■^B lb? 063 BALLADS AND ADDRESSES ]. E. Patterson 753 BALLADS AND ADDRESSES BY J. E. PATTERSON THE LURE OF THE SEA: Poems THE SEA'S ANTHOLOGY : Poems, Ballads, Songs, and Chanties from the Earliest Times to 1850 EPISTLES FROM DEEP SEAS BOND-SLAVES BALLADS AND ADDRESSES BY J: E. PATTERSON LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. LTD 1916 Permission to recite any of the following pieces in public may be had for the asking TO LIEUTENANT J. P. C. COAST yd QUEEN'S [ROYAL WEST SURREY) REGIMENT 4CC276 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/balladsaddressesOOpattrich CONTENTS FAG£ BALLADS AN EMPIRE-CHANTEY ii SIX TO ONE : OR THE FAMOUS FIGHT BETWEEN " THE CLAN MAC TAVISH " AND THE PIRATE 15 THE TRYSTING-PLACE 19 THE RIME OF GASTON 22 AN INCIDENT 27 THE BALLAD OF THE FARRIER 31 THE LAND WE LOVE 35 ADDRESSES TO THE KAISER 41 " A SCRAP OF PAPER " 43 " THOU SHALT NOT KILL " 46 LE TRAITRE INCROYABLE 49 TO KING ALBERT 51 TO PRESIDENT WILSON— AND AMERICANS 54 TO BRITAIN 58 7 Contents PAGE OTHER PIECES THE CRY OF THE CENTURY 63 A HYMN BEFORE BATTLE 66 IN THE OLD STYLE 68 DEAR GOD OF MERCY, WHEN ? 70 yjE VICTIS 72 ENGLAND'S FLOWER 74 THE SOLDIER'S GOOD-BYE 76 ANOTHER FAREWELL 78 AT BIVOUAC 79 HIS MOTHER 81 SONNET 83 A LAMENT 84 TWO PROPOSALS : The Captain's 87 The Sxjbaltern's 88 BALLADS AN EMPIRE-CHANTEY AND, lo ! the mother to her children called : For all my years I am not old ; I do not falter in my pace. Yet some there are whose envy I have galled^ Whose might exceeds a hundred-fold Ihe strength of this my island-race. And up from the ends of the earth they came — RolHng along ! Rolling along ! " 'Tis glory to die to save her shame " — Singing the old home-song. In from the out-back block afar, Where the sheep in their hundred thousand are ; In from the factory, in from the mine. In from their work on the autumn vine, — RoUing along at the mother's hest ; From the back-o'-beyond they brought their best. Call us, mother, call us, — Over earth, wherever it he ; Call on — no call can stall us : There^s no nation like to thee. II Ah Empire-Chantey And over the ocean straight they came — Rolling along ! Rolling along ! With never a thought of stint or fame — Singing the old home-song. In from the lumber-camps and streams, Thought and thew and a nation's dreams ; In from the vasty wheat-fields lone, Where the maple-leaf in the sunlight shone, — Rolling along at the mother's hest ; From the earth's far ends they brought their best. Call us, mother, call us. Over land and over sea ; Call on — no call can stall us : ^here^s no nation like to thee. And over the peaks of the world they came, Across the plains of the earth they trod — Rolling along ! Rolling along ! With penant and turban and heart aflame. With different creeds, but the self-same God — Chanting their mystic song. In from the jungle, death to share, Men of the sun who asked not : " Where ? " 12 An Empire-Chantey Down from the mountain, city and plain, Soldiers by instinct, seeking pain, — Rolling along at the Island's hest ; From the ends of the world they brought their best. Call us, Island, call us To thy needs, whatever they he ; No trial can appal us, For thy weaVs our destiny. Up over the seas of the earth they came — RoUing along ! RoUing along ! Not theirs to question, chide or blame — Singing the old home-song. Down from the hills where the Maori strove ; In from the farm and the cattle-drove ; Out of the mine, with its golden ore ; Back from the heights where the kea soar — RoUing along at the mother's hest ; From the new world's ends they brought their best. Call us, mother, call us. Over earth, where'er it he ; 13 An Empire-Chantey Call on — no call can stall us : There^s no nation like to thee. And up from the ends of the world they came — Rolling along ! Rolling along ! To the help of the isle with the freeborn's name — Singing their own home-song. Down from the kopje, in from the veldt ; Briton and Boer and African felt Pull of the Empire — ^puU of the free ; Never the Hke did the old world see, — Rolling along to the Island's hest ; From the earth's wide ends they brought their best. Call us^ Britain^ call us, Over land or over sea ; Call on — no call can stall us : There^s no nation like to thee. H SIX TO ONE : OR The Famous Fight between " The Clan MacTavish " and the Pirate SIX to one and a British heart — Yo-ho, yo-ho, but the heart was true ! Six to one from end to start — Yo-ho, yo-ho, but we fought it thro' ! Then tell it to your children, That they tell it unto theirs, How we fought those German wolverines, Who slip'd their mined lairs ; Who slip'd their lairs 'neath colours false, To prey on weaker craft. Yet could not daunt the Ensign Red That fluttered gaily aft. Six to one and a yo-ho-ho ! Thus over the world shall the brave heart go ! Oh, the year was young, and the moon hung high— Yo-ho, yo-ho, for the s'uthern seas ! Oh, the year was yoimg, and that northern sky Was full of the sting of a whipping breeze. There was war astern ; but away ahead There still was the peace of solitude — IS Six to One Or so we thought, as she roU'd and sped Down the combers long and green and rude ; For the land may be full of strife, yet the sea Has ever a place where sweet peace may be. So out of the breeze we ran, yo-ho, Away from the cowardly U-boats' range, On those s'uthern seas, where the trade winds go, And a man may laugh or pray by change. When over th' horizon, two points free, A mast, a funnel, a hull we saw ; She lagg'd, and we overhaul'd her lee. Nor thought of her once as a vulture's claw ; For here we were free of the open seas — God's pathway, swept by His own fresh breeze. Then up she spoke with the signal — " Stop ! " But our master he cry'd — " Put on more steam ! " And about us the shells began to drop. For the pirate was then on our starboard beam. It was one to six, with a yo-ho-ho ! And at it we went for the worth of our blood, Whilst the night crept down, and that vulture's maw Spat hate like Hell from a burning flood. i6 Six to One With our helm to port, We made retort, And land'd a shot in her 'midship gear ; Up helm again, and she swept. While our little six-pounder wept. On her forward deck, another hot tear. Thus we hammer'd away. At the end of the day. With never a shot awry ; And the carpenter ran with our baby shells. As the foe's flew wide or went too high ; And we zigg'd and zagg'd to 'scape his hells. Yo-ho, yo-ho for the one to six. And the fight we fought on those s'uthern seas, For the gunners who blaz'd our foe to fix. And the Ensign Red in the evening breeze ! < But our shells were all too light and small, Against six big guns and greater speed ; For the pirate soon did us overhaul, And sent in a shot that was foul indeed ; It land'd straight on the engine-room. And sixteen Lascars went out west ; Yet we made reply with our little b-o-om. And dropp'd some Huns of the pirate's best. B 17 Six to One For what else could British seamen do, Whilst a shot remain' d, and the gun was true ? Then another came and holed us straight On the water-line, and the sea let in ; Still we charg'd once more — it was our fate — And fired again, though we could not win. For she was six to one, and she belch'd out fast, Larboard and starboard, away astern ; And we knew that the game was up at last, And lost was the fame we had sought to earn. But we'd done our best for the flag of the free, So ever and ever Amen, let it be. Then tell it to your children. That they tell it unto theirs. How we fought those German wolverines. Who slip'd their mined lairs — Who slip'd their lairs 'neath colours false. To prey on weaker craft. Yet could not daunt the Ensign Red, That flaunt'd them abaft. Six to one and a yo-ho-ho ! Thus over the world shall the brave heart go ! i8 THE TRYSTING-PLACE THERE'S a trysting-place in la belle France^ Another round Berlin ; There's a mam'selle asking us to dance For prizes worth a win. So it's Mons, Maubeuge and Compiegne ; It's Marne and Aisne, Chalons ; And if ever a game was worth the play, It was there in old France on that autumn-day, When Jean he said : " Allons ! " Then come ye down from Sutherland's heights ; Or come ye on from York ; Oh, come ye up from Devonshire, From Brecon or from Cork ! — There is a trysting-place in France For heroes meant, and fools to prance. There's the devil to pay in Gaul, my boys, And we Hke a Httle spree ; Especially when the Hun deploys His trenched-up infantry. 19 The Trysting-Place So it's Rheims, Laon, St. Quentin, Lille ; It's Charleroi, Sedan ; And if ever we fought as men may fight, It was there on that wooded river-height, When blood like water ran. Then come ye down from dale and glen ; Come in from coombe and fell, From city old and beautiful, Or black, industrial hell ; There is in France a place of tryst. Full meet to smash a tyrant's fist. There's a half-way house by Luxembourg, Another near the Rhine ; And France she has a mighty morgue For Germans on the pine. So it's Liege, Metz and Strasbourg, boys ; It's Sarrelouis and Treves ; And if ever a fight was worth our blood. It was there when those Brandenburgers stood- A regimental grave ! Then come ye down from Donegal ; Come in from eastern wolds ; 20 The Trysting-Place Come up from Sussex, Surrey's downs, From lonely cattle-folds ! — In Kaiser-land 'tis writ, be sure. We'll meet and take full forfeiture. There's a hell to be beside the Rhine, — A trysting-place for us ; In Brandenburg another, boys, With less of German fuss. So it's Essen, Coblentz and Cologne ; It's Leipzig and Berlin ; And if ever the nations stand to gain, It will be when we break o'er Potsdam plain. And all go marching in. Then come ye down from northern shires ; Come in from east and west ; Come up from southern seaboards — Come ; It is the nation's quest ! Come in and stem the hated flood, Till Prussia dies in German blood ! 21 THE RIME OF GASTON (" A young Breton corporal of Cuirassiers^ separated from his troop in an outlying dis- trict, came upon two Uhlans who were taking a vine-grower^ s mounted daughter * as a hostage for her father^ He attacked and killed them both ; hut was wounded by the second one. It is said that he and the handsome young lady are to be married^ — News from the Front.) FAIR Marie was the daughter of Monsieur d'Anversbaile, And she had met two coarse Uhlans, whilst riding down the vale — Whilst riding down the vale that morn, to shop in Soissons town. These roving German boars had torn her dainty saddle-gown. Her groom had fled, and she, in tears, was being led away. To stand as hostage for her sire — a man of note, they say. 22 The Rime of Gaston Her light hat gone, hair streaming out ; ah, sad the day, the sight, That such a sweet and handsome maid should glut Teutonic spite ! For loud they swore that she should pay for all her father's deeds, — Should make for them a kitchen-wench, where terrors crushed love's creeds. And though she strove to break away, and spurned them to their teeth. One held her fast, the other led her palfrey t'wards the heath. Young Gaston was a Breton lad, who chanced that way to ride. As these two haughty spoilers flanked the vine- yard's captured pride ; And being full of native grit — a comely lad and fine — He spurred his horse and gave the first a quietus for wine ! " Ride on, ride on, sweet lady ! " he directed lustily ; " The brook's behind, the town's before — ^go, leave this hound to me ! " 23 The Rime of Gaston And round he wheeled his ready horse about the palfrey's head, To cut the other captor down, while yet his sword was red. But this was no gay laggard. Though Marie smote his face. And did her best to hamper him, he had a swordsman's grace. Out flashed his heavy sabre ; then did Marie whip aside ; As, sneering out his taunts, the galled Uhlan he cried : " Come on, you mouthing Frenchman ; here's a piece of German steel ; And by the God who made me, it shall turn you quick on heel 1 " But Gaston spoke no further. He was no smart fencing man, — Just one who fought when fight he must, and ne'er from tussle ran. So to it fell the pair at once. Their sabres ripped . and clashed ; And 'fore he could prevent the sweep, the corporal's arm was gashed. 24 The Rime of Gaston The gay-hued cloth grew crimson then ; and Marie, waiting by, Began to think her champion for her sake sure must die. Not so, not so ! For Gaston spurred his stallion on the foe, And lunged and slashed, and bore him down — as spoliers e'er should go. With jaws hard-set, with dimming eye, ebbed strength at finger-tips. The Breton swung his sabre through from skull to scoffing lips ! Yet with the German he, too, fell — fell, much to Marie's grief. Who quickly urged her palfrey back and sprang to his relief. Just then a smothering cloud of dust was seen to mark the way, And, clattering past, a horseman cried : " Our men have won the day ! " Then others came and lent their aid. Young Gaston was not dead. His wound soon healed ; and Marie, fair, will be his bride, 'tis said. 25 The Rime of Gaston And may they both their whole life long, by Soissons old-world town, Look back and bless the day when those Uhlans were stricken down. 26 AN INCIDENT ON the field, soft silhouetted by a searching Flemish moon, Stands a band of British horsemen — hand-to-hand with Death's own noon. Far beyond them stilling silence, save the bull- frog's dismal croak ; Yet there seem to linger echoes of the guns that lately spoke. Closer to them groan the stricken, low, for men are 'shamed to groan ; There one, dying, gurgles " Mother " ; here, with " Wife," a spirit's flown. Others lie, nor knew what slew them, sightless, staring at the stars ; There a couple help each other bind their first of battle-scars. Near a steep slope's trenched summit, moonlit, fair, the badge of truce Flutters in the cooling breeze — dishonoured here its honoured use ! 27 An Incident Not to gather in their wounded, as the German foe gave out ; But to bring new guns from background, fairer foes to rend and rout. . . . Booming now through Night's pale beaming come the roars from mouths of steel — Shrapnel shell, cased shot and common ; earth- ward riders, horses reel ! Ping, ping, ping ! snap out the rifles ; hail of bullets, storm of lead ! " Hell and devils, charge us at them ! — Steel ! " the leader thunders — dead. (Shrink not, gentles, home in Britain : Think you not men swear at death ? Pray believe me, I have heard them cursing with a last drawn breath.) As he falls another 'steads him — British valour bids it so — And up, up that belching hillside through the murdering hail they go ! Not a further word is spoken ; every nerve's like tautened cord ; Teeth hard pressed against their fellows, twenty deaths in each one's sword. 28 An Incident Hiss, hiss, hiss the bullets by them ! Here a saddle's emptied straight. Whilst the horse swerves off at random, snorting at the bloody state. There a comrade's hit and, gasping, wildly grips the flying mane. Eyes a-swim, yet sabre ready — Hell and hate so throttle pain. Thus they ride — the thinning numbers ; lust of blood a-gape, red-eyed ! Mercy ? Ay, for those who give it ! Go, bid reason stop the tide. Silent demons. Death's true henchmen, burst they o'er the steep hill's crest ! Flash their British sabres, lighted by that Flemish moon, fleece-dressed — Flash a moment, but no longer ; crimsoned now their honest steel ; Still they fall, yet fall in justice ; earned, thrice earned the wounds they deal ! . . . Mute now lie dishonoured rifles ; speed they who can run in time ; Cringing cry the rest for quarter : Quarter ? What ! for coward's crime ? 29 An Incident Yet 'tis given — stay the sabres ; pant the heroic, bloody foe, Look around them, chilled by horror — demons then, now men in awe. Silence deep as space eternal, marks that death- strewn, moonlit hill ; Then fresh groans and frogs' new croaking wake the victors' healing skill. So it was at Balaclava ; so it was at Waterloo — Yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, — father, son, or me or you. 30 THE BALLAD OF THE FARRIER (" ^here was a tremendous charge, in which the Dragoons [6th'\ were accompanied by their shoeing-smith, armed only with his hammer, which he wielded with deadly effect:'— G, H. Perris.) ^^OME, hearken, lads, who stay at home and y^ read how others fight ; 'Tis of a doughty farrier, who swung his arm of might. Each trooper sat his saddle firm ; each charger champed its bit ; Old hell stood at the gate and strained, his bloody face dark-lit ; When round the stirring whisper ran : " Dra- goons prepare to charge." And glorious were the tints that splashed Champagne's red sunset marge. And one a shoe-smith was ; but he — no sabre to his name. Still what of that, when men are men, and hearts buist into flame ? 31 The Ballad of the Farrier Back to his field-forge leapt that smith and seized his hammer true, And sprang upon a charger, lad ! — Is that what you would do ? The order made — the charge began. Heaven, how that farrier rode ! — The hate of German in his soul ; the love of home his goad. Then round and round with smashing blows that deadly hammer swung On many a head that should by right have from some gallows hung ! All blackened from his smithy-fire — a shoe left glowing-red — Arms bared and smutted, chest the same, whilst shrapnel shrieked o'erhead ! What heeded he Uhlans or guns ? — O Farrier true and rare ! He rode for home and slew for kin ! — Will you sit, reading, there ? Go, tell the tale where'er you can, and young men gather round ; Go, speak it, to your welcome, where our island- race is found ; 32 The Ballad of the Farrier Go, tell them how this shoe-smith fought against a German horde, Regardless of death-wingfed lead, the thrust of lance and sword. O Farrier, O Farrier, what sledge of Thor was thine. That hammered out those butcher-men from eastward of the Rhine ? — Those men who said they came of Thor (new scourge from an old god) To murder Peace, e'en whilst she prayed beside the blood-drenched sod ! And how those Prussians thundered on, lunged, slashed, and fell to earth ! — To die, or wonder what strange man was this of hammer-birth ? Meanwhile the farrier swung and slew, and straight from stirrup stood. Nor thought of that fierce sunset glare — so like this wage of blood. Not whilst this mother of men we love, this land for which men bleed. Has souls like his, shall Freedom die, nor languish in her need. c 33 The Ballad of the Farrier Whate'er the fight, where'er it be, chill nights or sweltering noons. There will be hearts to emulate that farrier of Dragoons. 34 THE LAND WE LOVE OFOR a saner homeland ! O for a sweeter land ! Where nobles, masters, lawmen, shall grasp the workman's hand ; Shall lend their aid to Hft him from slums of thought and fact ; Where every man-made law shall be a broadly humane Act — And war shall be no more on earth, and all men know a nobler birth. Give us this realm of homeland from callousness set free, From anger, hatred, malice, of class-begot degree ; A land where childhood's garnered from out all sordid things. To make such noble citizens that crowns will beg for kings — When war no more shall curse the earth, and all men share a nobler birth. 35 The Land We Love The soil should be the people's — of it, for it, 'tis theirs. To turn with Adam's implement or with their ploughs' keen shares : Too long have they deserted this heirloom of sweet health, To tread Avernus' flintstones of pallid town-got wealth — And war shall be no more on earth, that men may know a nobler birth. O for a saner homeland than's marked in city ways ! A land of rural glories, contentment all her praise. For such a dearer homeland, ah, God, what worship Thine ! When with the morning's breezes men drink a subtler wine — When war no more shall curse the earth, and all men share a nobler birth — The wine of joy in living where life holds sweets like these ; Where lean-jawed Death's pale terrors form not Life's leasing fees ; 36 The Land We Love Where men with men forgather in lasting brotherhood, Nor Socialistic rancours mar mankind's aspiring blood — And war shall be no more on earth, that men may know a nobler birth. Heaven grant us such a homeland — a land of manly men, As such our fathers left us ; it was our birth- right then ; It was our gracious heritage, our realm of promise fair. What time the Master laboured that all the world might share — When war no more shall curse the earth, and all men share a nobler birth. There is a joy in living where brown loams scent to God The honest, heart-blest working of men who love the sod ; There is a joy where meadows in cool, green softness lie, Tree-fringed, sheep-dotted, beautiful beneath the changing sky — 37 The Land We Love And war shall be no more on earth, that men may know a nobler birth. This homeland be the free land, an Isle of Fortune blest ; Dear Lord of mercy, make it of all fair home- lands best, A saner, sweeter homeland, a pattern greater far. That all the world may follow, as wise men did that Star — When war no more shall curse the earth, and all men share a nobler birth. God, give us now our birthright — the land, and men of thew ; Where Justice holds her balance with hand for ever true ; Where History's page is fouled not by splash of blackening gall, But class meets class in fellowship, and each man's hand for all — And war shall be no more on earth, and all men know a nobler birth. 38 ADDRESSES TO THE KAISER {Before the War, 19 14) " ^hou shah not make unto thyself any graven image,^' BOW down, bow down ! Thou shamest Mother Earth, Poor abrogator of divinity ! Wherefore should men of even modest worth Abase themselves to thee ? Go, doff that purple state. Thou art no king, Thou sacrilegious sycophant to God ; Here, stead with joy this world kept sorrowing Lest falls thy bloody rod. Thou spurious Caesar, packed of fearful pride. Thou " genius " of less than common mould, Put off that lion's skin, wherein doth hide The ass in ignorance bold. Is it not writ ? — ^Thou shalt not worship aught Save God Himself, omnipotent in all ; Yet, worshipper of self, with errors fraught, Thou darest e'en Heaven appal ! 41 To the Kaiser Put off thy stage-apparel and its ways ; Go, get thee to a hermitage and pray ; Learn how, with contrite heart, to praise, Against thy humbHng day. Bow down, bow down, and strive to be a man ! — That which poor Nature bungled, making thee ; Bow down in honest fear of soul, and scan A dread Divinity. 42 "A SCRAP OF PAPER" {To the Prussian Caste) " J^^^ for a scrap of paper [the Treaty, that Germany signed, to protect the neutrality of Belgium] Great Britain was going to make war on a kindred nation who desired nothing better than to be friends with her,'^^ — ^The German Chancellor to Sir E. Goschen, British Ambassador at Berlin, August 4, 1914. " TUST for a scrap of paper." — ^Hounds of a I breed despised, ^^ Was it thus you thought to tamper with the honour that we prized ? Did you think us mean and craven — ^we, whose 'scutcheon lacks that stain — Thus to make your vile proposal : We should share your brand of Cain ? " Just for a scrap of paper." — Ye, who have no sense of right ; Ye, who murder, burn and pillage in the lust of armed might ! 43 " A Scrap of Paper " Do you think there's no Almighty in the heavens you outrage, 'Cept your Kaiser's " God of Battle " ?— unto whom he flung war's gage ! " Just for a scrap of paper." — ^Did you count us blinded fools, When you thought to brand our glories as your too quiescent tools ? You, who priced our ancient birthright as a thing of German lease. When you let your hellish legions on a world that prayed for peace ! " Just for a scrap of paper." — Ye who crave both earth and sea. Ye who flaunt the noble eagle where a vulture foul should be, Was it in your warrior " kultur " that ye learnt the coward-game. Thus to drop from skulking airships night-time bombs of death and flame ? " Just for a scrap of paper." — Say, what eagle's business this ? — Ye, apostles of old Punic faith, who stab the while you kiss ! 44 " A Scrap of Paper " Ye, who call us kindred, — out ! With you we own no kith or kin. Henceforth shall " Germanic honour " count : The vilest way to win ! " Just for a scrap of paper " — ^ye have bartered all ye held. Scorned in faith, despised, condemned in deeds, in lust of power quelled ! Sure as retribution comes, offended Heaven has marked your fall ; Greed, disgrace, blood-guiltiness and hate shall bear your funeral pall. 45 "THOU SHALT NOT KILL" (To the Kaiser : August 31, 19 14) Cy^HOU shah not kill — for jewels, land or I gold ; Nor e'en for hate, and hate were better cause — Hate Tyranny-got, oppression-reared, till, old, It slayeth Wrong, to Freedom's just applause. Thou shalt not kill, — though King or Devil thou ; High station bears its equalizing great ; For Kings should kingly be — a crowned brow Makes not a King in aught save baubled state. Thou shalt not kill. — ^What thousands have been slain To swell Germanic hate, thy murderers' crime ! — Red mouths a-gape to Heaven with wrong and pain. Though tongueless they ! — now earth-heaped for all time. 46 "Thou Shalt Not Kill »> Thou shah not kill. — " Take up yon slaughtered dead, Heroic dead who should not thus have died," So Justice calls, " though thrice thy millions sped. And all accusing gashes heal and hide ! " Thou shall not kill, — Come stop these children's cries, Poor babes who ask their fathers back again. Do crowns make Gods, to close dear, happy eyes ? — Go, bring them back their murdered better men ! Thou shah not kill, — ^Mark yonder stern-faced dames. Who, deep in heart, tear-quelling, give their curse, — As women may, when theirs the storied names Of national fame, which hate and greed inhearse. Thou shah not kill, — ^Unshed the ceaseless tears Out-flooding humbler eyes for husbands lost ; Give back their dead, the treasured stay of years, Or take their anguish, bear their dead men's cost. 47 "Thou Shalt Not Kill" Ihou shah not kill, — Go, still the maiden plaint Of lonesome hearts bewidowed, yet not wed ; The countless moans in secret, smothered, faint, For plighted mates, whom thy foul lust hath bled. Thou shah not kill. — Restore the beardless ones. Thy great unripened sacrifice to greed ; Return to Age its Heaven-enfranchised sons, Loved kindred-helps in life's late hour of need. Thou shalt not kilL — Not one can be brought back. Thrice damned in thrice unneeded blood here spilt, How fare shalt thou on keen posterity's rack, When History's pen lays bare thy mighty guilt. 48 LE TRAITRE INCROYABLE (To Him who Caused the Retirement from Mons) *A I ^WAS not enough that thou shouldst I treacherous be ^ To passion sweet, and that were past repute ; For he who will disgrace love's mortgagee Is marked of some most hateful attribute. Nor was it in thy count to touch the neaps Of falsity in friendship and its stain ; No poHtics could reach thy hell's far deeps, No right be wrong in thy abysmal brain. A traitor thou, but not of common mould ; Some fouler name must brand thy cursed stock ; And history's page thee evermore enfold — The jibe of man, the children's daily mock. Thou wast not made of normal, faulty earth, O nameless, whom dear Nature would disown ! Did a wronged mother curse thee at thy birth. Then die — prophetic of her nation's groan ? D 49 Le Traitre Incroyable 'Twas not thy bent to be a national shame, — That were too paltry for a soul like thine ; Thy vaulting blood preferred the foulest blame That man could seek, or devils could define. Thy greater purpose was to crush mankind, To stultify the living Christ's whole work ; Therefore thy monumental-hellish mind Would e'en His civilization burke. A hangman's rope had been to thy galled neck As honour done to pestilential slime ; So shalt thou go — dishonour's primest beck, Of thy vile hatch the vilest for all time. SO TO KING ALBERT (On a Certain Occasion after the War) " Therms not a breathing of the common wind 7 hat will forget thee. Thou hast great allies I Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man^s unconquerable mind.^' Wordsworth. WHEN the hush of night has fallen, Noble king of Belgium's choice ; When the noisy honour's done with, Plaudits, feasts, our nation's voice ; When the thunder of the cannon Lingers sad at Memory's gates, Thou'lt not gauge by clamouring tokens, Measuring thus our hearts' estates, — Thou and thy poor martyr-nation Wilt not deem us insensates. Had we judged thee as we know thee, Ah, how quick the jealous world Would have poured mute scorn upon us, Or denunciations hurled ! 5? To King Albert Had we seen in thee true kingship, 'Stead of one who bore a crown, Would thy realm have thought us honest, Or have answered with a frown ? — Wouldst e'en thou have done us honour, To our lasting, loved renown ? When the glow of admiration Fadeth into gentler hues. Leaving Instinct's queries creeping Down Thought's quiet avenues — Asking if 'tis but our fashion Thus to greet th' heroic guest ? Or if 'tis a true laudation That we make so manifest ? — Then thy heart, and that of Belgium, Back will throw at Truth's behest. Had we promised thine the succour That we gave in Want's dread hour. How the hateful Scythian Vandal Would have worked it to his pow'r ! Had we sworn, by aged tradition. That our arms should right thy wrongs. Would the oath have been more binding Than our conscience-buckled thongs ? — To King Albert Would the bond thy faith have strengthened More than to our name belongs ? No, — thou'lt answer, all heart-searchings Stilled by knowledge got of deeds, — 'Tis a people's deep soul-joyance, Not poor Custom's weighed-out meeds. No, — thou'lt say in hours of quiet, — 'Tis their glory to be true ; 'Tis their island-grit and bearing So to spend their wealth and thew ; Tis their heritage and nature Thus to pay Faith's revenue. 53 TO PRESIDENT WILSON — AND AMERICANS " A I iOO proud to fight " ; but not too proud I to kiss — By long delays, e'en whilst he murdered still — The Judas-rod that William held above Your prideful neck. Would Lincoln, Washing- ton, And full a score who led the straighter way — Would they have bowed, the while this war- crazed fool Pursued his crimes unchecked ? Not that we ask Your nation, free and great, t' embroil its arms In this our righteous cause ; e'en though it be The world's, not ours alone, we have the blood To shed, the wealth to waste, and seek no aid But that which honest hearts in freedom give — As men of pith have ever done against A common foe, who would destroy man's right To spend himself upon the arts of peace. To wax apace in usefulness, to know 54 To President Wilson The larger charity of mind, to read The beauty of the stars, and, dying, rest Content that he has helped his kind a step Along the road to universal good. You talked of " strict accountability " For murders done to inoffensive babes, To helpless women and to men of peace — Words, idle words, in dalliance weak as reeds, Protracted, vain, and still protracted more ; The while his subtle tools plied openly Their craft of splitting hairs of definition, Their arguments, compact of scorn, that wrong Was right when wrong the course they took in blind. Weak impotence against the pow'r that held Him meshed and would not stoop to infamy. Was this your personal sense of national pride. Of Presidential dignity and gain ? — You, who stood mute, when Europe's burglar wiped His reeking blade and sent the treasure home. How sleep you now in those long, silent, mid' And searching watches of the night ? — ^When wraiths 55 To President Wilson Of wives and maids, of babes and aged men Stretch their appealing — ay, accusing hands From out that shadowland across the stream Of death. What price would you not pay for some Nepenthe deep, some lethe draught to quench The memory of a silence stunk of death ? Was e'er inaction guilty of more crime ? Had you no thought of what the morrow brings ? The morrow thct will say, in hurtful truth, That in your creed of strict pacificism There are worse things than righteous war can be. 4c 4« ♦ 4( ♦ O Land of forward stride and questions straight, Blood of our blood, great out-crop from our strain, What crooked ways have maimed you in your youth ? Have seized upon your 'scutcheon fair and blotched It sinister ? — e'en as a Greek king's word. And he who should have guarded you from this — No hyphenate ; nay, much as you and I, Of this old island's stock, that ever stood To right the wrong of too presumptuous might 56 To President Wilson What sin had you, in some unmindful hour And foul mischance, done unto Fate ? — that she, In this her dire law she never breaks. Should turn and strike you thus ; you that, in days When greatness was your surer heritage. Stood up, 'neath staggering sacrifice, and struck The shackles from the slave. So in our pride Of effort for mankind we give you free Our sympathy, our faith of nobler days ; As from your grace of heart you give us yours, That here we fight for you — for every race That owns allegiance unto God. 57 TO BRITAIN (August 1 91 4) OMY Country, O my Country ! was it thus you stood to fall, By the Carthaginian argument, so packed of envious gall ? — By yon Usurer of Commerce, who would starve your workers more. Bursting further still his war-chest, till you burst your workhouse-door ; All to feed his world-ambition, even while he cried 'twas just That he battened on your scruples, still out- licensing his lust. O my birthland, sweet my birthland ! heaven save you from such fate. Thus to tread the road of thraldom back to Misery's estate ! O my Country, O my Country ! — ^you who taught the nations round That the freedom of the subject has a patriot's trumpet-sound ; 58 To Britain You who long have led the battle for all honest thinkers' right, Holding Justice to her duty 'gainst oppression, wealth and might, — Could you be a thing to laugh at ? — ^just a German " kultur " pawn, Put in jeopardy at sunrise, fouling this your fairest dawn ? O our Britain, dear our Britain ! was it thus they would you tread Down the way that leads avernal ? — by your Teuton brothers led ! O my Country, O my Country ! never shall barbarians new Clip the glories that you fought for, giving blood and brain and thew. Just because they are so mighty, stunk of feudalism's crimes ! — These, whose poor heads totter under petty crowns that smack of mimes. Who would bring you back the dark days when a tyrant was your king. Sell you unto German slavery for a song you could not sing. 59 To Britain O old England, Mothering England ! was't for this your Nelson stood ? — With his face to world-ambitions, till they drew his deep heart's blood ! O my Country, O my Country ! it shall not be said of you That you trod the backward flintstones to the pains long-struggled through. Remember that this freedom, which your fathers gave in trust For their children's children onward, must be kept from stain and rust ; Bear in mind, and bear it bravely, nobly, humbly if you will. That this war is not yours only — ^lost, 'twould be your offsprings' ill ! O our homeland, sweet our homeland ! it shall ne'er be said of you That you left your sons the horrors of the old hell battled through ! 60 OTHER PIECES THE CRY OF THE CENTURY BEHOLD ! I came with heels incarna- dined ; Before my face blood and the lust of blood ; A cannon's roar my herald was, and Death My guide in pomp of atmosphere and garb. Ye talked of peace. — Of peace in what, how, where ? The gutter-urchin strikes his mate for food ; The brutish argument of blows still holds Where workmen disagree ; your factory girls Fling vitriol ; the mother starves her babe ; Hot factions tear your church in parts, that seek Each other's death ; the outcast and despised Forgather here and there, in pact to plot The overthrow of all your class-made laws ; Democracy demands the right to play A tyrant's part, and Capital still seeks To keep its " hands " in unconditional chains. 63 The Cry of the Century War, war, insatiate war, insensate, blind And foul stamps all the world at different points With blotches wrought of blood ! Your lovers win Their mistresses with tales of how they fought — Recitals of the dead who died for home — And will again, when Armageddon's done ; Whilst murder stalks red-handed through each land. These be the notes infernal of the air That I must play — the song ye make me sing. Antagonism taints the common blood ; Men war on men ; all nations nations slay, Though man alone must not his foeman kill. Ye countries that do slay for murder, say : What judge shall sit on you ? — ^what law con- demn ? — What punishment be just for millions done To death ? What rope shall Godhead use to hang A nation with ? Give answer, ye who slay In hordes, yet stern forbid that injured man Shall do that which ye multiply in gross. 64 The Cry of the Century Where lies the fundamental law that takes Sweet life for life ? — In custom blind, that most Illogical of guides to sightless men ? Or in your Christless hearts so deeply set ? — Foul leavening all your mortal veins, the which, It seems, nor time nor teaching e'er will purge. Put back old Time — up-turn his glass to run Its centuries o'er, and mark the crimson grains Of sand. They ninety run to each fair speck ! And England, — ay, this Albion ye boast. Turns countless grains of red in her own glass Of time. Poor pedlars crying fallacies — White doves to sell, or swords athirst for life ! In blood all my precursors came and went ! Red-hued, too, shall I go ? — e'en as I came ! B 65 A HYMN BEFORE BATTLE tORD of our hopes, our age-long prayers, Our guide in darkest night, ■^ Steel Thou our arms 'gainst brutal We do but seek the right. [power, — Give us to be not less, we pray. Than we have been since that far day We learnt Thy gracious lore, — Apostles dear to Freedom sworn, Uplifting still Thy banner, torn. Camp-followers of His gospel, shorn, — Lord God of peace and war. God of our fathers and our homes. Our noblest thoughts and gains. Give us of Thine infinite heart On Europe's bloody plains. Not ours Thy laws and man's t'outrage ; We did not fling the battle-gage. Poor sinners though we be : Not ours presumption's greed and hate ; Slow weeders on Thy high estate, We kneel repentant at Thy gate, Lord God of land and sea. 66 A Hymn Before Battle God of the lowly, tender heart, Lord of the bravely right. Be with our fleets in night-attack, They will not then need light. We who would racial hate in-urn, Help us these swords to ploughshares turn. Thy precepts to endow ; Give us the victory and the sway. To serve till creeds are wiped away. And evermore Thy will obey — Lord God of mercy Thou. 67 IN THE OLD STYLE ALL glory to the Lord of Hosts, And to our rightful cause ; And glory to those sea-borne men Who clip the eagle's claws — Those men who ride the storm-king's breath, And live or die, as honour saith. All glory to our Sovereign King, And to the sword we drew Against oppression, hate, and might. And ne'er in malice slew — That we our destiny fulfil, Lord God of Hosts be with us still. All glory to the people's word That will not suffer shame ; And glory thrice a hundred-fold To those who bear the flame — The shrieking hell of shrapnel-fire That lights the foe's dishonoured pyre. 68 In the Old Style All glory to the nation's power, All honour be its grace ; Do Thou, Jehovah, give it strength To smite the foe apace — To bring him to the lowly earth. That he may know a nobler birth. All glory, praise, and power be Unto the Lord of Hosts, And force and fortune manifold To those who guard our coasts. Be Thou, Almighty, with us still. Lest we forget Thy righteous will. 69 DEAR GOD OF MERCY, WHEN ? OH ! wilt Thou succour Belgium, Dear God of mercy, now ? — These heroes, Lord, down-trodden, Who low before Thee bow ! In dire need of help divine, The prey of strong who cant and whine, Their cause to Thee we must consign — Do Thou, O Lord, help Belgium ! Shall errors last for ever — These mighty acts of wrong ? Shall murder, rapine, pillage. To victory belong ? " No ! " cry Thy tenets. " No ! " swear we, The highest trust we place in Thee, And plead with each wronged refugee — Do Thou, O Lord, help Belgium ! Oh ! wilt Thou aid poor Belgium, Great God of justice Thou ? — The homeless. Lord, the stricken. Who ask Thy succour now ! 7° Dear God of Mercy, When ? God, save the Belgae — they are Thine — From butchering hands that foul Thy shrine, From creatures worse than viperine — Do Thou, O Lord, save Belgium ! V^ VICTIS ! " T7^^ v^ctis ! Vae victis ! " r 'Twas your sneer ; it is our task ; Yours the Scythian faith in hatred, Ours to tear away the mask ; Yours the vaunted master-might — Yours the lash, when falls dread retribution's night. Was it in your dream of murder, God would sleep the while you slew ? Was it never in your conscience. Hell would gape to give you mew ? Could it be you never thought — Yours the greater death for all the crimes you wrought ? " Woe unto the conquered nation ! " So you boasted ; thus we swear : Murderers of helpless people. Back ! — for punishment prepare. Woe unto you, vanquished, driv'n ! Yours th' inhuman fate you dealt — so witness Heav'n» 7z Vae Victis ! Vce victis ! Vce victis ! Lo ! 'tis fixed in Nature's grain : Crush — and thou in turn shalt break ; Kill — and thou, too, shalt be slain. Down, and pardon ask of God, Or for ever fall 'neath His avenging rod. 7? ENGLAND'S FLOWER {A song for St, George^ s Day) OH, for the flower of England, Our island's heart-red rose ; The petalled boast of freedom From south to Arctic snows ! Five hundred years our birthright, Our battle-badge and cry — The Rose, St. George and England ! To conquer, though we die. O lovely pride of England, The garden's queen and prize, 'Tis you we sing in triumph 'Neath home and foreign skies ! This later age's Romans, Slow-grown from ancient Brute, In every clime we hail you, Our Rose past all repute ! The Rose, the Rose for England ! So fresh, so sweet, so fair ; And like our island's women. Incomparably rare ! 74 England's Flower It speaks our hearts' blood given As wealth and freedom's fees ; It sings the love we bear you, Our kindred o'er the seas ! 75 THE SOLDIER'S GOOD-BYE {New Style) WE'RE away to the war, for humanity's sake, And the glory of Britain, whose free- dom's at stake ; You'll be kind to the boy. — Do not cry, my sweet wife ; For the chances of war are the soldier's Hfe. Hark, hark, from parade comes the bugle's call ! In its notes there's a medal — if not a fall. Yet always remember that though thick be the i^ fray. No bullet can e'er have two billets a day. Now rat-a-tat-tat ! go the drums on the air, And the fife's shrilly note gives the blood a " don't-care." See, the morning's a-break — our battalion's in line. — Come, one last nerving kiss, treasured sweetheart |- of mine. 76 The Soldier's Good-bye There, there, I must go ! — Is my knapsack on straight ? — For my company's looking, and the captain's a-wait. As a soldier's love, show the women you're brave ; And the nation will honour her soldier's grave. Fare you well — ^give a smile. — Here's my place in the ranks. Kiss the youngsters each night, while we play the foe pranks. Wave your scarf. — ^There's the band ! How it thrills through the blood ! Fare you well, just a while for our fireside's good. 77 ANOTHER FAREWELL AH ! press those lips to mine ; and in that kiss — ^ Silent and tender, lingering and still, Yet shooting through each heart a passioned thrill Of joy, wherein shall throb a whole life's bliss — In that foretaste of heaven's such as this Let your fond soul cleave unto mine until Heart beats to heart, and stern phlegmatic will Has lost its reasoning power in Love's abyss ! What matter, then, if all our after lives Be spent apart ? — ^if fierce, heart-gnawing pain. With aching need, breaks in and madly rives Our lonesome hearts, and we but reap the gain Of wild regret ? E'en though our souls wear gyves Of woe, we shall not then have loved in vain ! 78 AT BIVOUAC (A Novitiate Soldier* s Dream) ON dizzy edge of yawning chasm stood His 'frighted soul whilst from the gulf arose Benumbing screams and direst moans that froze, To chill and black despair, his heart's hot blood : And surging through the blackish grey, as would A nation scared, all writhing in the throes Of horrid pain, were shadow forms ; and floes Of wraith-hke others rushed to join the flood. On, on they sped — an endless, crowding race, Increasing as it came ; and misery Condensed outstood on every spirit face. In horror blank, the heUish sight to see, He turned him, seized a shade and asked : " What place Is this ? " And it repHed : " Eternity ! " He stood and gazed, his 'tranced soul enwrapt With voiceless joy : No shadow could be seen : The Hght was everywhere, soft, fair, serene : 79 At Bivouac Bright spirits moved with airy steps, and stopt To look at him ; sweet diadems o'er-topt Their starry brows ; and 'mid the gold and green No trace was there of what once might have been : Old Time his age and emblems all had dropt. No weariness, no pain, no yearning there, No hopes deferred, no hungering to be free ; Nor Rest nor Peace knew aught of demon Care. " What call you this ? " Of one at length asked he ; And soft the answer came, with smile so rare : " Come thou and rest. This is eternity." 80 HIS MOTHER AH, here they come ! And, lo ! I stand as stone Amid this seething crowd. A mother there knows not the lengthened moan My heart has bowed, — That he in death Hes prone. And I am left to stumble on — alone. Her boy comes with his troop, so grandly gay Along its khaki-length. My hero sleeps in France's soil to-day. — Lord, give me strength, — As he gave his to stay The German tyrants on their triumph-way. Across the street a girl her sweetheart waits ; I see it in her face. My boy's young widow kneels at Sorrow's gates ; God, give her grace, — As he gave his at Fate's Behest, when England stood at Fortune's narrow straits. F 8i His Mother 'Tis not that I should cry 'gainst what Thou'st done ; But, oh, he was so dear ! Why bring all these safe back, and leave my son A memoried tear ? Not less than these he shone : Why should he be of all their count the one ? He valorous died. Ah, Heaven, why do not these Come mourning those they lost ? — Come chanting on this blessed, cooling breeze War's horrid cost ? Why not upon their knees. As I so oft on mine, drink grief's deep lees ? Now nears the band. Oh, mercy, let me free ! — He went so bravely out. Give air, good folks — a hand ; I cannot see. His death they shout — My boy ! — God, pity me — His death they shout, not victory's jubilee. 82 i SONNET {One who went out in lovers pique, and returned in honour, to find her dead.) I PASSED the primrose bank that glowed beside Our frequent path ; dear heather's purple sheet I left to her, and so the heaven-bird's sweet And gracious song : In haste I went, and pride Of strength and heart, to seek on war's red tide An occupation fit, a wreath full meet To grace my swelling wants — a name to greet Her with, when she should write : " Come, take your bride." I found the wreath — all soiled and brown and dry. My rose of love gone like some scattered dew, My bride in death, and all my world gone by. Ashes ! I groaned, and turned to strike anew — But where ? At what ? My flame of want was out ; and I, From heart voids cried : Forgive me that I slew ! 83 A LAMENT {On a Certain Officer Home to die) REMEMBER how he went— " Only to serve," only to serve ; ^ He knew, we know, how great the detriment. And now — See how He is passing away, Passing from noon to the twiHght grey ; Passing away into the night, And the Hght Of his eyes we shall see no more for aye. Passing away — passing away To that far realm beyond the tidal bar, Beyond the grave and the cloud and the star. Is this one of ours ; And the darkness lowers, As our senses swim — For we shall see no more of him, To whom we gave a love of indifferent kind. In return for the light of his strong, brave mind. And his steadfast love. From our shallower hearts, i A Lament Then, away with pride ! And let us cry, ere he departs With the ebbing tide — Mea culpa I Mea culpa I We have sinned against his soul, And the whole Of the crime is ours. Come, ere Death steals into the room, And our chance is lost. Let us own the fault and dispel its gloom. At whatever cost ; Let us open our hearts and make sweet peace, Ere our faithful one shall cease To sojourn here — Ere his bright soul bursts through Death's dark night. And stands erect in the eternal light. Where he will have no fear. Throw wide the portals of our hearts, (Though small they be) So that he still may see Our love has only languished — is not dead. Remember how he led His warrior band For us, and this old land He loved, as only great hearts love, 8s A Lament With glowing worth, The country of their birth. Throw wide, throw wide love's close-barred door, Ere the chance is ours no more ! — no more. 86 TWO PROPOSALS THE CAPTAIN'S " X^^ OME throw, which fairer fortune have ! " 1 . Most saucily she cried ; ^^-^ " And Fate will hold the wager here — An unseen rogue at side ! " . . . Six upright feet of khaki, he — Medalled and bronzed and scarred — Looked down and wondered if he dared ; She was so all unmarred. " Ha ha, you fear ! No gambler you ! " How laughs lit up her eyes ! " I'll cast you for your heart," he said — " A greater, sweeter prize." " Why throw for poppies heart-hued once, When Fate's rose fills their stead ? " She gleeful asked, the dice-box held Beside her beauteous head. Yet all for naught, her words and wiles ; Thus did they sit to play, — His love and courage 'gainst her heart, Which Fate quick bade her pay. 87 » 4 • • •« Two Proposals A fair-cheeked apple straight she brought- Her " heart's type evermore " ; The which, as told, he split and found — Bare chambered at its core. THE SUBALTERN'S Upon her breast, of maiden glow, A snowy rose slow-heaved and fell. Said he : " Here purest love doth grow. I crave the sign, my fears to quell." " 'Tis yours," she murmured. Quick his hand, Love-led, went rose-ward at the word ; But trembled as it touched that strand Whose sea of love no tempests blurred. Poor blunderer ! Inward went a thorn. Soft breast and bloom were stained with red. " Oh, thus is Love e'er made to mourn. When life o'er-floods his heart," she said. " Nay, mourns it not ! " he answered straight ; " For by that token you are mine. The blood that meets me at its gate For me is charged with Eros' wine." 88 BOOKS BY J. E. PATTERSON EPISTLES FROM DEEP SEAS : Being another Kettle of Sea-Pie. los. 6d. net. " Humour and realism and romance." — Birmingham Post. " We recommend it heartily to all who enjoy a real live book about real live people." — Bookman. " Full to the brim with good things. . . . Thrilling pages about mutinies, phantom ships, superstitions, ' Shellbacks,' deep-sea philosophy, and the hke." — Daily Chronicle. " A sincere and interesting account by a literary sailor of a deep-sea voyage." — Daily News. " The incidents of a voyage under sail . . . are all set before us in picturesque and vivid style, and not a little humour. . . . A distinctly notable addition to the literature of the sea." — Evening Standard. " Thronged with human interest." — Everyman. " Another of those volumes that have historic value, . . . far more realistic than any novel. . . . This volume is in a category by itself — original in the very real sense of the term. . . . Mr. Patterson manages a mass of detail with the command of a master. , . . The eternal charm of the sea is here." — Glasgow Herald. " Uphfted with enthusiasm for the sea." — Morning Post. " An unconventional collection of strange happenings and odd superstitions." — Nation. " From its first pages it is full of fascination. . . . Realistic as it is vivid." — Saturday Review. " Terse, vivid, and convincing." — Scotsman. " Intimate knowledge of forcible writing." — Spectator. " The salt of the sea is in this breezy book. ... It is the real sea under the old conditions, ... an unconventional book, rich in charm." — Standard. " Its author may be held to have definitely taken his place among the classics of maritime hterature." — Sunday Times. " His style is at once luxuriant, discursive, and expressive ; it has ease and vividness, and it is inspired by a love of the sea, which he knov/s in all its moods, its vastness, and its solitude." — Tablet. " Read his story of the catching of the shark in the Sargasso Sea as a type of narrative at its high- water mark." — World. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT 6- CO., Ltd. BOOKS BY J. E. PATTERSON MY VAGABONDAGE : Forty Years of the Author's Wandering Life. 8s. 6d. net. " One of the most striking books we have read these many years . ' ' — A thencsum. " Stamped with the impress of genius. Takes its place amongst the most remarkable intimacies of literature." — Daily Telegraph. " A Pre-Raphaelite accuracy of detail together with the mastery of magnitudes." — Morning Post. SEA-PIE : More Reminiscences. 7s. 6d. net. " The real boil of the ocean into literature." — Book Monthly. " Mr. Patterson has never written anything finer than this book. ' ' — Observer. " Bound to add to Mr. Patterson's already high reputation." Saturday Review. THE LURE OF THE SEA: Poems. 5s. net. " We want more ballads of the sea from Mr. Patterson." Bookman. " He has a rare gift for painting seascapes in words." Scotsman. " A writer of real distinction." — Sunday Times. THE SEA'S ANTHOLOGY: Poems, Ballads, Songs, and Chanties from the EarHest Times to 1850. 2s. net. This compilation was generally reviewed as the standard work of its kind up to date. NOFELS FISHERS OF THE SEA. 6s. " Equal to Loti's ' Pecheur d'Islande.' " — Daily Telegraph. " A sureness of touch which reveals the master-hand." Daily Mail. " A work of literature, most vivid and intense." — Standard. " Displays remarkable power. He has undoubted genius." World. " Stands out like a classic." — Vanity Fair. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT &- CO., Ltd. BOOKS BY y. E. PATTERSON WATCHERS BY THE SHORE 6s. " Mr. Patterson knows what a great work of fiction is, and boldly sets his foot on the slopes of Parnassus." — Spectator. " Astonishing realism." — Globe. " Suggests comparison more than once with the great sea epic of Victor Hugo." — Pall Mall Gazette. " Has real value . . . touched with the grandeur of its surroundings." — Punch. TILLERS OF THE SOIL. 6s. " Mr. Patterson will be likened to Thomas Hardy." — Athenaum. " He has handled a big theme with vigour and triumphant mastery." — Bookman. " Handled with George Ehot's calm serenity." — Daily Chronicle. " Has an unmistakable touch of Fielding." — Times. " A magnificent piece of work." Westminster Gazette. LOVE LIKE THE SEA. 6s. " Peculiar vividness . , , tense feeling. Mr. Patterson is one of our chief writers of fiction, who are, in the fullest and best sense of the word, realists." — Daily Telegraph. " The complete im- pression is that we are outside praise and blame, in the presence of powers of nature which, like the sea, are too strong for man." — Times. " Whether on land or sea, Mr. Patterson holds you spellbound from the first page to the last." — Truth. THE STORY OF STEPHEN COMPTON. 6s. " A novel of real power. . . . Burning, vital." — English Review. " Marks the author as a novelist of originahty." — Scotsman. " The work of a true artist." — Observer. " Mr. Patterson's best work so far." — St. James's Gazette. HIS FATHER'S WIFE. 6s. " The book can only add to Mr. Patterson's already consider- able reputation." — Standard. " The makings of an iEschylean tragedy, rings extraordinarily true." — Observer. " Great sim- plicity of narrative, with subtle analysis of character and dramatic portrayal." — Glasgow Herald. " This is a very strong book." — Evening Standard. " One hears the beating sound of the ocean throughout this powerful and impressive story." — Globe. " Mr. Patterson has achieved a success that can hardly be measured at the moment. It reaches the highest emotions and plumbs the depth of gloom and despair. The instinct for great work has guided unerringly." — Pall Mall Gazette. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL. HAMILTON. KENT &- CO., Ltd. \ , ,m >.iTU.tS'>JMi^'M8