the darkeys are gay ; 
 The corn-top 's ripe, and the meadow 's in the bloom, 
 
 While the birds make music all the day. 
 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 
 
 All merry, all happy and bright ; 
 By'm by, hard times comes a-knocking at the door : 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 
 Weep no more, my lady, 
 O, weep no more to-day ! 
 
 We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 For the old Kentucky home, far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, 
 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 
 
 On the bench by the old cabin door. 
 The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, 
 
 With sorrow where all was delight; 
 The time has come when the darkeys have to part: 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! 
 
 The head must bow and the back will have to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darkey may go ; 
 A few more days, and the trouble all will end, 
 
 In the field where the sugar-canes grow: 
 A few more days for to tote the weary load, 
 
 No matter, 't will never be light ; 
 A few more days till we totter on the road : 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!
 
 352 Poetry of the People 
 
 Weep no more, my lady, 
 O, weep no more to-day ! 
 
 We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 For the old Kentucky home, far away. 
 
 Stephen C. Foster 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 
 B in Be Cofo <0r0tmH 
 
 Round de meadows am a-ringing 
 
 De darkeys' mournful song, 
 While de mocking-bird am singing, 
 
 Happy as de day am long. 
 Where de ivy am a-creeping 
 
 O'er de grassy mound, 
 Dere old massa am a-sleeping, 
 
 Sleeping in de cold, cold ground. 
 
 Down in de corn-field 
 
 Hear dat mournful sound : 
 
 All de darkeys am a-weeping, 
 Massa 's in de cold, cold ground. 
 
 When de autumn leaves were falling, 
 
 When de days were cold, 
 'T was hard to hear old massa calling, 
 
 Cayse he was so weak and old. 
 Now de orange tree am blooming 
 
 On de sandy shore, 
 Now de summer days am coming, 
 
 Massa nebber calls no more.
 
 Old Folks at Home 353 
 
 Massa make de darkeys love him, 
 
 Cayse he was so kind ; 
 Now dey sadly weep above him, 
 
 Mourning cayse he leave dem behind. 
 I cannot work before to-morrow, 
 
 Cayse de tear-drop flow ; 
 I try to drive away my sorrow, 
 
 Pickin' on de old banjo. 
 
 Down in de corn-field 
 
 Hear dat mournful sound : 
 All de darkeys am a-weeping, 
 
 Massa 's in de cold, cold ground. 
 
 Stephen C. Foster 
 
 CLXXXIX 
 
 to folfefi at frame 
 
 Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, 
 
 Far, far away, 
 Dere 's wha my heart is turning ebber, 
 
 Dere 's wha de old folks stay. 
 All up and down de whole creation 
 
 Sadly I roam, 
 Still longing for de old plantation, 
 
 And for de old folks at home. 
 
 All de world am sad and dreary, 
 
 Eberywhere I roam ; 
 Oh ! darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
 
 Far from de old folks at home !
 
 354 Poetry of the People 
 
 All round de little farm I wandered 
 
 When I was young, 
 Den many happy days I squandered, 
 
 Many de songs I sung. 
 When I was playing wid my brudder, 
 
 Happy was I ; 
 Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 
 
 Dere let me live and die. 
 
 One little hut among de bushes, 
 
 One dat I love, 
 Still sadly to my memory rushes, 
 
 No matter where I rove. 
 When will I see de bees a-humming 
 
 All round de comb ? 
 When will I hear de banjo tumming 
 
 Down in my good old home ? 
 
 All de world am sad and dreary, 
 
 Eberywhere I roam ; 
 Oh ! darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
 
 Far from de old folks at home ! 
 
 Stephen C. Foster 
 
 cxc 
 lanB 
 
 I wish I wuz in de land ob cotton ; 
 Ole times dar am not forgotten ; 
 
 Look away ! look away ! look away ! 
 
 Dixie land. 
 
 In Dixie land, whar I wuz born in, 
 Early on one frosty mornin', 
 
 Look away ! look away ! look away ! 
 Dixie land.
 
 Dixie's Land 355 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Den I wish I wuz in Dixie, 
 
 Hooray ! hooray ! 
 In Dixie land I'll took my stand 
 
 To lib an' die in Dixie. 
 
 Away, away, away down South in Dixie. 
 
 Away, away, away down South in Dixie. 
 
 Ole Missus marry " Will-de-weaber," 
 William wuz a gay deceaber ; 
 
 Look away ! etc. 
 
 But when he put his arm around 'er, 
 He look as fierce as a forty pounder. 
 
 Look away ! etc. Cho. 
 
 His face wuz sharp as a butcher's cleaber, 
 But dat did n't seem to greab 'er ; 
 
 Look away ! etc. 
 
 Ole Missus acted de foolish part, 
 And died for a man dat broke her heart. 
 
 Look away ! etc. Cho. 
 
 Now here's a health to de next ole Missus, 
 And all de gals dat wants to kiss us ; 
 
 Look away ! etc. 
 
 But if you want to dribe away sorrow, 
 Come and hear dis song to-morrow, 
 
 Look away ! etc. Cho. 
 
 Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Ingen batter, 
 Makes you fat or a little fatter ; 
 
 Look away ! etc. 
 
 Den hoe it down an' scratch your grabble, 
 To Dixie's land, I 'm bound to trabble, 
 
 Look away ! etc. Cho. 
 
 Daniel Decatur Bmmett
 
 BOOK SIXTH POEMS OF THE 
 
 WORLD WAR: HISTORICAL 
 
 AND PATRIOTIC 
 
 CXCI 
 
 C&e 38rabanconne 
 
 [BELGIAN NATIONAL SONG] 
 
 Fled the years of servile shame ! 
 O Belgium, 't is thy hour at last. 
 Wear again thy glorious name, 
 Spread thy banner on the blast. 
 Sov 'reign people in thy might, 
 Steadfast yet and valiant be. 
 On thine ancient standard write : 
 King, and Law, and Liberty ! 
 On thine ancient standard write : 
 King, and Law, and Liberty, 
 King, and Law, and Liberty, 
 King, and Law, and Liberty. 
 
 Belgium, Mother, thus we vow, 
 Never shall our love abate ; 
 Thou, our hope, our safety thou ; 
 Hearts and blood are consecrate. 
 Grave, we pray, upon thy shield 
 This device eternally : 
 357
 
 358 Poetry of the People 
 
 Weal or woe, at home, afield, 
 King, and Law, and Liberty ! 
 On thine ancient standards write : 
 
 Refrain (as in Stanza i) 
 
 English Version by the Brussels 
 War Correspondent of The Times, 1914 
 
 CXCII 
 
 La ;ptar0eiUat0e 
 
 (First stanza) 
 
 Allons, enfants de la patrie, 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive ! 
 Centre nous de la tyrannie 
 L'dtendard sanglant est levd, 
 L'e"tendard sanglant est leve", 
 Entendez-vous dans les campagnes 
 Mugir ces fe"roces soldats? 
 lis viennent, jusque dans nos bras, 
 Egorger nos fils, nos compagnes ! 
 
 Aux armes, citoyens ! 
 
 Formez vos bataillons ! 
 
 Marchons, marchons ! qu'un sang impur 
 
 Abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
 C. J. Rouget de Lisle
 
 The Marsellaisc 359 
 
 CXCII 
 
 <Ll)r ittavsrtllatsT 
 
 (TRANSLATION) 
 
 Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! what myriads bid you rise ! 
 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, 
 
 Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
 Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, 
 
 With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
 
 Affright and desolate the land, 
 While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheathe. 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 
 On victory or death ! 
 
 Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, 
 
 Which treacherous kings confederate raise; 
 The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 
 
 And lo ! our fields and cities blaze : 
 And shall we basely view the ruin, 
 
 While lawless force, with guilty stride, 
 
 Spreads desolation far and wide, 
 With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheathe. 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 
 On victory or death ! 
 
 O Liberty ! can man resign thee, 
 
 Once having felt thy generous flame ?
 
 360 . Poetry of the People 
 
 Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee ? 
 
 Or whips thy noble spirit tame ? 
 Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
 
 That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield ; 
 
 But freedom is our sword and shield, 
 And all their arts are unavailing. 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheathe. 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 
 On victory or death ! 
 
 CXCIII 
 IHur la .France 
 
 Franceline rose in the dawning gray, 
 And her heart would dance though she knelt to pray. 
 For her man Michel had holiday, 
 Fighting for France. 
 
 She offered her prayer by the cradle-side, 
 And with baby palms folded in hers she cried : ' 
 " If I have but one prayer, dear, crucified 
 Christ save France! 
 
 " But if I have two, then, by Mary's grace, 
 Carry me safe to the meeting-place, 
 Let me look once again on my dear love's face, 
 Save him for France ! " 
 
 She crooned to her boy : " Oh, how glad he '11 be, 
 Little three-months old, to set eyes on thee ! 
 For, ' Rather than gold, would I give,' wrote he, 
 ' A son to France.'
 
 Vive la France 361 
 
 " Come, now, be good, little stray sauterelle, 
 For we 're going by-by to thy papa Michel, 
 But I '11 not say where, for fear thou wilt tell, 
 Little pigeon of France ! 
 
 " Six days' leave and a year between ! 
 But what would you have ? In six days clean, 
 Heaven was made," said Franceline, 
 " Heaven and France." 
 
 She came to the town of the nameless name, 
 To the marching troops in the street she came, 
 And she held high her boy like a taper flame 
 Burning for France. 
 
 Fresh from the trenches and gray with grime, 
 Silent they march like a pantomime ; 
 "But what need of music ? My heart beats time 
 Vive la France .' " 
 
 His regiment comes. Oh, then where is he ? 
 " There is dust in my eyes, for I cannot see, 
 Is that my Michel to the right of thee, 
 Soldier of France ? " 
 
 Then out of the ranks a comrade fell, 
 " Yesterday 'twas a splinter of shell 
 And he whispered thy name, did thy poor Michel, 
 Dying for France." 
 
 The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed 
 Like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed, 
 As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed : 
 " Vive la France / " 
 
 Charlotte Holmes Crawford
 
 362 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXCIV 
 CI)e JRame of jFrance 1 
 
 Give us a name to fill the mind 
 With the shining thoughts that lead mankind, 
 The glory of learning, the joy of art, 
 A name that tells of a splendid part 
 In the long, long toil and the strenuous fight 
 Of the human race to win its way 
 From the feudal darkness into the day 
 Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right, 
 A name like a star, a name of light. 
 I give you France \ 
 
 Give us a name to stir the blood 
 With a warmer glow and a swifter flood, 
 At the touch of a courage that knows not fear, 
 A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear, 
 And silver-sweet, and iron-strong, 
 That calls three million men to their feet, 
 Ready to march, and steady to meet 
 The foes who threaten that name with wrong, 
 A name that rings like a battle-song. 
 I give you France \ 
 
 Give us a name to move the heart 
 
 With the strength that noble griefs impart, 
 
 A name that speaks of the blood outpoured 
 
 To save mankind from the sway of the sword, 
 
 A name that calls on the world to share 
 
 In the burden of sacrificial strife 
 
 Where the cause at stake is the world's free life 
 
 1 From The Red Flou'er. Copyright, 1916, 1917, by Charles Scribner's 
 Sons. By permission of the publishers.
 
 The Maple Leaf Forever 363 
 
 And the rule of the people everywhere, 
 A name like a vow, a name like a prayer. 
 
 I give you France \ 
 
 Henry van Dyke 
 
 CXCV 
 
 C&e jIHapIe Leaf Jorrtttr 
 
 [CANADIAN HYMN] 
 
 In days of yore, from Britain's shore, 
 
 Wolfe, the dauntless hero, came, 
 
 And planted firm Britannia's flag 
 
 On Canada's fair domain. 
 
 Here may it wave, our boast and pride, 
 
 And joined in love together, 
 
 The Thistle, Shamrock, Rose entwine 
 
 The Maple Leaf forever! 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear, 
 The Maple Leaf forever ! 
 God save our King, and Heaven bless 
 The Maple Leaf forever ! 
 
 On Merry England's far-famed land 
 
 May kind Heaven sweetly smile ; 
 
 God bless Old Scotland ever more, 
 
 And Ireland's Emerald Isle ! 
 
 Then swell the song, both loud and long, 
 
 Till rocks and forest quiver, 
 
 God save our King, and Heaven bless 
 
 The Maple Leaf forever ! Cho . 
 
 Alexander Muir
 
 364 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXCVI 
 ttter 
 
 Bold Watchers of the deeps, 
 Guards of the Greater Ways, 
 How shall our swelling hearts express 
 Our heights and depths of thankfulness 
 For these safe-guarded days ! 
 
 Grim is your vigil there, 
 Black day and blacker night, 
 Watching for life, while knavish death 
 Lurks all around, above, beneath, 
 Waiting his chance to smite. 
 
 Your hearts are stouter than 
 
 The worst that Death can do. 
 
 Our thoughts for you ! our prayers for you ! 
 
 There 's One aloft that cares for you, 
 
 And He will see you through. 
 
 Don't think we e'er forget 
 The debt we owe to you ! 
 Never a night but we pray for you ! 
 Never a day but we say for you, 
 " God bless the gallant lads in blue! 
 With mighty strength their hearts renew. 
 Bless every ship and every crew ! 
 Give every man his rightful due ! 
 And bring them all safe through ! " 
 
 John Oxenham
 
 The School at War 365 
 
 CXCVII 
 
 at 
 
 We don't forget while in this dark December 
 We sit in schoolrooms that you know so well 
 And hear the sounds that you so well remember 
 The clock, the hurrying feet, the Chapel bell : 
 Others are sitting in the seats you sat in ; 
 There 's nothing else seems altered here and yet 
 Through all of it, the same old Greek and Latin, 
 You know we don't forget. 
 
 We don't forget you in the wintry weather 
 You man the trench or tramp the frozen snow ; 
 We play the games we used to play together 
 In days of peace that seem so long ago ; 
 But through it all, the shouting and the cheering, 
 Those other hosts in graver conflict met, 
 Those other sadder sounds your ears are hearing 
 Be sure we don't forget. 
 
 And you, our brothers, who for all our praying, 
 To this dear school of ours come back no more, 
 Who lie, our country's debt of honour paying 
 And not in vain upon the Belgian shore ; 
 Till that great day when at the Throne in Heaven 
 The books are opened and the Judgment set, 
 Your lives for honour and for England given 
 The School will not forget. 
 
 C. A. A."
 
 366 Poetry of the People 
 
 CXCVIII 
 3ft '& a jfar, far Crp 
 
 It 's a far, far cry to my own land, 
 
 A hundred leagues or more ; 
 To moorlands where the fairies flit 
 
 In Rosses and Gweedore 
 Where white-maned waves come prancing up 
 
 To Dooran's rugged shore. 
 
 There 's a cabin there by a holy well, 
 
 Once blessed by Columbcille, 
 And a holly bush and a fairy fort 
 
 On the slope of Glenties Hill, 
 Where the dancing feet of many winds 
 
 Go roving at their will. 
 
 My heart is sick of the level lands, 
 
 Where the wingless windmills be, 
 Where the long-nosed guns from dusk to dawn 
 
 Are speaking angrily ; 
 But the little home by Glenties Hill, 
 
 Ah ! that 's the place for me. 
 
 A candle stuck on the muddy floor 
 
 Lights up the dug-out wall, 
 And I see in its flame the prancing sea, 
 
 And the mountains straight and tall ; 
 For my heart is more than often back 
 
 By the hills of Donegal. 
 
 Patrick Mac Gill
 
 Evensong in Westminster Abbey 367 
 
 CXCIX 
 
 Ctirnsong; in iPcetmtnstcr &fabej 
 JUNE, 1915 
 
 From slanting shadow and from splintered light, 
 From dusk scarce shaken by the solemn chime, 
 
 Like birds whose wings would fain out-soar the night, 
 Our whispered orisons climb. 
 
 The glory and the grief of yesterday 
 
 Have passed, but still the transept window glows, 
 And lifts to God, as from a garden grey, 
 
 One many-petalled rose. 
 
 The vaults reword the litany of pain, 
 
 The age-old litany that cannot cease ; 
 But through dark tracery and distant rain 
 
 Breaks the white morn of Peace. 
 
 Not to be spared the peril and the test, 
 Not to look up to God with tearless eyes, 
 
 Is the divinest answer or the best 
 To mortal litanies. 
 
 Brief clamours rise and wavering faith sinks low, 
 But still man's dream pursues its sunward curve, 
 
 And his most high and splendid right is now 
 To suffer and to serve. 
 
 Dorothy Margaret Stuatt
 
 368 Poetry of the People 
 
 CC 
 91 Carol from jFlaniete 
 
 In Flanders on the Christmas morn 
 The trenched foeman lay, 
 
 The German and the Briton born 
 And it was Christmas Day. 
 
 The red sun rose on fields accurst, 
 
 The gray fog fled away ; 
 But neither cared to fire the first, 
 
 For it was Christmas Day. 
 
 They called from each to each across 
 
 The hideous disarray 
 (For terrible had been their loss) : 
 
 " O, this is Christmas Day ! " 
 
 Their rifles all they set aside, 
 
 One impulse to obey ; 
 'T was just the men on either side, 
 
 Just men and Christmas Day. 
 
 They dug the graves for all their dead 
 And over them did pray ; 
 
 And Englishman and German said : 
 " How strange a Christmas Day ! " 
 
 Between the trenches then they met, 
 Shook hands, and e'en did play 
 
 At games on which their hearts are set 
 On happy Christmas Day.
 
 The Soldier 369. 
 
 Not all the Emperors and Kings, 
 
 Financiers, and they 
 Who rule us could prevent these things 
 
 For it was Christmas Day. 
 
 O ye who read this truthful rime 
 
 From Flanders, kneel and say : 
 God speed the time when every day 
 
 Shall be as Christmas Day. 
 
 Frederick 
 
 CCI 
 
 CJje Pointer 1 
 
 If I should die, think only this of me : 
 
 That there 's some corner of a foreign field 
 That is for ever England. There shall be 
 
 In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; 
 A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 
 
 Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
 A body of England's, breathing English air, 
 
 Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 
 
 And think this heart, all evil shed away, 
 A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 
 
 Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; 
 Her sights and sounds ; dreams happy as her day ; 
 And laughter, learnt of friends ; and gentleness, 
 In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 
 
 Rupert Brooke 
 
 1 From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by 
 John Lane Company, New York.
 
 370 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCII 
 3Tn (BnfflanU Boto 
 
 In England now the mounting lark 
 
 His sweet wild music rains, 
 
 The tireless thrush from dawn to dark 
 
 Pours out his maddest strains ; 
 
 But here, strange birds that sing and soar 
 
 Drop death from soft spring skies, 
 
 The bullets hiss, the great guns roar, 
 
 The screaming shrapnel flies. 
 
 In England now the daffodils 
 Dance to the dancing breeze, 
 The scent of hidden violets fills 
 The air, buds, swell the trees ; 
 But here, the only flowers we see 
 Droop on a grim-shaped mound 
 Where brave men lie whose memory 
 
 A deathless fame has found. 
 
 Lina Jephson 
 
 CCIII 
 
 Cbe fatten of tlje )eato 
 
 Beyond the salt waste sea 
 
 (Where the grey ships on guard ride ceaselessly) 
 There lies the unboundaried Garden of the Dead. 
 All day and night doth the blind gardener tread 
 Its paths, planting together in one bed 
 
 Pale friend, pale enemy. 
 
 Yea, these shall be 
 Mingled perforce in age-long charity.
 
 The Garden of the Dead 371 
 
 Bare through the bitter days 
 Have been the unlovely, trampled garden ways. 
 
 They have been frozen mud; 
 
 They have run tears, and blood, 
 
 And rain. 
 And you would say, " Spring comes not back again 
 
 To such distress "... 
 And Easter broke, and fired the wilderness. 
 
 Spring flowers blossom in the Garden of the Dead, 
 Primroses, daffodils, and wind-flowers red ; 
 Violets creeping in the turf, dewy-eyed, 
 Wall-flowers bearing the cross for Easter-tide. 
 
 Wind-blown orchards, flaunting pink and white ; 
 Blackthorn a-shimmer through the April night ; 
 Green things budding o'er the plains of strife ; 
 Beauty for ashes, and for death young life. 
 
 Made one with the Easter birth 
 The young pale inheritors of the sweet earth 
 Are quickened, and stir in her breast at the spring's call. 
 
 Have they lost all, 
 
 These who fell dumb in the spring-time of age ? 
 Have their still bodies only peace for wage? 
 
 Nay, see how they have won 
 Even for their dust a goodly heritage 
 
 A garden, full of flowers and the sun. 
 
 Rose Macaulay
 
 372 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCIV 
 
 Oh, blackie, bonnie blackie bird, 
 
 Hoo can ye sit an' sing sae sweet? 
 Hae ye nae heard the waefu' wird 
 
 That stabs my he'rt, an' gars me greet ? 
 Oh, reid the cloods across the sea, 
 
 The vera burnie 's rinnin' reid ; 
 An' wae 's the weird that I maun dree, 
 
 For oh, my sodger laddie 's deid. 
 
 It seems but juist a whilie syne 
 
 The kilt flew flappin' roun' his knee, 
 An' oot he mairch'd, a callant fine, 
 
 His kep prood cockit ower his e'e; 
 He kiss't me when he left the toon 
 
 My he'rt gaed dunt wi' sudden dreed - 
 An' noo the cannon soughin' soun 
 
 Has struck him doon my laddie 's deid. 
 
 " Oh, mither, dinna greet," he said, 
 
 " I '11 sune be mairchin' hame again " ; 
 An' weel I mind I felt sae gled 
 
 I grat as I gaed but an' ben ! 
 He little kenn't ; I never spak, 
 
 But aye the thocht gaed through my heid - 
 " Oh, laddie, gin ye ne'er come back, 
 
 My he'rt '11 brak " an' noo he 's deid. 
 
 Oh, weary fa' this waefu' war, 
 That weeds oor bonnie lads awa,
 
 In Flanders Fields 
 
 373 
 
 Sae prood to dee sae brave to daur, 
 An' blithe to heed their country's ca' ; 
 
 Oh, blackie bird, ye sing o' spring, 
 
 For me it 's waesome winter's weed ; 
 
 Whaur bay'nets flash an' bullets ping 
 My sodger laddie 's lying deid. 
 
 R. A. S. 
 
 CCV 
 
 In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
 Between the crosses, row on row, 
 
 That mark our place ; and in the sky 
 
 The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
 Scarce heard amid the guns below. 
 
 We are the Dead. Short days ago 
 We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
 Loved and were loved, and now we lie, 
 In Flanders fields. 
 
 Take up our quarrel with the foe : 
 To you from failing hands we throw 
 The torch ; be yours to hold it high. 
 If ye break faith with us who die 
 We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
 In Flanders fields. . 
 
 Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae
 
 374 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCVI 
 <25ariianji'$ EPar |)pmn 
 
 [ITALIAN NATIONAL SONG] 
 
 To arms, men ! To arms, men ! 
 
 The graves loose their captives ; arise our departed ; 
 
 Our martyrs come forth, all our heroes great-hearted, 
 
 With sabre in hand, and their brows crown'd with laurel, 
 
 The fame and the name of Italia their star ! 
 
 Make haste, oh, make haste ! Forward, gallant battalions ! 
 
 Fling out to the winds flags for all, ye Italians, 
 
 Rise, all with your weapons ! Rise all fire-impassion'd ! 
 
 Rise, all fire-impassion'd, Italians ye are ! 
 
 Depart from our homeland, depart, O ye strangers ! 
 
 This hour gives the signal ; betake you afar. 
 
 Let voices be silent, let each arm be ready ! 
 
 Let 's face to the foe, let us march firm and steady ! 
 
 And then in a moment the Austrian will flee us. 
 
 One thought in our hearts for our homeland shall flame ! 
 
 Our eyes are not fix'd upon barbarous plunder ; 
 
 Great princes from robbers no jealousies sunder ; 
 
 The natives of Italy form but one nation ; 
 Her famed hundred cities are one but in name ! 
 Depart from our homeland, depart, O ye strangers ! 
 This hour gives the signal ; betake you afar. 
 
 Luigi Mercantini 
 (Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole)
 
 America Comes In 375 
 
 CCVII 
 America Comes 3fa 
 
 We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, 
 And the word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine ; 
 
 As the rising of the tide 
 
 On the Old-World side, 
 We are coming to the battle, to the Line. 
 
 From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North, 
 We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth : 
 
 " We have put the pen away 
 
 And the sword is out to-day, 
 For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath." 
 
 We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight, 
 As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light ; 
 
 In the wharf-light glare, 
 
 They can hear us Over There 
 When the ships come steaming through the night. 
 
 Right across the deep Atlantic where the Lusitania passed, 
 With the battle-flag of Yankee-land a-floating at the mast, 
 
 We are coming all the while, 
 
 Over twenty hundred mile, 
 And we 're staying to the finish, to the last. 
 
 We are many we are one and we 're in it overhead, 
 We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead, 
 
 And the old Rebel Yell 
 . Will be loud above the shell 
 
 When we cross the top together, seeing red. 
 
 " Klaxon "
 
 376 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCVIII 
 Of little >tar in rljr 
 
 There 's a little star in the window of the house across the way, 
 A little star, red bordered, on a ground of pearly white ; 
 
 I can see its gleam at evening ; it is bright at dawn of day, 
 And I know it has been shining through the long and dismal 
 night. 
 
 The folks who pass the window on the busy city street, 
 I often notice, turn a glance before they hurry by ; . 
 
 And one, a gray haired woman, made curtsy, low and sweet, 
 While something like a teardrop was glistening in her eye. 
 
 And yesterday an aged man, by life's stern battle spent, 
 His empty coat sleeve hanging down, a witness sadly mute, 
 
 Gave one swift look and halted his form full height, unbent 
 And ere he passed his hand came up in soldierly salute. 
 
 The little star in the window is aflame with living fire, 
 
 For it was lit at the hearthstone where a lonely mother 
 
 waits ; 
 And she has stained its crimson with the glow of her heart's 
 
 desire, 
 
 And brightened its pearl-white heaven beyond the world's 
 dark hates. 
 
 The star shall shine through the battle when the shafts of 
 
 death are hurled ; 
 It shall shine through the long night watches in the foremost 
 
 trenches' line; , 
 
 Over the waste of waters, and beyond the verge of the world, 
 Like the guiding Star of the Magi its blessed rays shall shine.
 
 The Little Flag on Main Street 377 
 
 The little star in the window shall beacon your boy's return 
 As his eyes are set to the homeland, when the call of the 
 
 guns shall cease ; 
 
 In the Flag's high constellation through the ages it shall burn, 
 A pledge of his heart's devotion, a sign of his people's peace. 
 
 John Jerome Rooney 
 
 CCIX 
 
 little flag; on $Satn Street 
 
 The little flag on Main Street 
 
 Is floating all the day, 
 Its stars are fairly sparkling, 
 
 Its stripes are glad and gay. 
 It stops the passing zephyrs 
 
 To tell them as they dance : 
 " I have a battle brother 
 
 Who flies to-day in France ! " 
 
 The little flag on Main Street 
 
 Is streaming all the night, 
 It hails the wheeling planets 
 
 Upon their glowing flight. 
 It tells the joyful tidings 
 
 And calls to all its kin : 
 " I have a battle brother 
 
 Who marches to Berlin ! " 
 
 McLandburgh Wilson
 
 378 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCX 
 
 a KountJ Strip 
 
 In swaddling clothes he came across the sea 
 
 In flight from wrong, 
 Before his eyes all vast blue mystery, 
 
 Waves rolling long, 
 And in his ears an Old World melody 
 
 His mother's song. 
 
 In khaki he goes back across the sea 
 
 To smite a wrong, 
 Before his eyes the ocean majesty 
 
 Outraged too long, 
 And in his ears " My Country, 'T is of Thee " 
 
 His mother's song. 
 
 McLandburgh Wilson 
 
 CCXI 
 
 38ot& IPorsflnpprtj tfce i&ame <0mt JQame 
 
 Jack Smith belonged to the Y. M. C. A., 
 Pat Sheehan to the K. of C. 
 Both marched away 'neath the flag one day 
 To fight for the Land of the Free. 
 
 While Jack stood straight as he humbly prayed, 
 Pat knelt at a candled shrine ; 
 
 But the same great God heard each whispered word 
 That barkens to yours and mine.
 
 Heroes 279 
 
 Each bullet its billet has got, they say, 
 
 And always will find some mark ; 
 
 And Pat and Jack in a trench mud black 
 
 Lay side by side in the dark. 
 
 Their life's blood ebbed with a falling tide 
 
 As they came toward the Great Unknown ; 
 
 But hand in hand from that far-off land 
 
 They knew they were not alone. 
 
 So " over the top " to the Glory Side, 
 
 Where never is war nor tears 
 
 Where the true and tried in God's love abide 
 
 With nothing of doubts nor fears. 
 
 And the God they met as they entered in 
 
 Where the souls of all men are free 
 
 Was the God of Jack's Y. M. C. A. 
 
 And the God of Pat's K. of C. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 CCXII 
 
 ftetat* 
 
 The heroes of the story books are ever in a pose, 
 They always die with words of high and lofty verse or prose, 
 But when the old Tuscania went down with flying flag 
 Our khaki gang of heroes sang a gay and foolish rag ! 
 
 " Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here ? " 
 Across the sea the melody came dancing free and clear ; 
 They faced their fate with souls elate and hearts that knew 
 
 no fear, 
 With " Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go 
 
 from here ? "
 
 380 Poetry of the People 
 
 " Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here ? " 
 A song, in truth, of valiant youth, that never loses cheer ; 
 They felt the breath of clammy death, but with lilt sincere 
 Their laughing shout rang blithely out, " Where do we go 
 from here? " 
 
 It is a tale whose wondrous thrill we all of us can share 
 When brave men meet their destiny with spirit debonair. 
 What foe can hope with boys to cope who sing, when death 
 
 is near, 
 
 " Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go from here ? " 
 
 Berton Braley 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 3T t>abe a EoiUe^oua tottl) ^catl) 1 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 At some disputed barricade, , 
 
 When Spring comes round with rustling shade 
 
 And apple blossoms fill the air. 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 
 
 It may be he shall take my hand 
 
 And lead me into his dark land 
 
 And close my eyes and quench my breath ; 
 
 It may be I shall pass him still. 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 On some scarred slope of battered hill, 
 
 When Spring comes round again this year 
 
 And the first meadow flowers appear. 
 
 l From Poems by Alan Seeger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's 
 Sons. By permission of the publishers.
 
 The Red Cross Nurses 381 
 
 God knows 'twere better to be deep 
 Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
 Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
 Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
 Where hushed awakenings are dear. 
 But I 've a rendezvous with Death 
 At midnight in some flaming town, 
 When Spring trips north again this year, 
 And I to my pledged word am true, 
 I shall not fail that rendezvous. 
 
 Alan Seeger 
 
 CCXIV 
 EcU Cross Burses 
 
 Out where the line of battle cleaves 
 
 The horizon of woe 
 And sightless warriors clutch the leaves 
 
 The Red Cross nurses go. 
 In where the cots of agony 
 
 Mark death's unmeasured tide 
 Bear up the battle's harvestry 
 
 The Red Cross nurses glide. 
 
 Look ! Where the hell of steel has torn 
 
 Its way through slumbering earth 
 The orphaned urchins kneel forlorn 
 
 And wonder at their birth. 
 Until, above them, calm and wise 
 
 With smile and guiding hand, 
 God looking through their eyes, 
 
 The Red Cross nurses stand. 
 
 TTiomas L. Mas son
 
 382 Poetry of the People 
 
 CCXV 
 Pott aiflfu ! 
 
 To whom was denied the chance of doing all you would 
 have wished to do. Some of you died by accident, some by 
 disease, some by sheer hardship and overwork. No matter. 
 Duty is duty, -wheresoever V is done. So long as you died on 
 duty you share, full equal with the rest, the gratitude of all 
 our hearts. 
 
 And you, to whom it was not given 
 To die upon the foughten field, 
 Yes, you full equally have striven, 
 For you your lives did yield 
 As nobly as the men who fell, 
 There in the blazing mouth of hell. 
 
 Not in the wild rush of the fight 
 God saw it meet for you to die. 
 Yet he who keeps his armour bright 
 His Lord doth magnify. 
 You answered equally The Call, 
 And he who gives himself gives all. 
 
 Duty is duty, wheresoe'er 
 
 'T is done, and no man can do more 
 
 Than, in the testing-time, prepare 
 
 To prove him conqueror. 
 
 Or here or there no matter where, 
 
 Who dies for Right hath done his share, 
 
 And shall the victor's laurel wear. 
 
 John Oxenham
 
 Immortality 383 
 
 CCXVI 
 3fatmortalttj> 
 
 They are not dead, the soldier and the sailor, 
 
 Fallen for Freedom's sake ; 
 They merely sleep with faces that are paler 
 
 Until they wake. 
 
 They will not weep, the mothers, in the years 
 
 The future will decree ; 
 For they have died that the battles and the tears 
 
 Shall cease to be. 
 
 They will not die, the victorious and the slain 
 
 Sleeping in foreign soil ; 
 They gave their lives, but to the world is the gain 
 
 Of their sad toil. 
 
 They are not dead, the soldier and the sailor, 
 
 Fallen for Freedom's sake ; 
 . They merely sleep with faces that are paler 
 Until they wake. 
 
 Lieutenant Arthur Bourinot
 
 384 Poetry of the People 
 
 POPULAR SONGS OF THE WORLD WAR 
 A BRIEF ACCOUNT WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The popular songs of war are proverbially of slight literary 
 merit. Those of the World War are in very few instances excep- 
 tions to the rule. A chance sentiment or phrase catches the fancy 
 of those at home and those at the front. And in most cases not 
 the words but the air, especially the musical swing of the chorus, 
 gives the song its vogue. Of the following songs the first four 
 are British. 
 
 IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY, by Jack Judge and 
 Harry Williams, was already a favorite of the London music halls 
 when the war broke out. It was carried by the first British 
 expeditionary force to the front, and the name of the Irish county 
 Tipperary soon came to be a synonym for " home " all over 
 the English-speaking world. The stanzas amount to nothing, but 
 the chorus will never be forgotten. 
 
 KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING, written by Lena Guilbert 
 Ford in 1915, became very popular in America after we entered 
 the war. The first stanza and the chorus follow. In this case 
 both the sentiment and the language of the song are worthy of 
 the occasion. 
 
 They were summoned from the hillside, 1 
 They were called in from the glen, 
 
 And the Country found them ready 
 At the stirring call for men. 
 
 l Copyright, 1915, by Ascherberg, Hopwood & Crew, Ltd., and re- 
 printed by special permission of Chappell & Co., Ltd., New York City.
 
 Popular Songs of the World War 385 
 
 Let no tears add to their hardships, 
 
 As the soldiers pass along, 
 And although your heart is breaking, 
 
 Make it sing this cheery song : 
 
 Keep the Home fires burning 
 While your hearts are yearning. 
 
 Though your lads are far away 
 
 They dream of Home ; 
 There 's a silver lining 
 Through the dark cloud shining; 
 
 Turn the dark cloud inside out, 
 
 Till the boys come Home. 
 
 PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES IN YOUR OLD KIT-BAG, published 
 in 1915, was a favorite music-hall song. Its success was well 
 deserved. It is a fine example of what common sense and cheer- 
 fulness can achieve without the slightest adornment of poetic 
 imagery. We give the chorus. 
 
 Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, 1 
 
 And smile, smile, smile ! 
 While you Ve a lucifer to light your fag, 
 
 Smile, boys that 's the style. 
 What 's the use of worrying ? 
 
 It never was worth while 
 So, pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag 
 
 And smile, smile, smile ! 
 
 ROSES IN PICARDY was written by Fred E. Weatherly in 1916. 
 The poetic merit is well sustained by the air. 
 
 1 Copyright, 1915, in all countries, by Francis, Day & Hunter, and 
 reprinted by special arrangement with T. B. Harms, and Francis, Day & 
 Hunter and Chappel & Co., Ltd., New York City.
 
 386 Poetry of the People 
 
 Quite different both in tone and expression from the three 
 preceding songs are the first two of the American that follow. 
 
 WHERE Do WE Go FROM HERE, catchy and popular from the 
 first, makes no pretense to elevated sentiment or style. The 
 happy-go-lucky words of the first line of the chorus have, how- 
 ever, an historical and tragic association from the fact that they 
 were sung by American soldiers as they sank to their death, 
 February 5, 1918, on the transport Tuscania off the southwest 
 coast of Scotland. The incident is commemorated in the poem 
 Heroes, by Berton Braley, p. 379, above. The authors of the 
 song are Howard Johnson and Percy Wenrich. 
 
 OVER THERE, by George M. Cohan, owes its wide currency to 
 the inspiriting music of the chorus and to the sentiment of the 
 last two lines. The words of the stanzas require no comment. 
 
 GOOD-BYE BROADWAY ! HELLO FRANCE ! by C. F. Reisner 
 and B. Davis, of great popularity during the war, will, like the 
 foregoing song, be remembered solely for its chorus. 
 
 JOAN OF ARC is one of the very few popular American songs 
 of the war that can advance any claim to imaginative heroic con- 
 ception. The words were written by A. Bryan and W. Weston. 
 We quote the first stanza and the chorus. 
 
 While you are sleeping, your France is weeping ; 1 
 Wake from your dreams, Maid of France ! 
 
 Her heart is bleeding. Are you unheeding ? 
 Come with the flame in your glance ; 
 
 Through the gates of Heaven with your sword in hand, 
 
 Come, your legions to command ! 
 
 1 Used by permission of Waterson, Berlin & Snyder, proprietors of 
 the copyright.
 
 Popular Songs of the World War 387 
 
 Joan of Arc, Joan of Arc, 
 
 Do your eyes from the skies see the foe ? 
 
 Don't you see the drooping Fleur-de-lis ? 
 
 Can't you hear the tears of Normandy ? 
 Joan of Arc, Joan of Arc, 
 Let your spirit guide us through, 
 
 Come lead your France to victory, 
 Joan of Arc, they are calling you. 
 
 THERE 's A LONG, LONG TRAIL, written by Stoddard King, 
 appeals to the imagination in a different way from the preceding 
 song. Its atmosphere of dreamy remembrance and wistful long- 
 ing and its lingering melody may contribute to a continued pop- 
 ularity for years after the separations of the war have passed from 
 the minds of many people. The first stanza and chorus follow. 
 
 Nights are growing very lonely, 1 
 
 Days are very long ; 
 I'm a-growing weary only 
 
 List'ning for your song. 
 Old remembrances are thronging 
 
 Through my memory, 
 Till it seems the world is full of dreams 
 
 Just to call you back to me. 
 
 There 's a long, long trail a-winding 
 
 Into the land of my dreams, 
 Where the nightingales are singing 
 
 And the white moon beams : 
 There 's a long, long night of waiting 
 
 Until my dreams all come true, 
 Till the day when I '11 be going down 
 
 That long, long trail with you. 
 
 l Used by permission of M. Witmark & Sons, publishers and owners 
 of the copyright.
 
 SOWS OF THE SELF-SAME RACE 
 
 What is the Voice I hear 
 
 On the wind of the Western Sea ? 
 
 Sentinel! Listen from out Cape Clear, 
 
 A nd say what the voice may be. 
 
 "'Tisa proud free People calling loud to a People proud and free. 
 
 "And it says to them, 'Kinsmen, hail! 
 We severed have been too long ; 
 Now let us have done with a worn-out tale, 
 The tale of an ancient wrong, 
 
 A nd our friendship last long as Love doth last, and be stronger than Death 
 is strong.' " 
 
 Answer them, Sons of the self -same race, 
 
 A nd blood of the self-same clan, 
 
 Let us speak with each other, face to face, 
 
 A nd answer, as man to man, 
 
 And loyally love and trust each other, as none but free men can. 
 
 Now, fling them out to the breeze, 
 
 Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose ! 
 
 And the Star-Spangled Banner unfurl with these, 
 
 A message to friends and foes, 
 
 Wherever the sails of Peace are seen, and wherever the War-wind blows. 
 
 A message to bond and thrall to wake, 
 
 For, whenever -we come, we twain, 
 
 The throne of the Tyrant shall rock and quake, 
 
 A nd his menace be void and vain : 
 
 For you are lords of a strong young land, and we are lords of the main. 
 
 Yes, this is the Voice on the bluff March gale, 
 " We severed have been too long- : 
 But now we have done with a worn-out tale, 
 The tale of an ancient wrong, 
 
 And our friendship shall last as Love doth last, and be stronger than Death 
 is strong." 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN
 
 NOTES 
 
 BOOK FIRST THE OLDER BALLADS 
 
 Page i, I. SIR PATRICK SPENS. " This admired and most 
 admirable ballad," says Professor Child in his English and Scottish 
 Popular Ballads, " is one of many which were first made known to the 
 world through Percy's Reliques, 1765. Percy's Version " (which is here 
 given) " remains, poetically the best. ... It would be hard to point out 
 in ballad poetry, or other, happier and more refined touches than the two 
 stanzas which portray the bootless waiting of the ladies for the return of 
 the sea-farers." Whether the story is based upon the voyage of Mar- 
 garet of Scotland to Norway in 1281, to be married to King Eric, and 
 the shipwreck of her attendants on their return journey ; or on the death 
 of her daughter Princess Margaret during a voyage to Scotland in 1290, 
 matters little. As Professor Child well says, " a strict accordance with 
 history should not be expected, and indeed would be almost a ground of 
 suspicion. Ballad singers and their hearers would be as indifferent to 
 the facts as the readers of ballads are now; it is only editors who feel 
 bound to look closely into such matters." 
 
 Page 3, II. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. The Scots and 
 English, north and south of the Border between their respective countries, 
 were, during the reigns of Richard II and Henry IV of England, in a 
 state of petty warfare even more keen perhaps than at other periods of 
 history. The battle of which this ballad tells was provoked by a raid on 
 a large scale into Northumberland under the command of James, Earl of 
 Douglas, and others. At Newcastle Douglas met Percy in single combat 
 and succeeded in carrying off the Englishman's pennon (spear or sword, 
 as the versions say). Percy caught up with the Scots at Otterbourne, and 
 the sequel, as recounted in the poem, is substantially historical. The ver- 
 sion printed in the text is from Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 
 It is of Scottish sympathies and composition, and is thought by Motherwell 
 
 389
 
 39 Poetry of the People 
 
 to be the original of two English versions in the British Museum. 
 But Professor Child (English and Scottish Ballads, Pr. VI, 289, etc.) 
 thinks that this Scottish version had its own predecessor in Scotland, and 
 that this in turn may have been derived from the English version. The 
 parent ballad, whatever its nationality, may date back to about 1400; but 
 the forms that we now possess are of much later composition. 
 
 Page 8, ffl. THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. The version here 
 given of this Border ballad is that of an Ashmolean manuscript (not 
 earlier than 1550) in the Bodleian Library. The song was already old 
 and popular in the middle of the sixteenth century ; the stanza mention- 
 ing James of Scotland cannot, however, have been composed before 1424, 
 when the first of that name ascended the throne. The history and geog- 
 raphy are so freely poetized as to render impossible any attempt to fix the 
 circumstances related. The historical basis may be the same as that of 
 the Ballad of Otterbourne, but that place is not in the Cheviot region, 
 and the battle, which was fought in 1388, cannot have taken place in 
 Henry IV's reign (1399-1413), nor have been immediately followed by the 
 fight at Homildon (1402), nor have been reported to James I of Scot- 
 land. The Douglas, Percy, James, and Harry may indeed all have been 
 of even later date than 1424. But why bother about dates when reading 
 that of which Sir Philip Sidney wrote, " I never heard the old song of 
 Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a 
 trumpet; and yet is it sung by some blind crowder with no rougher voice 
 than rude style." Ben Jonson used to say that he had rather have been 
 the author of Chevy Chase than of all his works; and Addison, who knew 
 only the more modern and inferior version of the seventeenth and eight- 
 eenth centuries, says that it was in his day the most popular ballad of 
 the common people of England. (See Child's Ballads, Pt. VI.) And 
 a vowe, a vow. In the magger, in spite of. Dogles, Douglas. Meany, 
 company, suite. So he, so high. The hyls atone, above the hills. 
 Yerly, early. Be that, by the time that, when. Bleive a morte, blew a 
 blast to celebrate the death (mart) of the deer. The, they. The sent- 
 blyde on sydis shear, they gathered together from all sides. Lokyde at 
 his hand full ny, observed near at hand (Gummere). The -wear, they 
 were. Yth, in the. Tividalg, Teviotdale. Boys, bows. Chyviat 
 chays, hunting ground upon the Cheviot hills. Cast, intend. The 
 ion, the one, one. Yerle, earl. Uppone a parti stande, stand aside. 
 Do, let us do. Cristes cors on his crowne, the curse of Christ on his 
 head. On man for on, man for man. Sothe, south. The first Jit
 
 Notes 39 1 
 
 here I fynde, here I end the first division of the ballad. Horn, them. 
 Gave, i.e., they gave. Many a doughete the garde to dy, many a doughty 
 (knight) they caused to die. Many sterne, etc., many brave ones they 
 struck down straight. Heal or rayn, hail or rain. Say slean was, etc., 
 saw (that) slain was, etc. Stele, steel head. Halyde, pulled. Even- 
 songe, vespers. The tocke, they took ; words are here missing in the 
 MS. Carpe off care, tell of sorrow. Jamy, James I. Ye-feth, in 
 faith. Hombyll-d/nun, there was a battle of Homildon in 1402, though 
 the Percy of Otterbourne and Cheviot fought in it (Gummere). Ther 
 was never a tym, etc., ' There was never a time, on the Border-land, 
 since the Douglas and Percy thus met, but it is a marvel if the red blood 
 ran not as rain does in the street.' Balys bete, remedy our evils. 
 
 Page 18, IV. EDOM o' GORDON. This thrilling recital is both 
 domestic and historical. Professor Gummere (Old English Ballads) 
 sums up the accounts of its source, from Child's edition, thus : " Adam 
 Gordon, a deputy of the Scottish Queen Mary, in November, 1571, sent 
 one Captain Ker to the house of one of the Forbeses, a family attached 
 to the Protestant or regent's party. Captain Ker demanded surrender ; 
 the lady of the house refused ; and thereupon he burned down the house, 
 to the destruction of the inmates. In some of the versions Gordon is 
 treated as the principal actor." The text here given is from a MS. of 
 the last quarter of the sixteenth century (in the British Museum), slightly 
 emended from other versions by Professor Gummere. 
 
 Page 24, V-IX. OF ROBIN HOOD. Rhymesof Robin Hoodarespoken 
 of as early as 1377 in Piers Plowman. The hero himself has been vari- 
 ously assigned to the reigns of Henry II (1154-1189), Richard I (1189- 
 1199), Henry III (1216-1272), Edward I (1272-1307), Edward II (1307- 
 1327), and Edward III (1327-1377). There were indeed no less than six 
 English Robin Hoods in the flesh during the forty years preceding 1337, 
 each earning his living in some unimportant but honest fashion. None 
 of these can be identified with the ballad-hero, who is, as Professor Child 
 has said, " absolutely a creation of the ballad-muse." He is no more a 
 political character than a historical entity. " In the Gest of Robin Hood 
 (the ballads composing which were probably put together, says Professor 
 Child, as early as 1400, or before) he is a yeoman, outlawed for reasons 
 not given but easily surmised, ' courteous and free,' religious in sentiment, 
 and above all reverent of the Virgin, for the love of whom he is respect- 
 ful to all women." He shoots the king's deer but professes loyalty to 
 the king. He is the champion of the common people against such
 
 3 9 2 Poetry of the People 
 
 representatives of the law, civil or ecclesiastical, as show themselves unjust, 
 overbearing, avaricious, or hypocritical; he is friendly to the simple 
 and the poor. " The late ballads debase this primary conception in 
 various ways and degrees." Of the various fyttes, or divisions of this 
 Gest of Robin Hood, we have given, in the text, the seventh under the 
 title " Robin Hood and the King." Some of the ballads make Barnsdale 
 in Yorkshire the basis of Robin's operations ; some of another cycle, the 
 Sherwood, center about Nottingham. 
 
 Page 24, V. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. Recorded as early 
 as 1689. The version which we now have is probably not the original, 
 and still ours may have been composed before 1700. 
 
 Page 29, VI. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THREE SQUIRES, or THH 
 WIDOW'S THREE SONS, was printed by Ritson in 1795 from the York 
 edition of a Robin Hood garland of, which the earliest date known is 
 1670. Ritson thinks that this is one of the oldest Robin Hood ballads. 
 
 Page 34, VU. The adventure of ALLIN A DALE is told as hap- 
 pening to Scarlock (one of Robin's men) in a life of Robin Hood of the 
 end of the sixteenth century. The earliest broadsides of the ballad are 
 of the latter half of the seventeenth. Child. 
 
 Page 38, Vin. ROBIN HOOD AND THE KING. The seventh fytte 
 of the old Gest, composed, as stated above, before the end of the fourteenth 
 century. The text is from Gummere, as based upon Child's copy from 
 an early sixteenth-century version in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. 
 
 The gentyll knight here spoken of has been, in earlier fyttes, befriended 
 by Robin. Here he is identified with a certain Rycharde of the Lee. The 
 kynge is said by some, but on insufficient evidence, to be Edward II, and 
 the year, 1323. Passe, bounds. Faylyd of, missed. Gone, go, walk. 
 
 That he ne shall lese, without losing. Halke, corner. Welt, man- 
 aged. Full moche good, full many goods. Departed it, divided it. 
 Targe (doubtful reading but may be), seal. In Robyrts lote, to Robin's 
 lot. Frendes fare, in spite of his friend's experience {Gummere}. For 
 God, fore God. Sent I me, I assent. With that thou, if thou. But 
 me lyke, unless I like. 
 
 Page 47, IX. ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL. One of the 
 most affecting and unaffected of the ballads. Printed by Ritson in 1795 
 from a collation of two copies of a York garland. The ballad was evi 
 dently composed much earlier.
 
 Notes 393 
 
 Page 50, X. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. Put together by Sir 
 Walter Scott from two different copies and from oral tradition. It 
 is also known as Earl Brand, Lord Douglas, Lady Margaret, and the 
 Child of Ell. The theme is also treated in north European ballads of 
 considerably earlier date. 
 
 Page 53, XI. LORD RANDAL. Version from Scott's Minstrelsy, 
 1803. The story in various forms is widely distributed through Europe ; 
 in Italy it goes back two hundred and fifty years. 
 
 Page 54, XII. BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. As in Gummere, 
 Old English Ballads, from Motherwell's Minstrelsy. The event may 
 be of the end of the sixteenth century, but no one knows. 
 
 Page 55, XIII. BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY. Well-known 
 ballad before the end of the seventeenth century. According to tradition 
 Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, daughters of country gentlemen near Perth, 
 went into seclusion in a bower or summerhouse of some kind at a place 
 called Burnbraes to escape the plague in the city, 1645, Du t caught the 
 sickness from a young man who visited them. They were said to have 
 been buried at Dranoch Haugh. 
 
 Page 56, XTV. THE TWA CORBIES. From Scott's Minstrelsy. 
 Page 57, XV. HELEN OF KIRCONNELL. From the same. 
 Page 58, XVI. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. From the same. 
 Page 60, XVII. THE DEMON LOVER. From the same. 
 
 BOOK SECOND POEMS OF ENGLAND 
 
 Page 65, XVffi. GOD SAVE THE KING. The English national 
 anthem has been ordinarily but without proof attributed to Dr. John 
 Bull (1563-1628), an English composer and organist, and chamber musi- 
 cian to James I ; but not, as is commonly supposed, professor of music at 
 Oxford. It is more likely that the song was written by Henry Carey, who 
 died in 1743 at the age of fifty or thereabout. He was both poet and 
 musical composer; and to him we owe Sally in our Alley and many 
 other popular songs of far greater merit than God Save the King. It is 
 said, however, that the germ of this anthem is found in one which Sir
 
 394 Poetry of the People 
 
 Peter Carew used to sing before Henry VIII (1509-1547), of which the 
 chorus ran, 
 
 And I said, Good Lord defend 
 
 England with thy most holy hand 
 And save noble Henry our King. 
 
 Page 66, XIX. ENGLAND. From King Richard 77, Act II, Sc. i. 
 John of Gaunt upon his deathbed resolves to rebuke his nephew Richard 
 II for the selfish and riotous policy with which he is ruining England. 
 Feared by their breed, by reason of their breed. 
 
 Page 67, XX. BEFORE HARFLEUR. From King Henry the Fifth, 
 Act III, Sc. i. In his invasion of France, 1415, Henry took Harfleur, 
 the key of Normandy, after a siege of thirty-eight days. Portage, loop- 
 holes. Jutty, jut over. Swilled, surrounded by. Confounded, 
 troubled. Pet, fetched. Copy, example. 
 
 Page 68, XXI. BEFORE AGINCOURT. From King Henry the Fifth, 
 Act IV, Sc. 3. (See next note.) The 25th of October is called the day 
 of St. Crispin and St. Crispian after two brothers, early Christians and 
 martyrs of the beginning of the fourth century. They are the patron 
 saints of shoemakers. To gentle his condition means to elevate to the 
 status of gentleman. 
 
 Page 70, XXII. THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. Dedicated to the 
 Cambrio-Britons, or the Welsh, because Henry was born at Monmouth 
 in Wales. Stanza 3. Which, for who. The French general derides 
 Henry by ordering him to provide for his ransom even before the battle 
 is begun. Stanza 6. At Creepy (1346) and Poitiers (1356) Edward III, 
 the great-grandsire of Henry V, had, with his son Edward, the Black 
 Prince, routed the French. Lilies, tins, fleurs-de-lis on the French coat of 
 arms. Stanzas 7-14. Sir Thomas Erfinghant led the archery. The 
 Dukes of Gloucetter and Clarence were younger brothers of the king. 
 The other warriors were of the English nobility. 
 
 Page 74, XXIII. THE " REVENGE." For the incidents of this ballad 
 Tennyson has relied mainly upon Sir Walter Raleigh's report of the 
 engagement published in 1591. At the time of the Armada, Grenville, 
 who had already distinguished himself by romantic bravery, pride, and 
 ferocity, had been commissioned by Elizabeth to protect Cornwall and 
 Devon. When, later, the admiral, Lord Thomas Howard, was sent to 
 the Azores -with a squadron of sixteen ships, of which but six were of the
 
 Notes 395 
 
 line, to intercept the Spanish treasure fleet, he took Sir Richard with 
 him. Overtaken at Flores by a fleet of fifty-three Spanish men-of-war, 
 he was forced to retreat ; but Sir Richard, as vice admiral, stayed to res- 
 cue those of his men who were sick on shore, intending to bring up the 
 rear with his little ship (Drake's ship of the Armada), the Revenge. 
 
 Stanza i. Many cruelties have been ascribed, especially by those of 
 differing faith, to the efforts made by the Holy Inquisition in Spain to 
 put down religious movements directed against the Roman Catholic 
 Church. 
 
 Page 81, XXV. THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY. The cavalier, Sir 
 Richard Tyrone, breaking from Coventry Keep during the Civil War 
 (1642-1649) in order to disperse the besieging Roundheads, is surprised 
 from the rear by their allies of Scotland who march into Coventry in his 
 absence. 
 
 Page 82, XXVI. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. Fought in Northamp- 
 tonshire (or the "North" of the poem), June 14, 1645. The victory 
 gained by the Parliamentary forces decided the fate of Charles, who took 
 refuge among the Scots and was within a year surrendered by them to 
 the English, who put him to death in 1649. Sir Thomas Fairfax was 
 general of the Parliamentary army ; Skippon, major general. Ireton com- 
 manded the left wing and Cromwell with his Ironsides stood upon the 
 right. The king whom the supposed author of this ballad, with his 
 scriptural name after the style of the Puritans, calls the " Man of 
 Blood" and "Accurst" viewed the rout from a neighboring eminence. 
 The royal cavalry on the right wing was under the immediate charge of 
 Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Charles's nephew and the son of the Elector 
 Palatine of Germany; he was assisted in command by Sir Marmaduke 
 Langdale and Sir Jacob Astley. The animosity of the Puritan sergeant 
 for the Churches of Rome and England is evident in his objurgation of 
 the ' mitre ' of the bishop and the Mammon (riches) of the Pope. Oxford 
 University sided with the king. Durham with its " stalls " (the seats in 
 the choir) was one of the cathedral-towns that espoused his side. The 
 invective against the Jesuits and the city of the seven hills (Rome, of 
 course) was provoked by the suspicion of the Puritans that Charles's 
 marriage with Henrietta of France meant the restoration of the Catholic 
 form of religion, and of the Order of Jesus. 
 
 Stanza i. Wine-press, see Rev. xiv. 18-20. Stanza 6. Alsatia, 
 that part of London frequented by fugitives from justice, acknowledged 
 criminals, and bullies. Whitehall, the palace. Stanza 10. Temple
 
 39 6 Poetry of the People 
 
 Bar, one of the gateways or barriers of ancient London, now removed, on 
 the top of which were exposed the heads of traitors. Stanza 15. The 
 Hottses of Parliament and the Word of God. 
 
 Page 87, XXVIII. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. The words of this 
 stirring military song date from about 1690, but the music is founded on 
 an air of the sixteenth century. 
 
 Page 88, XXIX. RULE, BRITANNIA. The well-known tune is by 
 Arne. 
 
 Page 90, XXXI. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Denmark, by entering 
 into a coalition with Russia and Sweden to prevent England from 
 searching neutral vessels, brought about the bombardment of Copen- 
 hagen by Admiral Nelson in 1801. Hence the " Battle of the Baltic " 
 by which the coalition was broken up. Elsinore, the ancient seat of 
 the Danish kings, near Copenhagen. Captain Riou of the English fleet, 
 killed during the engagement. 
 
 Page 93, XXXII. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. The first draft of 
 this song (written in 1800) was based upon an ancient melody, "Ye 
 Gentlemen of England," by Martin Parker, about 1630, which has con- 
 siderable merit. The English admiral, Robert Blake, had defeated De 
 Reuter, De Wit, and Van Tromp on various occasions during the Dutch 
 War of 1652-1653. He died at sea in 1657 after routing the navies of 
 Spain. Nelson was mortally wounded at Trafalgar, 1805, in the moment 
 of victory. The meteor flag, because of its fiery hue. 
 
 Page 94, XXXm. CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 Wordsworth had in view both Lord Nelson and his own brother, Captain 
 John Wordsworth. The latter perished in the wreck of his vessel, 1805. 
 From the former the poet has drawn much that was generally acknowledged 
 to be excellent and commendable in his professional career; from the 
 latter the higher qualities of personal and social conduct. 
 
 Page 97, XXXIV. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. After the 
 capture of Madrid by Napoleon, 1809, Sir John Moore, commanding a 
 portion of Wellington's army, was forced to retreat before the French and 
 was killed at Corunna while striving to embark his troops. He was buried 
 the same night on the ramparts of the city. Of the " Burial " Byron said 
 that it was " the most perfect ode in the language." 
 
 Page 98, XXXV. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. The third canto 
 of Childe Harold, from which these stanzas are taken, was written two
 
 JVotes 397 
 
 years after Waterloo was fought. The ball referred to in the second 
 stanza of the text was given by the Duchess of Richmond on June 15, 
 three days before the battle. The Duke of Brunswick, commanding a 
 German contingent and acting with Bliicher and Wellington, fell at the 
 preliminary battle of Quatre Bras, on the i6th. The Camerons 1 gather- 
 ing stands, of course, for many a war tune of the Scottish regiments. 
 Byron refers especially to " Sir Evan Cameron and his descendant 
 Donald, the 'gentle Lochiel' of the 'forty-five' (1745)." In a note on 
 the next stanza Byron says, " The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a 
 remnant of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and 
 immortal in Shakespeare's As You Like It." 
 
 Page 101, XXXVI. THE LOST LEADER. From Dramatic Ro- 
 mances and Lyrics, 1845. "A great leader of a party has deserted the 
 cause, fallen away from his early ideals, and forsaken the teaching which 
 has inspired disciples who loved and honored him. They are sorrowful 
 not so much for their own loss as for the moral deterioration he has him- 
 self suffered." Browning in writing of the poem some thirty years later 
 confesses that in his hasty youth he did use, as a sort of painter's model 
 for this picture, one or two features of the great and venerable personality 
 of Wordsworth, who, though extremely liberal in his political sentiments 
 during his earlier manhood, became, like many a hot-headed revolutionary 
 before him and since, a rigid conservative in his middle and later years. 
 " Had I intended more," he continues, " above all such a boldness as 
 portraying the entire man, I should not have talked about ' handfuls of 
 silver and bits of ribbon.' These never influenced the change of politics 
 in the great poet. ... I altogether refuse to have my little poem consid- 
 ered as the ' very effigies ' of such a moral and intellectual superiority." 
 
 Page 102, XXXVII. ON THE DEATH OF WORDSWORTH. The 
 three men here celebrated are regarded as the poetic voices of Europe 
 during the early part of the nineteenth century, the period of storm 
 and transition, a Titanic age in politics and poetry. Goethe had 
 died in 1832 ; Byron, in 1824, while assisting the Greeks in their war of 
 independence against the Turks. Another excellent appreciation of 
 Wordsworth's contribution to English sentiment and conduct is William 
 Watson's poem entitled Words-worth's Grave. 
 
 Page 105, XXXVin. ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. Septem- 
 ber 14, 1852. The lines "Who is he that cometh" to "on my rest" are 
 supposed to be uttered by Lord Nelson, and call forth the recital of
 
 398 Poetry of the People 
 
 Wellington's feats on land. This poem may profitably be compared with 
 Longfellow's Warden of the Cinque Ports, a title borne by Wellington 
 at the time of his death. 
 
 Page 114, XXXIX. Loss OF THE " BIRKENHEAD." English troop- 
 ship wrecked off the African coast in 1852. "She had on board her 
 crew, one hundred and thirty-two in number, and about five hundred 
 other persons consisting of soldiers with their wives and children. The 
 women and children were sent off in the boats. The men remained on 
 board to face almost certain death. Many were young soldiers who had 
 been but a short time in the service. All were swept into the sea by the 
 waves, and nearly all were lost" (Montgomery, Heroic Ballads; Ginn 
 & Company, Boston). The clasp and cross of bronze are military deco- 
 rations. A more recent treatment of this theme is Kipling's Soldier an' 
 Sailor too : 
 
 Their work was done when it 'ad n't begun ; they was younger nor me an' you ; 
 ... So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too 1 
 
 Page 116, XL. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. At the 
 battle of Balaklava, 1854, during the Crimean War, a band of English 
 light horsemen, " owing to some fatal misconception of the meaning of 
 an order from the commander-in-chief, rode a mile down a slight slope, 
 exposed to a merciless cross fire, for the purpose of saving a few guns 
 from capture by the Russians. They reached the battery, sabred the 
 gunners, and rode back," less than two hundred of the six hundred and 
 seven who had started. " All the world rang with wonder and admira- 
 tion," says McCarthy, " of the futile and splendid charge. . . . Perhaps 
 its best epitaph was contained in the comment of the French general, 
 Bosquet, ' It was magnificent, but it was not war.' " 
 
 Page 118, XLI. SANTA FILOMENA. It has been well said that of 
 all the heroes of the Crimean War Miss Nightingale was the noblest. 
 " She went forth not to slay, but to heal, and she came back with more 
 honors on her brow than any hero of them all." Of the saint whose 
 name our American poet prefixes to these verses, Mrs. Jameson in her 
 Sacred and Legendary Art, II, 298, says, "At Pisa, the church of San 
 Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over 
 the altar is a picture by Sabatelli, representing the saint as a beautiful, 
 nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, 
 bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the
 
 Notes 399 
 
 sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession." Longfellow in 
 choosing this title was naturally influenced by the resemblance of the 
 name to Philomela (the nightingale). 
 
 Page 119, XLII. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. The British soldiers 
 English, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish (from Severn, Clyde, and Shannon) 
 are besieging Sebastopol during the Crimean War, 1855. Redan and 
 Malakaff are Russian forts. The author is the American, Bayard 
 Taylor. 
 
 Page 121, Xl/m. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. During the mutiny 
 of the Sepoy, or native, regiments in Hindostan, 1857, a number of Eng- 
 lish women and children with but a small garrison were besieged in the 
 fort of Lucknow from July i till September 25, when General Havelock 
 fighting his way into the town prevented a massacre. The rescue 
 was, however, but temporary ; and if Sir Colin Campbell, recently ap- 
 pointed commander in chief, had not reached Lucknow with his plucky 
 force of five thousand on November 14, Havelock's soldiers would merely 
 have swelled the list of victims for whom the Sepoys were preparing a 
 frightful end. The author of the poem was the brother of James Russell 
 Lowell. 
 
 Page 124, XLIV. THE MARCH OF THE WORKERS. In his later 
 years Morris, as is well known, devoted much time and energy to the 
 furtherance of socialistic doctrines. His best prose works upon this sub- 
 ject are A Dream of John Ball and Nevus from Nowhere ; his best verse 
 The Pilgrims of Hope and Chants for Socialists. From the last, written 
 in 1885, the poem in the text is taken. It is included in this collection 
 as representing the poetic high-water mark of a movement whose impor- 
 tance in history no impartial observer can underrate. Other poems of 
 the same kind are his Death Song, 1887; Ebenezer Elliott's Corn Law 
 Rhymes of 1827; Eliza Cook's The People of England ; Ernest Charles 
 Jones's Songs of Democracy ; Gerald Massey's Cries of Forty-Eight ; 
 Brough's Songs of the Governing Classes, 1855 5 an< ^ some of Swin- 
 burne's Songs before Sunrise. 
 
 Page 126, XLV. RECESSIONAL. Written to celebrate the close of 
 Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, 1897. 
 
 Page 138, LV. VICAR OF BRAY. Attributed to an officer in the 
 English army during the reign of George I (1714-1727). A certain 
 Vicar of Bray called "Simon Alleyn was twice a Papist and twice a
 
 400 Poetry of the People 
 
 Protestant in the reign of Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary, and Elizabeth. 
 Hence the modern application of the titl%," 
 
 Page 142, LVffl. TOM BOWLING. From a musical dramatic com- 
 position called The Oddities. Dibdin's sea songs are not only numerous 
 but probably the best that England has produced. Broached him to ; 
 not "too," as some editors print it, conceiving that Death has tapped him 
 like a cask. To broach to is a nautical term meaning to bring up or 
 come, by mistake of steering, to the wind. Hence the wreck of Tom 
 Bowling. 
 
 BOOK THIRD POEMS OF SCOTLAND 
 
 Page 143, LIX. MY NATIVE LAND. The Song of the Aged Harper, 
 which opens the sixth canto of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Yarrow 
 and Ettrick, rivers in the south of Scotland. 
 
 Page 144, LX. BANNOCKBURN. Sir William Wallace, attempting 
 to cast off the yoke of suzerainty recently imposed upon Scotland by 
 Edward I of England, was at first victorious, 1296-1297; but, overthrown 
 in the battle of Falkirk, 1298, he was later taken prisoner by the English 
 and in 1305 put to death as a traitor. Robert Bruce, who arose to fill 
 his place, was crowned king of Scotland in 1306. In 1314 he met and 
 routed the forces of England under Edward II at Bannockburn, thus 
 regaining for his country its independence. 
 
 Page 145, LXI. GATHERING SONG. " This," says Sir Walter Scott, 
 " is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald, and supposed 
 to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who in 1431 launched from 
 the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy 
 defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the 
 head of an army superior to his own." 
 
 Page 146, LXII. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST, ETC. The Forest 
 here is a district of Scotland " which boasted the best archers and per- 
 haps the finest men in the kingdom. It comprehended Selkirkshire, 
 part of Peeblesshire and of Clydesdale." The battle of Flodden (1513) 
 was one of the most awful disasters that have ever befallen Scotland. 
 James IV, who had invaded England at the head of thirty thousand 
 men, was utterly crushed by the English commander, the Earl of Surrey, 
 and, in company with the flower of Scottish chivalry and yeomen, lost
 
 Notes 401 
 
 his life. The kst part of the poem as here given, beginning with stanza 
 4, was written by Alison Rutherford (afterward Mrs. Cockburn) as a 
 complete song several years before her younger contemporary, Jean Elliot, 
 wrote the first three stanzas. 
 
 Page 149, LXIII. BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. From Tht 
 Monastery, Chapter XXV. Mary, Queen of Scots, was born 1542, 
 crowned 1543. She fled to England, 1568, and was beheaded on charge 
 of conspiring against the life of Elizabeth, 1587. Sir Walter founded 
 this song, however, on a later production of popular origin composed to 
 celebrate General Lesley's (the Earl of Leven's) march over the Border 
 to Longmarston Moor, where in 1644 he helped to overcome the forces 
 of Charles L 
 
 Page 150, LXIV. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. Having headed 
 a fruitless rising in favor of Charles, afterward the Second, in 1650, the 
 Marquis of Montrose (James Graham, or Graeme) " was taken prisoner 
 and executed in Edinburgh (Dunedin) with all the vindictive insult that 
 his hereditary enemy, the Marquis of Argyle (Archibald Campbell), him- 
 self suspected of having previously plotted the execution of Charles I, 
 could heap upon him." According to Professor Aytoun, " The most 
 poetical chronicler would find it impossible to render the incidents of 
 Montrose's brilliant career more picturesque than the reality. Among 
 the devoted champions, who, during the wildest and most stormy period 
 of our history, maintained the cause of Church and King ' the great 
 Marquis ' undoubtedly is entitled to the foremost place. Cardinal Retz 
 has said of him ' he is the only man in the world that has ever realized 
 to me the ideas of certain heroes whom we now discover nowhere but in 
 the lives of Plutarch.' . . . There is no ingredient of fiction in the histor- 
 ical incidents recorded in the following ballad. ... It may be considered 
 as a narrative of the transactions related by an aged Highlander, who 
 had followed Montrose through his campaigns, to his grandson Evan 
 Cameron." Macleod of Assynt betrayed Montrose to his enemies. 
 The Watergate, in Edinburgh. The Solemn League and Covenant 
 between the Scottish church and the English Parliament, 1643, aimed to 
 establish Presbyterianism throughout Great Britain and Ireland. The 
 flag bore the cross of Saint Andrew, the patron of Scotland. The Presby- 
 terian ministers had been largely trained under John Calvin at Geneva. 
 
 Page 157, LXV. THE BONNETS o' BONNIE DUNDEE. After 
 James II had fled from England before the invading army of William of
 
 402 Poetry of the People 
 
 Orange (William III), his cause was maintained in Scotland by Viscount 
 Dundee (John Graham of Claverhouse), the Duke of Gordon, and others. 
 The Lords of Convention, or Scottish Parliament, in spite of the threats 
 of Claverhouse (Claver'se), swore allegiance to William and Mary ; and the 
 Whig, or Puritan, element of the city of Edinburgh approved their decision. 
 The Viscount galloped away to raise an army of Highland chieftains and 
 their clans, "wild Duniewassals" in the North, for the Lowland lords 
 also had thrown their influence to King William. The Westfort, the 
 western gate. The Bow, a famous street whose " bends " had been " sancti- 
 fied" by the assembling there of the Scottish Church. The Grass-Market, 
 a central square. The Covenanting Protestants from Kilmarnock are 
 sneeringly called "cowls" because of their austere appearance. Mons 
 Meg and her marrows (companions) are the cannon in the castle. Vis- 
 count Dundee boasts that not all the power of Scotland is confined 
 within the environment of Edinburgh bounded by the Pcntland Hills and 
 the Firth of Forth. Ravelston and Clermiston are near Edinburgh. 
 For Montrose, see the preceding poem. A good characterization of 
 Claverhouse may be found in Scott's Old Mortality and in Aytoun's 
 Burial March of Dundee. The poem is in the Doom of Devorgoil. 
 
 Page 159, LXVI. THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER. William Ed- 
 monstoune Aytoun, the author of the stirring Lays of the Scottish Cava- 
 liers, 1849, was a professor in the University of Edinburgh. He says in 
 his preface to th.is poem that the subject of it is Alexander Forbes, Lord 
 Pitsligo, a nobleman whose conscientious views impelled him to follow 
 the fortunes of the exiled house of Stuart. His castle by the Spey was 
 in Aberdeenshire. Of the cavalier of the lay it is said that his father 
 had died for James II in 1689, at Killiecrankie Pass, with that Graeme 
 of Claverhouse celebrated in The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee ; and that 
 he himself was with Prince Charles "Edward in the Jacobite victory 
 at Prestonpans, and fell in the battle that decided the fate of the 
 Jacobite cause, Culloden Moor, 1746. The White Rose and the 
 White Cockade are, of course, emblems of the Stuarts. 
 
 Page 162, LXVn. THE LAMENT OF FLORA MACDONALD. After 
 his flight from Culloden, Charles Edward Stuart was saved from the 
 pursuit of some two thousand men by Flora Macdonald, who took him 
 over the Skye in disguise. After numerous hardships, he reembarked 
 for France some five months later. In the Jacobite Relics, James Hogg 
 says that he versified anew the original of this song which he had obtained 
 in a rude translation from the Gaelic.
 
 Notes 403 
 
 Page 163, LXVUI. WAE 's ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. James 
 Hogg attributes this song to William Glen of Glasgow, author of a few 
 other popular songs. The Young Pretender's ill-starred invasion of 
 Great Britain was brought to a close at Culloden, April 16, 1746. 
 
 Page 165, LXX. THE BLUE BELL OF SCOTLAND. This version is 
 from Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time and Ritson's North 
 Country Chorister. The well-known air was composed by Mrs. Jordan, 
 perhaps as early as 1786 ; she sang it first in London in 1786, and again 
 in 1800, when it acquired general popularity. Chappell describes it as 
 an " old English Border song," and the version given by him is far 
 older and simpler than others (like that attributed to Mrs. Grant of 
 Laggan, 1799, which has nothing about the Blue Bell, and need not be 
 here retailed). Miss Stirling Graham's still more recent version has 
 " where blooms the sweet blue bell," which may be poetic but is less 
 naive than the commemoration of the tavern sign which is found in the 
 original. 
 
 Page 166, LXXI. ANNIE LAURIE. The heroine of this the sweet- 
 est of Scottish love songs was born on December 16, 1682, one of four 
 daughters of Sir Robert Laurie of Maxwelton House, Scotland. We 
 may conjecture that it was about 1700 that she " made up the bargain" 
 with the lover who immortalized her, William Douglas of Finland, or 
 Fingland. But " he didna get her after a'," said his own granddaughter, 
 Clark Douglas, an old lady who was still living in 1854. According to 
 her, the words as sung at that date were not as they first were written. 
 " Oh, I mind them fine," she said, " I have remembered them a' my life. 
 My father often repeated them to me." She then recited : 
 
 Maxwel ton's banks are bonnie, 
 
 They're a' clad owre wi' dew, 
 Where I an' Annie Laurie 
 Made up the bargain true. 
 Made up the bargain true, 
 
 Which ne'er forgot s'all be, 
 An' for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I 'd lay me doun an' dee, 
 
 but remembered " nae mair." And probably that was all that Douglas of 
 Fingland had composed. The second stanza of the song, as it was said 
 to have been written by him, might have been put together by anybody ; for 
 there is only one line that evinces any effort of composition. The first
 
 404 Poetry of the People 
 
 five were borrowed, says Fitzgerald, from an old ballad of John Anderson, 
 my Jo, and the last two are simply the refrain. The following is the old 
 second stanza, as attributed to Douglas : 
 
 She's backit like the peacock, 
 She's bristit like the swan, 
 She 's jimp around the middle, 
 Her waist ye weel micht span 
 Her waist ye weel micht span 
 
 An' she has a rolling ee, 
 
 An' for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I 'd lay me doun an' dee. 
 
 The first stanza was altered by Lady John Scott to the form given in 
 the text. She substituted the second as there given; and added the 
 third. The third line of her third stanza has been changed by some one, 
 but without advantage, to " Like the winds in summer sighing." Fitz- 
 gerald (in whose Famous Songs the poem is discussed) says that the 
 melody now sung was composed by this lady, though it is attributed by 
 some to a Scotchman named R. Findlater. 
 
 Page 167, LXXII. LOCHABER. "A lady, in whose father's house at 
 Edinburgh Burns was a frequent and honored guest, one evening played 
 the tune of Lochaber on the harpsichord to Burns. He listened to it 
 attentively, and then exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, ' Oh, tliat 's a fine 
 tune for a broken heart.' It is said that the tune is derived from a 
 seventeenth-century air of Irish composition entitled King James's 
 March to Ireland" Wood's Scottish Songs. 
 
 Page 168, LXXm. NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. This Burns 
 used to call " the finest love-ballad of the kind in the Scottish or perhaps 
 any other language." While it is said to have been written by William 
 Mickle, we know that the fifth and most poetic stanza was added by Dr. 
 James Beattie. 
 
 Page 171, LXXIV. A RED, RED ROSE. Burns's contribution to 
 this song would seem to be limited to the exquisite first stanza. The 
 rest constitute a very old ditty, said to have been written by a Lieuten- 
 ant Hinches as a farewell to his sweetheart. It is one of the songs that 
 Burns picked up from the old wives of the countryside. 
 
 Page 171, LXXV. FOR A' THAT. Written about January, 1795. 
 " Is there any one that, because of honest poverty, hangs, etc."
 
 Notes 
 
 405 
 
 Page 173, LXXVI. JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo. Burns took the open- 
 ing phrase from a very old and worthless song of the sixteenth century. 
 The sentiment and poetry are his own. 
 
 Page 174, LXXVII. AFTON WATER. Afton is an Ayrshire stream. 
 It is reported that Burns wrote the verses as a tribute of gratitude to 
 Mrs. Stewart of Afton Lodge,' " for the notice she had taken of him 
 the first he had received from one in her rank of life." 
 
 Page 176, LXXIX. MY HEART 's IN THE HIGHLANDS. Burns said 
 that the first half stanza was from an old song, the rest was by himself. 
 
 Page 176, LXXX. JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. The first stanza conies 
 from an old ballad, the others were added by Scott. 
 
 Page 178, LXXXI. LOCHINVAR. Lady Heron's song in the fifth 
 canto of Marmion. The Eske flows into Solway. Netherby is in Cum- 
 berland. 
 
 Page 185, LXXXVI. AULD LANG SYNE. Burns himself said that 
 this song was old. To his friend Mrs. Dunlop he wrote : " Is not the Scots 
 phrase ' Auld Lang Syne ' exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song 
 and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an 
 enthusiast on old Scot songs. I shall give you the verses." He enclosed the 
 words of the song as we know it, and continued, " Light lie the turf on the 
 breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment." 
 To Thomson, his publisher, he wrote: " One song more, and I am done 
 Auld Lang Syne. The air is but mediocre ; but the following song, the 
 old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even 
 in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough 
 to recommend any air." Fitzgerald (in his Stories of Famous Songs) adds 
 to this information the following, that Sir Robert Ayton (1570-1638), "a 
 friend of Ben Jonson and other Elizabethan writers," wrote a poem in 
 which occurs this stanza: 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never thought upon, 
 The flame of love extinguished 
 
 And fairly passed and gone? 
 Is thy kind heart now grown so cold, 
 
 In that loving breast of thine, 
 That thou canst never once reflect 
 On old long syne?
 
 406 Poetry of the People 
 
 In 1724 the poet Allan Ramsay tried his hand at the song. In an old col- 
 lection of 1775, called the Caledoniad, this Ay ton stanza appears as the 
 first of ten in an Old-Long-Syne a love song of no particular merit. And 
 it is interesting to note that this poem is preceded in the Caledoniad by 
 one entitled "Auld Kyndness quite forget" the refrain of which would 
 seem to have suggested " We '11 tak a cup of kindness yet " in the song 
 as we now have it. Burns reshaped and vastly improved the first stanza 
 of the Ayton song, ind probably added the stanzas which now stand 
 second and third. The old tune has been abandoned since 1795. That 
 now in use was composed by William Shield, an Englishman. 
 
 BOOK FOURTH POEMS OF IRELAND 
 
 Page 188, LXXXVUL THE IRISH WIFE. " In 1376 the Statute of 
 Kilkenny forbade the English settlers in Ireland to intermarry with the 
 Irish under pain of outlawry. James, Earl of Desmond, was one of the 
 first to violate this law. He was an accomplished poet." He is therefore 
 well represented as the author of these thrilling lines. Thomas D'Arcy 
 McGee, who wrote the poem, was one of the Irish patriots of 1848. 
 
 Page 190, LXXXIX. DARK ROSALEEN. The R6;sfn Dubh (Roseen 
 dhu), or little black rose, symbolizes Ireland. The original of this song 
 is in the Irish tongue and was composed during the reign of Elizabeth, 
 about 1601. "It purports to be an allegorical address from the chieftain, 
 Hugh the Red O'Donnell, to Ireland on the subject of his love and 
 struggles for her, and his resolve to free her from the English yoke." 
 The date of this address would be about 1601, when the Spaniards landed 
 at Kinsale to help the Irish. It has been translated by Thomas Furlong 
 and by Aubrey De Vere. Mangan has given it all the passion of a love 
 song. This poet, the most original song writer of Ireland, lived most 
 of his life in Dublin. He vas for a time associated with the staff of 
 Trinity College Library. 
 
 Page 193, XC. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. With an army of 
 Stuart loyalists and Frenchmen James II of England had landed in 
 Ireland, in 1689, to regain his throne. That year he was defeated in an 
 attempt to take the Protestant town of Derry in the north. During the 
 next year, William of Orange and his marshal, the Duke of Schomberg, 
 drove him down from Dundalk, fifty miles from Dublin, to the southern
 
 Notes 407 
 
 banks of the river Boyne, which flows into Drogheda Bay about twenty 
 miles north of Dublin. William III crossed to the attack at Old Bridge. 
 Schomberg fell as recounted in the ballad; but the Orange forces swept 
 clean the entrenchments of James and sent him flying by the Pass of 
 Duleek for Dublin. Faith's defender, Fidei Defensor, a title bestowed 
 by Pope Leo X upon Henry VIII, in 1521, and retained by him as a 
 Protestant, and by his successors. Fragments of the original ballad of 
 the Boyne Water composed soon after the battle may still be heard in 
 the north of Ireland, but the version here given, attributed to a certain 
 Captain Bkcker, is that used by the Orangemen in their meetings at 
 the present day. Neither version has any literary merit ; but the battle 
 was one of the turning points of British history. The society of Irish 
 Protestants called " Orangemen," which commemorates the event, is as 
 keenly interested in political and religious affairs to-day as in 1795, when 
 it was organized in order to oppose the spread of Roman Catholicism. 
 
 Page 195, XCI. AFTER AUGHRIM. Ginckel, a Dutchman, being 
 left in command of the English forces by William III after the battle 
 of the Boyne, drove Sarsfield, King James's general, out of Athlone and 
 back to the bogs of Aughrim, and defeated him there on July 12, 1691. 
 Soon after, Ginckel and the Irish leader Sarsfield met again at Limerick, 
 where the cause of the Stuarts was finally lost by Sarsfield's defeat. 
 
 Page 196, XCII. SHAN VAN VOCHT, or Poor Old Woman, is one of 
 the many names under which Ireland has been personified by those 
 of her sons who would sever the connection with England. This ballad 
 is an anonymous composition of the year 1797 when the French fleet 
 arrived in Bantry Bay to support the uprising of the United Irishmen. 
 The movement was chiefly for Catholic emancipation, and one of its 
 leaders was the well-known Lord Edward Fitzgerald. The rebellion 
 failed and Lord Edward died in prison. 
 
 Page 198, XCm. THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. Numerous ver- 
 sions of this street ballad exist. That of the text, however, is best 
 known. It was introduced by Dion Boucicault (born in Dublin, 1822) 
 into one of his plays about 1870. Nafper Tandy, a patriot of 1798. 
 
 Page 200, XCIV. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. The author of 
 this stirring song, often called Ninety-Eight, was for many years a 
 FeLow, and librarian, of Trinity College, Dublin.
 
 408 Poetry of the People 
 
 Page 202, XCV. THE GERALDINES. The author, Davis, was one 
 
 of the most brilliant poets and political agitators of his day in Ireland. 
 He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and became a member of 
 the Irish bar. " There were two distinct families known in Irish history 
 as ' the Goraldines,' and both were descended from Maurice Fitzgerald, 
 one of the Anglo-Normans who invaded Ireland under ' Strongbow,' the 
 Earl of Pembroke, during 1169-1170 (i) the Fitzgeralds of Desmond, 
 or South Munster ; (2) the Fitzgeralds of Kildare, to whom the Duke of 
 Leinster belongs." The descendants of these and other Anglo-Norman 
 conquerors became in time more Irish than the Irish themselves 
 largely because they adopted the Irish practice of fosterage, by which 
 the children of the lord of an estate were sent out to nurse with the 
 family of his native retainer. Children thus brought up naturally took 
 to the Irish customs of dress, of native or Brehon law, of bardic festivals, 
 of keeping great retinues of mercenaries or kerns. Crom abu, the war 
 cry and motto of the Geraldines. Maynooth Castle, the Geraldine 
 stronghold. Silken Thomas, tenth Earl of Kildare, who, when he heard 
 that Henry VIII had beheaded his father, the ninth Earl, flung the 
 sword of state on the council table in contemptuous defiance of the 
 king. Thomas was himself beheaded in 1537. The sixteenth Earl of 
 Desmond lost his estates and life by an unsuccessful rebellion against 
 Elizabeth in 1580. Lord Edward, or the Sainted Edward, the son of 
 the first Duke of Leinster referred to in The Shan Van Vocht. For 
 Ginckel and Limerick, see note to After Aughrim. 
 
 Page 205, XCVI. SOGGARTH AROON. Aroon (anin), Irish for "be- 
 loved " Soggarth, priest. Banim was an Irish novelist and dramatist. 
 
 Page 207, XCVn. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME is an air perhaps 
 of the seventeenth century. It came into general use as the soldier's tune 
 of departure about 1750. The words and music are both of Irish com- 
 position. An English version of later date exists, but it lacks the ballad 
 ring of the Irish original. 
 
 Page 209, XCVm. THE HARP THAT ONCE. Tara, in County 
 Meath, near Dublin, is famous as a royal castle in the early history of 
 Ireland. Moore's Irish Melodies were written between 1807 and 1834. 
 
 Page 213, Cin. THE COOLUN. Coolun, the flowing love-locks of the 
 native Irish of earlier days, used here as a term of fondness. Colleen, lass ; 
 oge, young; bavin, fair. The author is perhaps the most thoroughly
 
 Notes 
 
 409 
 
 Irish of the poets of his country. He has hardly the originality, how- 
 ever, of Mangan. 
 
 Page 214, CIV. THE BELLS OF SHANDON. The bells here cele- 
 brated are in the steeple of the church of St. Anne, or Upper Shandon, 
 in Cork. The lyric was published in 1834. The Reverend Francis 
 Mahony is better known under the pen name of Father Prout. 
 
 Page 215, CV. KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. The words by (Mrs.) 
 Julia Crawford, a native of County Cavan. They were first published 
 between 1830 and 1840, in the Metropolitan Magazine ; and were soon 
 afterwards set to music by Frederick Nicholls Crouch. 
 
 Page 216, CVI. THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. Helena 
 Selina Blackwood, Lady Dufferin, was one of the three brilliant grand- 
 daughters of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She was the mother of the 
 famous Marquis of Dufferin, recently deceased. This tender idyllic 
 ballad was published about 1838. 
 
 Page 218, CVII. DEAR LAND. The rousing songs which appeared 
 in The Nation, an Irish newspaper, over the name of Sliabh Cuilinn, 
 have with some degree of probability been attributed to John O'Hagan, a 
 distinguished Irish jurist, who was born in 1822. 
 
 Page 223, CX. SONG FROM THE BACKWOODS. Written in 1857. 
 The author has been for years editor and proprietor of the Irish news- 
 paper, The Nation. 
 
 BOOK FIFTH POEMS OF AMERICA 
 
 Page 236, CXVH. CONCORD HYMN. On the night of April 18, 1775, 
 eight hundred British regulars were secretly dispatched from Boston to 
 arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock at Lexington, and to seize the 
 military stores collected at Concord. The vigilant patriots, however, 
 had discovered the secret and were on the alert, and when the expedition 
 moved to cross the Charles River, Paul Revere, one of the most active of 
 the Sons of Liberty in Boston, had preceded them and was on his way 
 toward Concord to arouse the inhabitants and the minute-men. Soon 
 after church bells, musketry, and cannon spread the news over the coun- 
 try ; and when, at dawn, April 19, the British arrived at Lexington they
 
 410 Poetry of the People 
 
 found seventy minute-men drawn up on the village green to oppose them, 
 The advance guard under Major Pitcairn fired upon them, but they held 
 their ground until the main body of the British appeared. Then they 
 gave way and the regulars pushed forward to Concord. Here they were 
 unable to discover any military stores, and while they were committing 
 some depredations affairs took a sudden turn. Two hundred regulars 
 who guarded the Concord bridge were routed by some four hundred 
 minute-men who had hastily collected from neighboring towns. The 
 position of the British thus became perilous. About noon they started 
 for Boston, subjected to a galling fire from all sides. Exhausted by 
 their long march they fell into a disorderly flight and were saved only by 
 the timely assistance of Lord Percy, who came from Boston with ree'n- 
 forcements. Seven miles from Boston their passage was again disputed 
 by a force of militia. The whole countryside was out against them; 
 once more their retreat became a rout, and at sunset they entered 
 Charlestown under the welcome protection of the fleet, on the full run, 
 just in time to avoid an encounter with Colonel Pickering and seven hun- 
 dred Essex militia. The loss of the British was two hundred and 
 seventy-three; that of the Americans about one-third that number. 
 The battle showed that the colonists could not be frightened into sub- 
 mission. From Jameson. This hymn was sung at the completion of the 
 Battle Monument, April 19, 1836, on the occasion of the anniversary of 
 the battle of Lexington. 
 
 Page 238, CXIX. THE MARYLAND BATTALION. This poem has 
 reference to the battle of Long Island, August 27, 1776, won by the 
 British, under Howe, Clinton, Percy, Cornwallis, and Grant, with the 
 Hessians under von Heister, over the Americans commanded by William 
 Alexander (known as Lord Stirling), Sullivan, and Putnam. See Fiske's 
 American Revolution, 1 : 207. Macaroni was used for an exquisitely 
 dressed person a century and more before the Revolution. 
 
 Page 240, CXX. COLUMBIA, ETC. The author, who was later Presi- 
 dent of Yale College, was a chapkin in the Revolutionary army when he 
 wrote this prophetic poem, 
 
 Page 241, CXXI. MARION'S MEN. A brigade organized by 
 Francis Marion (b. 1732, d. 1795), an American Revolutionary general. 
 It was noted for the celerity of its movements and the sudden fierceness 
 of its attacks. Marion operated from his swamp fastnesses on the Pedee 
 and Santee rivers, whence he led or sent out expeditions against the 
 British which accomplished marvelous results.
 
 Notes 4I i 
 
 Page 244, CXXII. EUTAW SPRINGS. On September 8, 1781, General 
 Greene commanding the American forces attacked the British under 
 Colonel Stuart at Eutaw Springs, a place about fifty miles from Charles- 
 ton, South Carolina, on the Santee. There were two brief actions. In 
 the first the British line was broken and driven from the field. In the 
 second Stuart succeeded in forming a new line, supported by a brick 
 house, and from this position Greene was unable to drive him. The 
 total American loss was five hundred and fifty-four; that of the British 
 about one thousand. 
 
 Page 245, CXXIII. CARMEN BELLICOSUM. Old Continentals, the 
 American Revolutionary soldiers. Grenadiers, the English forces. 
 Unicorn, the sinister supporter of the arms of England. 
 
 Page 249, CXXVI. HAIL, COLUMBIA. Written in 1798 to the tune 
 of " The President's March." Intense feeling was rife in America at 
 that time with respect to the war then raging between France and Eng- 
 land. The famous ode, sung first at the benefit performance of a Phila- 
 delphia actor, was composed with the object of inspiring in the hostile 
 factions a patriotism which should transcend the bitterness of party 
 feeling. Stedman. 
 
 Page 254, CXXVin. " OLD IRONSIDES." The popular name of the 
 frigate Constitution, the most celebrated vessel in the United States 
 navy. She was built in Boston in 1797, and during the War of 1812 ren- 
 dered glorious service to the nation. Her victory over the English 
 frigate Guerrilre " raised the United States in one half hour to the rank 
 of a first-class naval power.'' In 1830 the Navy Department deeming 
 the Constitution no longer useful ordered her broken up and sold. This 
 order met with so much popular opposition that it was abandoned. Dr. 
 Holmes's poetic protest did much to create and call forth the public 
 sentiment against it. 
 
 Page 256, CXXX. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. Written 
 during the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the British fleet, the 
 author being at the time detained on board one of the British ships. 
 
 Page 259, CXXXH. THE AMERICAN FLAG. To this poem of 
 Drake's, which has become a national classic, Halleck is said to have 
 added the closing quatrain. 
 
 Page 262, CXXXIV. THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO. The Alamo 
 was a fort at San Antonio, Texas, made memorable by the heroic
 
 412 Poetry of the People 
 
 defense of its little garrison in 1836, during the war of Texan Inde- 
 pendence. A force of one hundred and forty Texans withstood for two 
 weeks an army of nearly four thousand Mexicans under Santa Ana. 
 Finally, after a desperate defense, the fort was taken by assault, March 6. 
 Of its defenders only six remained alive, and these, including the famous 
 Davy Crockett, were immediately butchered by order of the Mexican 
 general. 
 
 Page 263, CXXXV. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. This poem 
 commemorates the Kentuckians who fell at Buena Vista, February 
 22-23, 1847. 
 
 Page 268, CXXXVn. BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. This 
 hymn " will last as long as the Civil War is remembered in history. It 
 was written in 1861, after the author's observing, in the camps near 
 Washington, the marching of the enthusiastic young soldiers to the song 
 John Brown's Body. Mrs. Howe's words were at once adopted and 
 sung throughout the North." Stedman. 
 
 Page 271, CXL. THE "CUMBERLAND." A Federal sloop of war 
 (Lieutenant George U. Morris commander) sunk by the Confederate 
 ram Merrimac in Hampton Roads, March 8, 1862, after making a 
 most heroic defense in an unequal contest. She went down with all 
 on board, and colors flying. 
 
 Page 277, CXLIH. VICKSBURG. A position most important for the 
 Confederacy to hold. It was unsuccessfully attacked by Sherman in 
 1862. Grant began to advance upon it in April of the next year, and took 
 it after desperate assaults on July 4. 
 
 Page 279, CXLIV. KEENAN'S CHARGE. In the battle of Chancellors- 
 ville, where Lee defeated the Union forces under Hooker, May 2-4, 1863. 
 
 Page 294, CL. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. "A famous incident of the 
 battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, October 19, 1864. Sheridan's army, 
 which was encamped on Cedar Creek in the Shenandoah Valley, was 
 surprised before daybreak and defeated by the Confederates under 
 General Early. Sheridan, who was at Winchester, twenty miles from 
 the field, on his return from a visit to Washington, heard the sound of 
 battle and rode rapidly to the scene of action. As he galloped past the 
 retreating soldiers, he shouted, ' Face the other way, boys ! We are 
 going back ! ' He re-formed his corps, and before the close of the day 
 had gained a decisive victory." Century Cyclopedia.
 
 Notes 413 
 
 Page 300, CLIII. DIXIE. The most famous Southern war song. 
 There is another and more popular Civil War ballad called Dixie, 
 beginning 
 
 I wish I was in de land of cotton, old times dar are not forgotten, 
 
 which was composed in 1859 by D. D. Emmett. Dixie, a collective 
 designation for the Southern states. 
 
 Page3O2,CLIV. MY MARYLAND. One of the most popular Southern 
 war songs. It has been called the Marseillaise of the Confederate cause. 
 
 Page- 305, CLV. THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG. Assigned variously, 
 to H. McCarthy, to (Mrs.) Annie Chambers Ketchum, and to Alexander 
 White of Birmingham, Alabama Definite information will be welcomed 
 by the editors. 
 
 Page 310, CLVm. THE CONQUERED BANNER. Written soon after 
 the surrender of Lee. 
 
 Page 318, CLXTV. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. This poem, which 
 has now become a national classic, was inspired by the fact that the 
 women of Columbus, Mississippi, on their Decoration Day placed 
 flowers on the graves of Northern and Southern soldiers alike. 
 
 Page 340, CLXXX. YANKEE DOODLE. We find the following in 
 Our Familiar Songs. " The air of ' Yankee Doodle ' is claimed by sev- 
 eral nations. It is said to be an old vintage song in the south of France. 
 In Holland, when the laborers received for wages ' as much buttermilk 
 as they could drink and a tenth of the grain,' they used to sing as they 
 reaped, to the tune of ' Yankee Doodle,' the words : 
 
 Yanker dudel, doodle down, etc. 
 
 The tune was sung in England in the reign of Charles I to a rhyme 
 which is still alive in our nurseries: 
 
 Lucy Locket lost her pocket, 
 
 Kitty Fisher found it 
 Nothing in it, nothing on it, 
 
 But the binding round it. 
 
 The words, supposed to be said by a green New Englander, would natu- 
 rally catch the fancy of the British soldiers. Later on, the revolutionists- 
 adopted the tune in derision of their deriders. The tune first appeared 
 in this country in June, 1775. The words are ascribed to Dr. Richard
 
 414 Poetry of the People 
 
 Shuckburg, a British regimental surgeon. He was ' mightily amused ' 
 at the uncouth appearance of the Colonial troops in their tattered uni- 
 forms and with their antique equipments. He planned a joke upon the 
 instant. He set down the notes of ' Yankee Doodle,' wrote underneath 
 them this lively adaptation of a Cromwellian verse, and gave it to the 
 band. For during the English Civil War a similar song had been sung 
 by the Cavaliers in ridicule of Cromwell, who was said to have ridden 
 into Oxford on a small horse, with his single plume fastened into a 
 sort of knot, which was derisively called a ' macaroni.' The words were: 
 
 Yankee doodle came to town, 
 
 Upon a Kentish pony ; 
 He stuck a feather in his cap, 
 
 Upon a macaroni." 
 
 This use of " macaroni " might have been suggested by the resemblance 
 of the cap-knot to a macaroon, for that word was used to mean a small 
 sweet cake as early as 1610. It is, however, possible that the original 
 line ran " And called it macaroni," for the poet Donne uses the word 
 " macaroon " or " macaroni " for a foppishly dressed person in 1650. 
 
 Page 342, CLXXXI. NATHAN HALE. The hero was a school 
 teacher. At Washington's request he undertook to act as a spy. His 
 heroic death was a spiritual assistance to the revolutionists. See Tyler's 
 Literary History of the Revolution. 
 
 Page 354, CXC. DIXIE'S LAND. A version of the original ballad 
 as composed to his own inspiring music by Daniel Decatur Emmett in 
 1859. Variations are, however, handed down ; as, for instance, for the 
 second line of the first stanza, 
 
 Cimmon seed and sandy bottom ; 
 and after " Look away ! " in the fourth stanza, 
 
 Will run away Missus took a decline, oh, 
 Her face was de color ob bacon-rine oh; 
 
 and instead of " Ole Missus acted de foolish part," etc., 
 
 How could she act such a foolish part, 
 As marry a man dat break her heart? 
 
 and at the opening of the sixth stanza, 
 
 Sugar in de gourd and stonny batter, 
 De whites grow fat and de niggers fatter.
 
 GLOSSARY 
 
 a, a', all. 
 
 abone, aboon, above. 
 aften, often. 
 ain, own. 
 tine, one. 
 znither, another. 
 pros, arrows. 
 fiva', away. 
 ayont, beyond. 
 
 tackit, backed, dressed. 
 
 laitk, both. 
 
 talys bete, remedy our evils. 
 
 landsters, binders. 
 
 tannet, bonnet, cap. 
 
 bar, bore, carried. 
 
 barkened, hardened. 
 
 barne, berne, a man. 
 
 basnites, helmets. 
 
 ba.uk, crossbeam. 
 
 beld, bald. 
 
 bent, open grassy place, field. 
 
 bi (be), by. 
 
 biek, to bask ; to biek forenent the 
 
 sin, to bake against (in the rays 
 
 of) the sun (Gummere). 
 bigget, builded. 
 bigonet, a cap of silk or other cloth 
 
 stuff, a mutch. 
 bigs, builds. 
 bilbows, swords, the best of which 
 
 were made in Bilboa in Spain. 
 
 fork, birch. 
 
 birkie, a smart-appearing, conceited 
 
 youth. 
 
 Wane, halted. 
 blawn, blown. 
 bluart, bilberry. 
 blyve, quickly. 
 bogles, ghosts. 
 lomen, bowmen. 
 bonnets, in the Scotch, caps. 
 bow, bow window, bay window 
 
 (Montr ose). 
 boys, bcrwys, bows. 
 bracken, fern. 
 brae, slopes. 
 braid, broad. 
 braid letter, an open or patent 
 
 letter, a public document. 
 brande, sword. 
 branking, prancing. 
 brow, handsome. 
 brent, brente, burnt. 
 brent, smooth, unwrinkled. 
 bristit, breasted. 
 broad pieces, gold coins. 
 broo, broth. 
 brook, enjoy, tolerate. 
 bryttlynge, the cutting, or, literally. 
 
 the breaking up. 
 bugelet, a small bugle. 
 bughts, a place for milking ewes. 
 burd, young woman, lady. 
 
 415
 
 416 
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 burn, brook, stream. 
 
 burn-brae, " the acclivity at the 
 bottom of which a rivulet runs." 
 
 burrows-town, borough town, cor- 
 porate town. 
 
 biiskit, make ready; busk and 
 boun, up and away. 
 
 but an, unless. 
 
 but and, and also. 
 
 byckarte, skirmished. 
 
 byddys, abides, remains. 
 
 byears, biers. 
 
 bylle, bill, a battle-ax. 
 
 byre, cow house, stable. 
 
 caller, fresh. 
 
 cant, came. 
 
 canty, jolly. 
 
 carles, churls, low fellows. 
 
 carline -wife, old peasant woman. 
 
 cast, intend. 
 
 catches, songs. 
 
 caubeen, hat (Irish). 
 
 cauld, cold. 
 
 channerin, fretting. 
 
 chays, chase, hunting ground. 
 
 clamb, climbed. 
 
 close-heads, to, together. 
 
 cloth-yard, an old measure of 
 
 twenty-seven inches. 
 cole, cowl. 
 coof, fool. 
 corbies, ravens. 
 cars, curse. 
 coud, knew. 
 cowthie, kindly. 
 curragh, a plain (Irish). 
 
 doffing, joking. 
 daw, to dawn. 
 
 dee, die. 
 
 dcid, deed; dead. 
 
 departed it, divided it. 
 
 dight, handle (Otterbourne). 
 
 dighted, dressed. 
 
 dine, dinner time. 
 
 ding, beat. 
 
 Don, the Spanish for Mr. 
 
 donne, dun. 
 
 dool, dole, grief. 
 
 doops, drops. 
 
 doun, down. 
 
 dowie, sad. 
 
 downa, cannot 
 
 dre, endure. 
 
 dree, suffer. 
 
 drumly, dark, gloomy. 
 
 dule, pain. 
 
 dyghtande, made ready 
 
 dynte, a blow. 
 
 ee, eye ; een, eyes. 
 eldern, elderly. 
 everych, every. 
 
 fa 1 , fall. 
 
 fa' (in Burns's For a 1 that), claim, tr 
 
 fail, turf. 
 
 fare, doings. 
 
 fashes, troubles, storms. 
 
 fauld,fauldit, fold, folded. 
 
 fause, false. 
 
 fay, oath, loyalty. 
 
 faylyd of, missed. 
 
 feale, fail. 
 
 fee, pay, money, property. ' 
 
 fend, sustain. 
 
 feth, faith. 
 
 fiere, friend, comrade. 
 
 //, foot. 
 
 fit,fytte, division of a ballad.
 
 Glossary 
 
 417 
 
 flecking, shadow with flecks of 
 
 sunshine. 
 
 fleeching, coaxing, flattering. 
 flyting, jeering. 
 forenent, in the face of. 
 fostere, forester. 
 frae, from. 
 freits, ill omens. 
 frere, friar. 
 freyke, man, warrior. 
 fu, full. 
 
 ga, gae, to go. 
 galleon, a large ship. 
 galliard, a merry dance. 
 gang, go. 
 gar, make. 
 gie, gi'ed, give, gave. 
 gin, if. 
 
 glacis, a sloping bank used in for- 
 tification. 
 
 glcde, a glowing coaL 
 glent, flashed. 
 goun, gown. 
 govian, the daisy. 
 goivd, gold. 
 gramercy, thanks. 
 gree, prize. 
 greet, weep. 
 grevis, groves. 
 guid, gude, good. 
 gullies, knives. 
 
 hae, have. 
 
 halfendell, in two parts. 
 
 Halidom, all that is holy; sacred 
 
 honor. 
 
 halke, corner. 
 halyde, pulled, hauled. 
 hame, home. 
 
 hamely, homely. 
 
 harried, plundered. 
 
 hand, hold. 
 
 kaugh, flat ground on the border 
 of a river. 
 
 hauld, shelter, stronghold. 
 
 hause, neck. 
 
 heal, haiL 
 
 hede, heed. 
 
 hewmont, helmet. 
 
 Hielanders, Highlanders. 
 
 flight, promise. 
 
 hilly s, hills. 
 
 hinde, gentle. 
 
 hirsels, flocks of sheep. 
 
 hodden, wool " holden " in its natu- 
 ral gray color. 
 
 horn, them. 
 
 idyght, prepared. 
 ilka, every. 
 iwys, surely. 
 
 jauds, jades. 
 jimp, slender, neat. 
 jo, sweetheart. 
 
 kale, broth. 
 
 kerns, combs. 
 
 ken, know. 
 
 kye, cows (the herd of cows). 
 
 laith, loath. 
 
 Lammas-tide, the first of August 
 
 lane (her lane), alone. 
 
 lanely, lonely. 
 
 lang, long. 
 
 lauch, laugh. 
 
 lave, rest. 
 
 laverock, lark.
 
 4i8 
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 lede, train. 
 
 ledesman, guide. 
 
 leglin, milk-pail. 
 
 lemons, sweethearts. 
 
 lends, tarry. 
 
 lese, lose. 
 
 let, prevent 
 
 levin, lightning. 
 
 Heard (Hard), gray. 
 
 lift, heavens. 
 
 light, alighted. 
 
 //'//, tune. 
 
 lin, pause. 
 
 list, inclination, desire. 
 
 loaning, a broad lane for milking. 
 
 lock, look. 
 
 long hafted, long shafted. 
 
 loot, let. 
 
 lowe, blaze. 
 
 lyff-tenant, lieutenant. 
 
 lyndes, lindens, trees in general. 
 
 magger, mauger; in the m agger 
 of, in spite of. 
 
 maiden knight, i.e., in his first battle. 
 
 main, the sea.(Agin., st. i, Revenge, 
 st. 14); the main division (Agin., 
 st. 7). 
 
 mair, more. 
 
 maist, most; almost (Woe's Me 
 for Prince Charlie). 
 
 makys, mates. 
 
 male, mail, armor. 
 
 male-horse, pack horse. 
 
 march-parti, border side. 
 
 mare, more. 
 
 Martinmas, the eleventh of No- 
 vember. 
 
 maun, must 
 
 manna, must not 
 
 mavis, thrush. 
 meany, company. 
 measure, sometimes a dance. 
 meikle, mickle, muckle, great 
 merkes, targets. 
 mo, more. 
 monie, many. 
 morne, morrow. 
 mote, may. 
 muirmen, moormen. 
 myllan, Milan steel. 
 myneyeple, a gauntlet covering 
 hand and forearm. 
 
 na, not. , 
 
 nane, none. 
 neist, next. 
 noo, now. 
 nourice, nurse. 
 
 o', of, on. 
 
 overcome, refrain. 
 
 on, of, in. 
 
 on, one. 
 
 Orange, see notes on Battle of the 
 
 Boyne. 
 
 oware off none, hour of noon. 
 owre, or, before. 
 ow re, over. 
 
 paidPt, paddled. 
 
 pallions, tents. 
 
 parti, side; uppone a parti, on 
 
 one side. 
 passe, limits. 
 pat, pot. 
 
 pa-wkie, sly, artful. 
 pelting, paltry, petty. 
 pibroch, a kind of martial music 
 
 performed upon the bagpipe.
 
 Glossary 
 
 419 
 
 pike, a kind of spear. 
 
 pint-sto-wp, pint vessel. 
 
 plat, intertwined. 
 
 pleugh, plough. 
 
 paw, poll, head. 
 
 protocol, a first draft of a treaty 
 
 or other such dispatch. 
 pit 1 , pull. 
 pyke, pick. 
 pyne, pains. 
 
 quyrry, quarry, slaughtered 
 
 game. 
 quyte, avenged. 
 
 rade, rode. 
 rashes, rushes. 
 rax, reach. 
 reas, rouse. 
 red, read. 
 reek, smoke. 
 richt, right. 
 riving, tearing. 
 row, roll. 
 ^tinkled, wrinkled. 
 
 sae, so. 
 soft, soft, 
 j'a//, shall. 
 sare, sair, sore. 
 sang, song. 
 scaur, a rocky steep, 
 se, sea. 
 se, see, saw. 
 seased, seized. 
 semblyde, assembled 
 sent I me, I assent. 
 set, struck upon, hit. 
 shard, used by Kipling for the 
 armor of a battle ship. 
 
 shear, several, separate. 
 
 shente, injured. 
 
 shete, shoot. 
 
 sheugh, ditch, furrow. 
 
 shyars, shires. 
 
 sic, such. 
 
 simmer, summer. 
 
 sin, sun. 
 
 sin', since. 
 
 sithe, sith, since. 
 
 slaes, sloes. 
 
 slee, sly, or shy. 
 
 slogan, war cry. 
 
 slotigke, slew. 
 
 sma', small. 
 
 snau', snow. 
 
 somers, sumpters. 
 
 span, rope (Montrose). 
 
 spendyd, grasped. 
 
 sprente, sprang, spouted. 
 
 spume, trouble. 
 
 starn, star. 
 
 staiv, stole. 
 
 stede, place. 
 
 sterne, bold ones. 
 
 sterte, started. 
 
 stour, conflict, press of battle. 
 
 strath, a valley with a river 
 
 in it. 
 
 stynttyde, stopped. 
 suflr, sure. 
 suner, sooner. 
 swakkit, smote. 
 swankie, a gay lad. 
 sivapte, smote, slashed. 
 syke, marsh. 
 syne, since. 
 
 takyll, arrow, tackle. 
 fane, one.
 
 420 
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 targe, shield, buckler (in Robin 
 
 Hood and the King, probably 
 
 coat of arms, seal). 
 target, often a shield. 
 tartan, a Scotch plaid. 
 teenfu, sorrowful. 
 thae, those. 
 the, they. 
 theekit, thatched. 
 thegither, together. 
 thirled, pierced. 
 thorowe, through. 
 thraw, wring. 
 thyder, thither. 
 till, to. 
 tocke, took. 
 ton, one. 
 
 tothar, father, other. 
 toun, toune, towne, often means 
 
 simply an enclosed or fortified 
 
 place. 
 trystell-tre, trysting tree, meeting 
 
 place. 
 twa, two. 
 tydynge, news. 
 tyne, forfeit. 
 
 unneth, scarcely. 
 untyll, unto. 
 
 vaward, vanguard. 
 verament, truly. 
 
 wo 1 , wall. 
 
 wade, gone, passed. 
 
 wae, woe ; woe worth ye, woe be to 
 
 you. 
 
 wane, a great number, multitude. 
 ware, aware. 
 
 war gangs, wagons. 
 
 wark, work. 
 
 wat, wot, know. 
 
 waught, draught. 
 
 wauken, waken. 
 
 waur, worse. 
 
 weal, clench, clasp. 
 
 weather, the withers. 
 
 wede, array, garb. 
 
 wede, weeded (Flowers of theForest), 
 
 weel, well. 
 
 weir 1 , weird, fate. 
 
 welt, controlled. 
 
 wende, go. 
 
 wende, thought. 
 
 wha, who. 
 
 ivhatn, whom. 
 
 whaur, where. 
 
 w f, with. 
 
 wichty, sturdy. 
 
 willie, willing. 
 
 wouche, damage, injury. 
 
 wroken, avenged. 
 
 wude, mad. 
 
 wyght, active. 
 
 wyld, wild deer (Cheviot, 6-1). 
 
 wyste, knew. 
 
 wystly, carefully 
 
 yede, went. 
 
 ye-feth, in faith. 
 
 yemen, yeomen. 
 
 yenough, enough. 
 
 yerle, earl. 
 
 yew, the Spanish wood best fitted 
 
 for bows. 
 ylke, same. 
 yowes, ewes. 
 yth, in the.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND POEMS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Albee, John (1833-1915) 
 
 A Soldier's Grave . 314 
 
 Arnold, Matthew (1822-1888) 
 
 Memorial Verses on the Death of Wordsworth . . . 102 
 
 Austin, Alfred (1835-1913) 
 
 Sons of the Self-Same Race 388 
 
 Anonymous, or of uncertain authorship 
 
 Barbara Allen 128 
 
 Both Worshipped the Same Great Name .... 378 
 
 God Save the King 65 
 
 John Brown's Body . . . 267 
 
 Marching through Georgia 293 
 
 Nathan Hale 342 
 
 Older Ballads (see Contents) 
 
 The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 129 
 
 The Battle of the Boyne (perhaps by Blacker) . . .193 
 
 The Blue Bell of Scotland 165 
 
 The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond 183 
 
 The British Grenadiers 87 
 
 The Campbells are Comin' 164 
 
 The Girl I Left behind Me 207 
 
 The Shan Van Vocht . .196 
 
 The Vicar of Bray .138 
 
 The Warship of 1812 255 
 
 The Wearing of the Green (Boucicault's version) . . 198 
 
 Yankee Doodle 340 
 
 You Gentlemen of England 134 
 
 Asaf, George 
 
 Pack up your Troubles in your Old Kit-bag . . . 385 
 
 Aytoun, William Edmonstoune (1813-1865) 
 
 The Execution of Montrose 150 
 
 The Old Scottish Cavalier 159 
 
 421
 
 422 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Banim, John (1798-1842) 
 
 Soggarth Aroon 205 
 
 Beattie, James (see under Mickle) 
 
 Beers, Ethelinda (1827-1879) 
 
 All Quiet along the Potomac 344 
 
 Bell, Robert Howry (1860-) 
 
 For Cuba 328 
 
 Bennett, Henry Holcomb (1863-) 
 
 The Flag Goes By 336 
 
 Boker, George Henry (1823-1890) 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier ........ 313 
 
 Bourinot; Lieutenant Arthur (1893-) 
 
 Immortality 383 
 
 Braley, Berton (1882-) 
 
 Heroes 379 
 
 Brooke, Rupert (1887-1915) 
 
 The Soldier 369 
 
 Brooks, Charles Timothy (1813-1883), and DwightJ.S. (1813-1893) 
 
 God Bless our Native Land 261 
 
 Browning, Robert (1812-1889) 
 
 Give a Rouse 80 
 
 The Lost Leader 101 
 
 Bryan, A., and Weston, W. 
 
 Joan of Arc 386 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1878) 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 241 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 320 
 
 Burns, Robert (1759-1796) 
 
 A Red, Red Rose 171 
 
 Afton Water 174 
 
 Auld Lang Syne . 185 
 
 Bannockburn 144 
 
 For a' that, and a' that 171 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo 173 
 
 My Heart 's in the Highlands 176 
 
 Ye Banks and Braes 175 
 
 Butterworth, Hezekiah (1839-1905) 
 
 The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor 233 
 
 Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord (1788-1824) 
 
 The Field of Waterloo . 98
 
 Index of Authors and Poems 423 
 
 " C. A. A." 
 
 The School at War 365 
 
 Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844) 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 90 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 93 
 
 Carey, Henry *d. 1743), probable author of 
 
 God Save the King 65 
 
 Sally in our Alley . . 136 
 
 Carryl, Guy Wetmore (1873-) 
 
 When the Great Gray Ships Come In 337 
 
 Cherry, Andrew (1762-1812) 
 
 The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland 187 
 
 Clarke, Joseph I. C. (1846-) 
 
 The Fighting Race . . . . . .-' . . 332 
 
 Cohan, George M. (1878-) 
 
 Over There 386 
 
 Collins, William (1721-1759) 
 
 Ode, Written in the Year 1746 (from Odes on Several Subjects) 90 
 Crawford, Charlotte Holmes 
 
 Vive la France ......... 360 
 
 Crawford, Julia (c. 1800-1850) 
 
 Kathleen Mavourneen 215 
 
 Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842) 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 141 
 
 Davis, Thomas Osborne (1814-1845) 
 
 The Geraldines ......... 202 
 
 Davis, B., and Reisner, C. F. 
 
 Good-bye Broadway ! Hello France ! 386 
 
 Dibdin, Charles (1745-1814) 
 
 Poor Tom Bowling 142 
 
 Dobson, Henry Austin (1840-) 
 
 A Ballad of Heroes iii 
 
 Douglas, William, of Fingland (and Lady John Scott) 
 
 Annie Laurie (c. 1700) 166 
 
 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings (1810-1888) 
 
 The Loss of the " Birkenhead " 114 
 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman (1795-1820) 
 
 The American Flag 259 
 
 Drayton, Michael (1563-1631) 
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt 70
 
 424 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dufferin, Helena Selina Blackwood, Lady (1807-1867) 
 
 The Lament of the Irish Emigrant 216 
 
 O Bay of Dublin 220 
 
 Dwight, Timothy (1752-1817) 
 
 " Columbia, Columbia, to Glory Arise " .... 240 
 Elliot, Jane (1727-1805) 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest ; or, The Battle of Floden. Part 1 . 146 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803-1882) 
 
 Concord Hymn 236 
 
 Emmett, Daniel Decatur (1815-1904) 
 
 Dixie's Land 354 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn (1819-1902) 
 
 Ben Bolt 349 
 
 Ferguson, Sir Samuel (1810-1886) 
 
 The Coolun 213 
 
 Finch, Francis Miles (1827-1907) 
 
 The Blue and the Gray 318 
 
 Ford, Lena Guilbert 
 
 Keep the Home Fires Burning ... ... 384 
 
 Foster, Stephen Collins (1826-1864) 
 
 Massa 's in de Cold Ground 352 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home . . . ' . . . 351 
 
 Old Folks at Home 353 
 
 Freneau, Philip (1752-1832) 
 
 Eutaw Springs 244 
 
 Geoghegan, Arthur Gerald (1809-1889) 
 
 After Aughrim 195 
 
 Gibbons, James Sloane (1810-1892) 
 
 Three Hundred Thousand More . . . . . .288 
 Gilder, Joseph B. (1858-) 
 
 The Parting of the Ways 339 
 
 Glen, William (d. 1824), probable author of 
 
 Wae 's Me for Prince Charlie . . = . . . 163 
 Harte, Francis Bret (1839-1902) 
 
 The Reveille 270 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton (1830-1886) 
 
 Vicksburg 277 
 
 Hemans, Felicia (1/93-1835) 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 23o >
 
 425 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hogg, James (1770-1835) 
 
 The Lament of Flora Macdonald 162 
 
 When the Kye Comes Hame 180 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-1894) 
 
 "Old Ironsides" 254 
 
 Hopkinson, Joseph (1770-1842) 
 
 Hail, Columbia 249 
 
 Howe, Julia Ward (1819-1910) 
 
 Battle-Hymn of the Republic 268 
 
 Ingram, John Kells (c. 1827-1907) 
 
 The Memory of the Dead (or, Ninety-Eight) . . . 200 
 Jephson, Lina 
 
 In England Now 
 
 Johnson, Howard, and Wenrich, Percy 
 
 Where Do We Go from Here 
 
 Jonson, Ben (1573-1637) 
 
 To Celia 
 
 Judge, Jack, and Williams, Harry 
 
 It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary .... 
 Key, Francis Scott (1780-1843) 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner 
 
 King, Stoddard 
 
 There 's a Long, Long Trail 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard (1865-) 
 
 Recessional ......... 
 
 Kittredge, Walter (1832-) 
 
 Tenting on the Old Camp Ground .... 
 " Klaxon " 
 
 America Comes In 
 
 Lathrop, George Parsons (1851-1898) 
 
 Keenan's Charge 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (1807-1882) 
 
 Santa Filomena 118 
 
 The " Cumberland " 271 
 
 The Republic (from The Building of the Skip) . . .324 
 Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891) 
 
 Lincoln (from the Commemoration Ode) .... 322 
 Lowell, Robert Traill Spence (1816-1891) 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow (1857) . . . . . .121
 
 426 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Macaulay, Rose 
 
 The Garden of the Dead 370 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord (1800-1859) 
 
 The Battle of Naseby .82 
 
 MacGill, Patrick (1890-) 
 
 It's a Far, Far Cry 366 
 
 Mahony, Francis (pseudonym, Father Prout) (1805-1866) 
 
 The Bells of Shandon 214 
 
 Mangan, James Clarence (1803-1849) 
 
 Dark Rosaleen 190 
 
 McCarthy, H., or Annie Chambers Ketchum (d. 1904) 
 
 The Bonnie Blue Flag 305 
 
 McCrae, Lieutenant-Colonel John (1872-1918) 
 
 In Flanders Fields 373 
 
 McGee, Thomas D'Arcy (1825-1868) 
 
 The Irish Wife 188 
 
 McMaster, Guy Humphrey (1829-1887) 
 
 Carmen Bellicosum 245 
 
 McNally, Leonard (1752-) 
 
 The Lass of Richmond Hill 140 
 
 Masson, Thomas L. (1866-) 
 
 The Red Cross Nurses 381 
 
 Mercantini, Luigi (tr. Nathan Haskell Dole) 
 
 Garibaldi's War Hymn 374 
 
 Meredith, William Tuckey (1839-) 
 
 Farragut 291 
 
 Mickle, William Julius (1735-1788), and James Beattie (1735- 
 1803) 
 
 There 's Nae Luck about the House 168 
 
 Miller, Cincinnatus Heine (Joaquin) (1841-1913) 
 
 Columbus 228 
 
 The Defence of the Alamo 262 
 
 Moore, Thomas (1779-1852) 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms . . .210 
 
 Oft, in the stilly night 212 
 
 The Harp that once through Tara's Halls .... 209 
 
 The Last Rose of Summer 211 
 
 The Meeting of the Waters 209 
 
 Morris, William (1834-1896) 
 
 The March of the Workers (1885) 124
 
 Index of Authors and Poems 42 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Muir, Alexander 
 
 The Maple Leaf Forever 363 
 
 Nairne, Carolina Oliphant, Lady (1766-1845) 
 
 The Land o' the Leal 184 
 
 Niven, Frederick (1878-) 
 
 A Carol from Flanders . 368 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore (1820-1867) 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 263 
 
 O'Leary, Ellen (1831-1889) 
 
 To God and Ireland True 225 
 
 O'Rourke, Edmund (pseudonym, Edmund Falconer) (1814-1879) 
 
 Killamey , 221 
 
 Osgood, Kate Putnam (1841-) 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 315 
 
 Oxenham, John 
 
 The Outer Guard 364 
 
 You Also ! 382 
 
 Paine, Albert Bigelow (1861-) 
 
 The New Memorial Day 335 
 
 Palmer, John Williamson (1825-1896) 
 
 The Maryland Battalion 238 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way 308 
 
 Parker, Martin (c. 1630) 
 
 You Gentlemen of England 134 
 
 Payne, John Howard (1791-1852) 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 347 
 
 Pierpont, John (1785-1866) 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers : . . 231 
 
 Warren's Address 237 
 
 Pike, Albert (1809-^891) 
 
 Dixie 300 
 
 R. A. S. 
 
 Lyin' Deid 372 
 
 Ramsay, Allan (1686-1758) 
 
 Lochaber . 167 
 
 Randall, James Ryder (1839-) 
 
 My Maryland 302 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan (1822-1872) 
 
 Sheridan's Ride 294 
 
 The Brave at Home 317
 
 428 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Reisner, C. F., and Davis, B. 
 
 Good-bye Broadway I Hello France ! 386 
 
 Riley, James VVhitcomb (1853-1916) 
 
 The Old Man and Jim 296 
 
 Roche, James Jeffrey (1847-) 
 
 The " Constitution's" Last Fight 251 
 
 Rooney, John Jerome (1866-) 
 
 The Little Star in the Window 376 
 
 The Men behind the Guns 330 
 
 Root, George Frederick (1820-1895) 
 
 The Battle-Cry of Freedom 269 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp . . 290 
 
 Rouget de Lisle, C. J. (1760-1836) 
 
 La Marseillaise 358 
 
 Rutherford, Alison (Mrs. Patrick Cockburn) (1710-179.]) 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest. Part II . . . . ' . 148 
 
 Ryan, Abram Joseph (1839-1886) 
 
 The Conquered Banner . . . . . . . . 310 
 
 Scott, Lady John (see under Douglas, William) 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832) 
 
 Blue Bonnets over the Border 149 
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black 145 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean 1 76 
 
 Lochinvar -. . . . .178 
 
 The Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee 157 
 
 This is my Own, my Native Land 143 
 
 Seeger, Alan (1888-1916) 
 
 I Have a Rendezvous with Death . . . . ' . . 380 
 
 Shakespeare, William (1564-1616) 
 
 Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 133 
 
 England (from Richard II) 66 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address to his Soldiers before Har- 
 
 fleur 67 
 
 Henry the Fifth before Agincourt . . . . . .68 
 
 Take, O, Take those Lips Away '. 132 
 
 Who is Sylvia? 132 
 
 Shaw, D. T. 
 
 Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean . . . : - * . . 258 
 
 Shepherd, Nathaniel Graham (1835-1869) 
 
 Roll-Call . ..''.' 299
 
 Index of Authors and Poems 429 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586) 
 
 My True-Love hath my Heart 131 
 
 " Sliabh Cuilinn" (perhaps John O'Hagan) (1822-) 
 
 Dear Land 218 
 
 Smith, Samuel Francis (1808-1895) 
 
 America 227 
 
 Stanton, Frank Lebby (1857-) 
 
 Answering to Roll-Call 329 
 
 The War-Ship " Dixie " 331 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence (1833-1908) 
 
 Kearney at Seven Pines ....... 273 
 
 Gettysburg 282 
 
 Stuart, Dorothy Margaret 
 
 Evensong in Westminster Abbey 367 
 
 Sullivan, Timothy Daniel (1827-1914) 
 
 Song from the Backwoods 223 
 
 Tannahill, Robert (1774-1810) 
 
 Jessie, The Flower o' Dumblane 182 
 
 Taylor, James Bayard (1825-1878) 
 
 America 327 
 
 The Song of the Camp . . . . . . .119 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (1809-1892) 
 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . . .105 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade 116 
 
 The " Revenge " 74 
 
 Thomson, James (1700-1748) 
 
 Rule, Britannia (from Alfred, a Masque written with James 
 
 Mallet, 1740) 88 
 
 Thornbury, George Walter (1828-1876) 
 
 The Sally from Coventry (from Songs of Cavaliers and 
 Roundheads, 1857) 81 
 
 The Three Troopers (from the Jacobite Ballads} . . .85 
 Timrod, Henry (1829-1867) 
 
 Ode to the Confederate Dead . . ' . . . 3 12 
 Townsend, Mary Ashley (1832-) 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer 306 
 
 Tuckerman, Henry Theodore (1813-1871) 
 
 Washington's Statue 248 
 
 Van Pyke, Henry (1852-) 
 
 The Name of France ... 362,
 
 43 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wallace, William Ross (1819-) 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill . . . . . . 247 
 
 Weatherly, Fred E. 
 
 Roses in Picardy 385 
 
 Wenrich, Percy, and Johnson, Howard 
 
 Where Do We Go from Here 386 
 
 Weston, W., and Bryan, A. 
 
 Joan of Arc 386 
 
 Whitman, Walt (1819-1892) 
 
 O Captain 1 My Captain ! 320 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf (1807-1892) 
 
 Barbara Frietchie 274 
 
 Centennial Hymn 325 
 
 Williams, Harry, and Judge. Jack 
 
 It 's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary 384 
 
 Wilson, McLandburgh 
 
 A Round Trip 378 
 
 The Little Flag on Main Street . . . . -377 
 
 Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823) 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 97 
 
 Wordsworth, William (1770-1850) 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior 94 
 
 Work, Henry Clay (1832-1884) 
 
 Marching through Georgia .,.... 293
 
 INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 
 
 Abraham Lincoln ... 
 
 A cheer and salute for the 
 
 Admiral, and here 's to the 
 
 Captain bold 
 
 After Aughrim 
 
 Afton Water 
 
 A life on the ocean wave . . 
 All in the merry month of May 
 All quiet along the Potomac . 
 
 America 
 
 America 
 
 America Comes In . . . . 
 American Flag, The . . . . 
 Am I the slave they say . . 
 And are ye sure the news is true 
 And you, to whom it was not 
 
 given 
 
 Annie Laurie 
 
 Answering to Roll-Call . . . 
 As I was walking all alane 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads 
 
 we lay 
 
 At Eutaw Springs the valiant 
 
 died 
 
 At Flores in the Azores, Sir 
 
 Richard Grenville lay . . 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 
 
 A wee bird cam' to our ha' 
 
 door 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 
 
 PAGE PAGE 
 
 320 A Yankee ship and a Yankee 
 
 crew 251 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign 
 
 330 down 254 
 
 195 Bailiff's Daughter of Isling- 
 
 174 ton, The 129 
 
 348 Ballad of Agincourt, The . . 70 
 128 Ballad of Heroes, A . . . . iii 
 
 344 Bannockburn 144 
 
 227 Barbara Allen ....... 128 
 
 327 Barbara Frietchie . . . .274 
 
 375 Battle of the Baltic .... 90 
 
 259 Battle of the Boyne, The . .193 
 
 205 Battle of Floden, The (See 
 
 1 68 Flowers of the Forest) . . 146 
 
 Battle of Naseby, The ... 82 
 
 382 Battle of Otterbourne, The . 3 
 
 166 Battle-Cry of Freedom . . . 269 
 
 329 Battle-Hymn of the Republic 268 
 
 56 Because you passed, and now 
 
 are not . iii 
 
 271 Behind him lay the gray Azores 228 
 
 Belgian National Song . . . 357 
 244 Believe me, if all those endear- 
 ing young charms . . . .210 
 74 Bells of Shandon, The . . .214 
 185 Ben Bolt 349 
 
 Bessie Bell and Mary Gray . 55 
 163 Beyond the salt waste sea . . 370 
 141 Bivouac of the Dead, The . 263 
 
 43 r
 
 43 2 
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind 133 
 Blue and the Gray, The . . 318 
 Blue Bell of Scotland, The . 165 
 Blue Bonnets over the Border 149 
 Bold watchers of the deeps . 364 
 Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee, 
 
 The 157 
 
 Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lo- 
 mond, The 183 
 
 Bonnie Blue Flag, The . . 305 
 Bonnie George Campbell . . 54 
 Both Worshipped the Same 
 
 Great Name 378 
 
 Brabanconne, The . . . .357 
 Brave at Home, The . . .317 
 Break not his sweet repose . 314 
 Breathes there the man, with 
 
 soul so dead 143 
 
 Bring the good old bugle, boys ! 
 
 we '11 sing another song . . 293 
 British Grenadiers, The . . 87 
 Burial of Sir John Moore, The 97 
 Bury the Great Duke . . . 105 
 By Killarney's lakes and fells 221 
 By the flow of the inland 
 
 river 318 
 
 By the rude bridge that arched 
 
 the flood 236 
 
 By yon bonnie banks and by 
 
 yon bonnie braes .... 183 
 Campbells are comin', The . 164 
 
 Canadian Hymn 363 
 
 Carmen Bellicosum .... 245 
 Carol from Flanders, A . . 368 
 Centennial Hymn .... 325 
 Character of the Happy War- 
 rior 94 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade, 
 The. . n6 
 
 PACK 
 
 Close his eyes ; his work is 
 
 done 313 
 
 Columbia, Columbia, to glory 
 
 arise 240 
 
 Columbia, the Gem of the 
 
 Ocean 258 
 
 Columbus 228 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds . 180 
 Come hither, Evan Cameron . 150 
 Come, listen to another song . 159 
 Come listen to me, you gal- 
 lants so free 34 
 
 Come, stack arms, men ! Pile 
 
 on the rails 308 
 
 Concord Hymn 236 
 
 Conquered Banner, The . . 310 
 "Constitution's" Last Fight, 
 
 The . 251 
 
 Coolun, The 213 
 
 "Corporal Green ! " the Orderly 
 
 cried 299 
 
 " Cumberland," The . . . 271 
 
 Dark Rosaleen 190 
 
 Dear Land 218 
 
 Deep in Canadian woods we 've 
 
 met 223 
 
 Defence of the Alamo, The . 262 
 Demon Lover, The .... 60 
 Dirge for a Soldier .... 313 
 
 Dixie 300, 354 
 
 Do you remember long ago . 195 
 Don't you remember sweet 
 
 Alice, Ben Bolt .... 349 
 Douglas Tragedy, The ... 50 
 Drink to me only with thine 
 
 eyes 133 
 
 Driving Home the Cows . . 315 
 
 Edom o' Gordon 18 
 
 England 66
 
 Index of Titles and First Lines 
 
 433 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Eutaw Springs 244 
 
 Evensong in Westminster 
 
 Abbey 367 
 
 Execution of Montrose, The 150 
 Fair stood the wind for France 70 
 Far over yon hills of the 
 
 heather sae green .... 162 
 Farewell to Lochaber, and 
 
 farewell, my Jean .... 167 
 
 Farragut 291 
 
 Far up the lonely mountain- 
 side 306 
 
 Father and I went down to 
 
 camp 340 
 
 Field of Waterloo, The . . 98 
 Fighting Race, The .... 332 
 Flag Goes By, The .... 336 
 Fled the years of servile 
 
 shame ! 357 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, 
 
 among thy green braes . .174 
 Flowers of the Forest, The . 146 
 For a' that, and a' that . . .171 
 
 For Cuba 328 
 
 For sixty days and upwards . 277 
 Foreseen in the vision of 
 
 sages 327 
 
 Franceline rose in the dawning 
 
 gray 360 
 
 From slanting shadow and 
 
 from splintered light . . 367 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis 
 
 weary 310 
 
 Garden of the Dead, The . . 370 
 Garibaldi's War Hymn . . . 374 
 Gathering Song of Donald the 
 
 Black 145 
 
 Georgia Volunteer, A ... 306 
 Geraldines, The 202 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Gettysburg 282 
 
 Girl I Left behind Me, The . 207 
 
 Give a Rouse 80 
 
 Give us a name to fill the 
 
 mind 362 
 
 " Give us a song I " the soldiers 
 
 cried 119 
 
 God bless our native land . . 261 
 God of our fathers, known of 
 
 old 126 
 
 God Save the King .... 65 
 God save our gracious King . 65 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and 
 
 Greece 102 
 
 Good-bye Broadway ! Hello 
 
 France 386 
 
 Green Little Shamrock of Ire- 
 land, The 187 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land . 249 
 Half a league, half a league . 116 
 Hark ! I hear the tramp of 
 
 thousands 270 
 
 Harp that once through 
 
 Tara's Halls, The .... 209 
 
 Hats off 336 
 
 He lay upon his dying bed . 247 
 He which hath no stomach to 
 
 this fight 68 
 
 Helen of Kirconnell .... 57 
 Henry the Fifth's Address to 
 
 his Soldiers before Harfleur 67 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor 
 
 Tom Bowling 142 
 
 Heroes 379 
 
 High upon Highlands ... 54 
 Home, Sweet Home .... 347 
 How sleep the brave who sink 
 
 to rest 90 
 
 Hunting of the Cheviot, The . 8
 
 434 
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE PAG* 
 
 I Have a Rendezvous with Joan of Arc 384 
 
 Death 380 Jock of Hazeldean .... 176 
 
 I sit beside my darling's grave 225 John Anderson, my Jo . . . 173 
 
 I wad I were where Helen lies 57 John Brown's Body .... 267 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife 188 July the first, in Oldbridge 
 
 If I should die, think only this town, there was a grievous 
 
 of me 369 battle 193 
 
 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary .216 Just for a handful of silver he 
 
 I 'm wearin' awa', Jean . . . 184 left us 101 
 
 Immortality 383 Kathleen Mavoumeen . . .215 
 
 In days of yore, from Britain's Kearney at Seven Pines . . 273 
 
 shore 363 Keenan's Charge 279 
 
 In England now the mounting Keep the Home Fires Burning 384 
 
 lark 370 Killamey 221 
 
 In Flanders Fields .... 373 King Charles, and who '11 do 
 
 In Flanders fields the poppies him right now 80 
 
 blow 373 King Henry the Fifth before 
 
 In Flanders on the Christmas Agincourt 68 
 
 morn 368 Lament of Flora Macdonald, 
 
 In good King Charles's golden The 162 
 
 days 138 Lament of the Irish Emigrant, 
 
 In swaddling clothes he came The 216 
 
 across the sea 378 Land o' the Leal, The . . . 184 
 
 In the prison cell I sit . . . 290 Landing of the Pilgrim 
 
 In their ragged regimentals . 245 Fathers, The 230 
 
 Into the Devil tavern ... 85 Lass of Richmond Hill, The . 140 
 
 Irish wife, The 188 Lasjt Rose of Summer, The .211 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty . 171 Life may be given in many 
 
 It fell about the Lammas tide 3 ways 322 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas . 18 Life on the Ocean Wave, A . 348 
 
 Italian National Song . . . 374 Lincoln 322 
 
 It's a far, far cry to my own Little Flag on Main Street, 
 
 land 366 The 377 
 
 It's a Long, Long Way to Little Star in the Window, The 376 
 
 Tipperary 384 Lochaber No More .... 167 
 
 I 've heard them lilting . . . 146 Lochinvar 178 
 
 Jack Smith belonged to the Lord Randal 53 
 
 Y. M. C. A 378 Loss of the " Birkenhead," 
 
 Jessie, the Flowero' Dumblane 182 The 114
 
 Index of Titles and First Lines 
 
 435 
 
 Lost Leader, The . . . . 101 
 
 Lyin' Deid 372 
 
 Maple Leaf Forever, The . . 363 
 March of the Workers, The . 124 
 March, march, Ettrick and 
 
 Teviotdale 149 
 
 Marching through Georgia . 293 
 
 Marseillaise, The 359 
 
 Maryland Battalion, The . . 238 
 
 Maryland, My 302 
 
 Massa 's in de Cold Ground . 352 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie . 166 
 Meeting of the Waters, The . 209 
 Memorial Verses on the Death 
 
 of Wordsworth 102 
 
 Memory of the Dead, The . . 200 
 Men behind the Guns, The . 330 
 Mid pleasures and palaces 
 
 though we may roam . . 347 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory 
 
 of the coming of the Lord . 268 
 My country, 'tis of thee . .227 
 My heart's in the Highlands 176 
 My true-love hath my heart, 
 
 and I have his 131 
 
 Name of France, The . . . 362 
 
 Nathan Hale 342 
 
 New Memorial Day, The . . 335 
 Nights are growing very lonely 387 
 No precedent, ye say . . . 328 
 Not a drum was heard, not a 
 
 funeral note 97 
 
 O bay of Dublin ! my heart 
 
 you 're troublin' .... 220 
 O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray 55 
 O Captain ! My Captain . . 320 
 O Columbia, the gem of the 
 
 ocean 258 
 
 O my Dark Rosaleen . . .190 
 
 PAGE 
 O, my luve's like a red, red 
 
 rose 171 
 
 O Paddy dear, and did you 
 
 hear the news that's going 
 
 round 198 
 
 O where hae ye been, Lord 
 
 Randal, my son 53 
 O, where hae ye been, my lang- 
 
 lost love 60 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come 
 
 out of the west . . . .178 
 Ode on the Death of the Duke 
 
 of Wellington 105 
 
 Ode to the Confederate Dead 312 
 Ode, Written in the Year 1746 90 
 Of all the girls that are so 
 
 smart 136 
 
 Of Nelson and the North . . 90 
 Oft, in the stilly night . . .212 
 Oh, blackie, bonnie blackie bird 372 
 Oh, had you seen the Coolun . 213 
 Oh, say, can you see, by the 
 
 dawn's early light .... 256 
 Oh, slow to smite and swift to 
 
 spare 320 
 
 Oh, that last day in Lucknow 
 
 fort 121 
 
 Oh, the roses we plucked for 
 
 the blue 335 
 
 Oh ! where ? and oh, where is 
 
 your Highland laddie gone . 165 
 Oh I wherefore come ye forth 
 
 in triumph from the north . 82 
 Old Folks at Home . . . .353 
 "Old Ironsides" ..... 254 
 Old Kentucky Home, My . .351 
 Old Man and Jim, The . . .296 
 Old man never had much to say 296 
 Old Scottish Cavalier, The . 159
 
 Poetry of the People 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On Richmond Hill there lives 
 
 a lass 140 
 
 Once more unto the breach, 
 
 dear friends, once more . . 67 
 Our band is few but true and 
 
 tried 241 
 
 Our fathers' God ! from out 
 
 whose hand 325 
 
 Out of the clover and blue- 
 eyed grass 315 
 
 Out where the line of battle 
 
 cleaves 381 
 
 Outer Guard, The .... 364 
 
 Over There 386 
 
 Pack up your troubles in your 
 
 old kit-bag 385 
 
 Parting of the Ways, The . . 339 
 " Passion o' me ! " cried Sir 
 
 Richard Tyrone . . . . 81 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,pibroch 
 
 of Donuil 145 
 
 Pilgrim Fathers, The . . .231 
 
 Poor Tom Bowling 142 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord ! " The 
 
 psalm to-day 233 
 
 " Read out the names ! " and 
 
 Burke sat back 332 
 
 Recessional 126 
 
 Red Cross Nurses, The . .381 
 
 Red, Red Rose, A .... 171 
 Relief of Lucknow, The . .121 
 
 Reveille, The 270 
 
 " Revenge," The 74 
 
 Right on our flank the crimson 
 
 sun went down 114 
 
 " Rise up, rise up, now, Lord 
 
 Douglas," she says ... 50 
 
 Robin Hood and Allin a Dale 34 
 
 Robin Hood and the King . 38 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Robin Hood and Little John . 24 
 Robin Hood Rescuing the 
 
 Widow's Three Sons . . 29 
 Robin Hood's Death and 
 
 Burial 47 
 
 Roll-Call 299 
 
 Roses in Picardy 385 
 
 Round de meadows am a-ring- 
 
 ing 352 
 
 Round Trip, A 378 
 
 Rule, Britannia 88 
 
 Sally from Coventry, The . . 81 
 
 Sally in our Alley 136 
 
 Santa Ana came storming, as 
 
 a storm might come . . . 262 
 
 Santa Filomena 118 
 
 School at War, The .... 365 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace 
 
 bled 144 
 
 Shan Van Vocht, The ... 196 
 She was no armored cruiser of 
 
 twice six thousand tons . .255 
 
 Sheridan's Ride 294 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be 
 
 forgot 185 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens i 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble 
 
 graves 312 
 
 So that soldierly legend is still 
 
 on its journey 273 
 
 Soggarth Aroon 205 
 
 Soldier, The 369 
 
 Soldier's Grave, A .... 314 
 Some Talk of Alexander, and 
 
 some of Hercules .... 87 
 Song from the Backwoods . 223 
 Song of Marion's Men . . . 241 
 Song of the Camp, The . .119 
 Sons of the Self-Same Race . 388
 
 Index of Titles and First Lines 
 
 437 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Southrons, hear your country 
 
 call you 300 
 
 Spruce Macaronis, and pretty 
 
 to see 238 
 
 Stand ! the ground 's your own, 
 
 my braves 237 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The .256 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way . . 308 . 
 Stop! for thy tread is on an 
 
 Empire's dust 98 
 
 Sword of Bunker Hill, The . 247 
 Take, O, take those lips 
 
 away 132 
 
 Tenting on the Old Camp 
 
 Ground ....... 346 
 
 Thanksgiving in Boston Har- 
 bor, The 233 
 
 The breaking waves dashed 
 
 high 230 
 
 The breezes went steadily thro' 
 
 the tall pines 342 
 
 The Campbells are comin', 
 
 Oho, Oho . 164 
 
 The dames of France are fond 
 
 and free 207 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy 
 
 shore 302 
 
 The Geraldines! the Geral- 
 
 dines ! 't is full a thousand 
 
 years 202 
 
 The harp that once through 
 
 Tara's halls 209 
 
 The heroes of the story books 
 
 are ever in a pose .... 379 
 The king sits in Dumferling 
 
 toune i 
 
 The kynge came to Notyng- 
 
 hame 38 
 
 The little flag on Main Street 377 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The maid who binds her war- 
 rior's sash 317 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll 
 has beat 263 
 
 The Perse owt off Northom- 
 barlonde 8 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, where 
 are they 231 
 
 The quarry whence thy form 
 majestic sprung .... 248 
 
 The sainted isle of old . . . 196 
 
 The sun had set 279 
 
 The sun has gane down o'er 
 the lofty Benlomond . . . 182 
 
 The sun shines bright in the 
 old Kentucky home . . .351 
 
 There are twelve months in all 
 the year 29 
 
 There is not in the wide world 
 a valley so sweet . . . . 209 
 
 There lived a wife at Usher's 
 Well 58 
 
 There 's a dear little plant that 
 grows in our isle .... 187 
 
 There 's a little star in the win- 
 dow of the house across the 
 way 376 
 
 There 's a Long, Long Trail . 387 
 
 There 's Nae Luck about the 
 House ..." 168 
 
 There was a youth, and a well- 
 beloved youth 129 
 
 They are not dead, the soldier 
 and the sailor 383 
 
 They Ve named a cruiser 
 Dixie that 's whut the 
 papers say 331 
 
 They were summoned from 
 the hillside 384
 
 438. 
 
 Poetry, of the People 
 
 This is my Own, my Native 
 
 Land 143 
 
 This one fought with Jackson, 
 and faced the fight with 
 
 Lee 329 
 
 This royal throne of kings, 
 
 this scepter'd isle .... 66 
 Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of 
 
 State 324 
 
 Three Hundred Thousand 
 
 More 288 
 
 Three Troopers, The ... 85 
 'T is the last rose of summer .211 
 To arms, men ! To arms, men ! 374 
 
 To Celia 133 
 
 To eastward ringing, to west- 
 ward winging, o'er mapless 
 
 miles of sea 337 
 
 To God and Ireland True . . 225 
 To the Cambrio-Britons and 
 
 their Harp 70 
 
 To the Lords o' Convention 
 
 'twas Claverhousewhospoke 157 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp . . . 290 
 Twa Corbies, The .... 56 
 
 Union, The 324 
 
 Untrammelled Giant of the 
 
 West 339 
 
 Up from the meadows rich 
 
 with corn . . 274 
 
 Up from the South at break of 
 
 day 294 
 
 Vicar of Bray, The . . . .138 
 
 Vicksburg 277 
 
 Vive la France 360- 
 
 Wae 's me for Prince Charlie . 163 
 Warren's Address .... 253 
 War-Ship " Dixie," The . .331 
 Warship of 1812, The . . . 255 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Washington's Statue . . . 248 
 
 Wave, wave your glorious 
 battle-flags, brave soldiers of 
 the North 282 
 
 Way down upon de Swanee 
 Ribber 353 
 
 We are a band of brothers, and 
 native to the soil .... 305 
 
 We are coming, Father Abra- 
 ham 288 
 
 We are coming from the ranch, 
 from the city and the mine 375 
 
 We don't forget while in this 
 dark December 365 
 
 Wearing of the Green, The . 198 
 
 Wellington, Duke of, Ode on 
 the Death of 105 
 
 We 're tenting to-night on the 
 old camp ground . ... 346 
 
 What is the Voice I hear . . 388 
 
 What is this, the sound and 
 rumor? What is this that 
 all men hear 124 
 
 When Britain first, at Heav- 
 en's command 88 
 
 When comes the day all hearts 
 to weigh 218 
 
 When Freedom from her 
 mountain height .... 259 
 
 When Robin Hood and Little 
 John 47 
 
 When Robin Hood was about 
 twenty years old .... 24 
 
 When the Great Gray Ships 
 Come In 337 
 
 When the Kye Comes Hame . 180 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is 
 wrought 118 
 
 Where Do We Go from Here 386
 
 Index of Titles and First Lines 
 
 439 
 
 PAGE 
 
 While you are sleeping, your 
 France is weeping .... 386 
 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety- 
 Eight 200 
 
 Who is Silvia? what is she . 132 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior? 
 Who is he 94 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, 
 ladie 176 
 
 Wife of Usher's Well, The . 58 
 
 With deep affection and recol- 
 lection 214 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wordsworth, Memorial Verses 
 
 on Death of 102 
 
 Yankee Doodle . . . . . 340 
 Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie 
 
 Doon 175 
 
 Ye Mariners of England . . 93 
 Ye sons of Freedom, wake to 
 
 glory 359 
 
 Yes, we '11 rally 'round the flag, 
 
 boys, we '11 rally once again . 269 
 
 You Also! 382 
 
 You Gentlemen of England . 134
 
 ANNOUNCEMENTS
 
 REFERENCE BOOKS ON POETRY 
 
 Alexander : Introduction to the Poetry of Robert Brown- 
 ing. 212 pages 
 Bright and Miller: Elements of English Versification. 
 
 i 66 pages 
 Cook's Addison : Criticisms on Paradise Lost, xxiv + 
 
 200 pages 
 
 Cook : Art of Poetry. The Poetical Treatises of Horace, 
 Vida, and Boileau, with the translations by Howes, 
 Pitt, and Soame. Iviii + 303 pages 
 Cook : Cardinal Newman's Essay on Poetry, with refer- 
 ence to Aristotle's Poetics. 36 pages 
 Cook : Hunt's " What is Poetry ? " 98 pages 
 Cook : Shelley's Defense of Poetry. 86 pages 
 Cook : Sidney's Defense of Poesy, xlv + 1 03 pages 
 Cooper : Aristotle on the Art of Poetry. xxix-(-ioi pages 
 Corson: Primer of English Verse. 232 pages 
 Gayley : Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art. 
 
 xlii + 597 pages 
 
 Gayley and Flaherty : Poetry of the People. 403 pages 
 Gayley and Kurtz : Methods and Materials of Liter- 
 ary Criticism : Lyric, Epic, and Allied Forms of 
 Poetry \In press\ 
 
 Gummere: Handbook of Poetics. 250 pages 
 Gummere : Old English Ballads, xcviii + 380 pages 
 Hudson : Life, Art, and Characters of Shakespeare. Two 
 volumes, 1003 pages, cloth; half morocco 
 
 Long : American Literature, xxi + 48 1 pages 
 Long: English Literature. 582 pages 
 Long : Outlines of English and American Literature 
 Manly: English Poetry, xxviii -f 580 pages 
 Schelling: Elizabethan Lyrics, lxix-j-327 pages 
 Schelling : Seventeenth Century Lyrics. Ixix + 314 pages 
 Sneath: Wordsworth Poet of Nature and Poet of 
 Man. 320 pages 
 
 GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS
 
 THE ELEMENTS OF ENGLISH 
 VERSIFICATION 
 
 By JAMES WILSON BRIGHT, Professor of English Literature in the Johns 
 
 Hopkins University, and RAYMOND D. MILLER, Instructor 
 
 in English in the University of Missouri 
 
 I2mo, cloth, xii + 166 pages 
 
 As THE title indicates, "The Elements of English Versification" deals 
 exclusively with the more external side of poetry, its metrical form. 
 Part One treats of the individual verse : it shows the nature of rhythrv, 
 meter, melody, harmony ; enumerates and illustrates the various meters , 
 defines tone color and the different kinds of rime ; and concludes with 
 an important chapter on the scansion of verse. Part Two is concerned 
 with the grouping of verses into paragraphs, stanzas, and complete 
 poems. An exhaustive index of topics and authors increases the value 
 of the book as a manual of reference. 
 
 The subject is presented in a brief, impersonal style, illuminated at 
 every point by varied and unhackneyed illustration. The treatment is 
 broad and entirely free from controversial matter. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT'S "WHAT IS POETRY?" 
 
 Edited by ALBERT S. COOK, Professor of the English Language 
 and Literature in Yale University 
 
 I2mo, cloth, 98 pages 
 
 LEIGH HUNT'S answer to the question What is Poetry ? including 
 various remarks on versification. The definitions, the quotations, and 
 the charm and spirit of this book make it peculiarly valuable for school 
 and college use as an introduction to a course in poetry or criticism. 
 
 PRIMER OF ENGLISH VERSE 
 
 By HIRAM CORSON, late Professor of English Literature 
 in Cornell University 
 
 I2mo, cloth, 232 pages 
 
 THE leading purpose of this volume is to introduce the student to the 
 aesthetic and organic character of English verse. Tennyson's stanzas, 
 the Spenserian stanzas, the sonnet, and blank verse are specially treated. 
 
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