April On Waggon Hill

Lad, and can you rest now,
    There beneath your hill!
Your hands are on your breast now,
    But is your heart so still?
'Twas the right death to die, lad,
    A gift without regret,
But unless truth's a lie, lad,
    You dream of Devon yet.

Ay, ay, the year's awaking,
    The fire's among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
    The curlew's on the wing;
Primroses are out, lad,
    On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad;
    From Brendon to the sea.

I know what's in your heart, lad,---
    The mare he used to hunt---
And her blue market-cart, lad,
    With posies tied in front---
We miss them from the moor road,
    They're getting old to roam,
The road they're on's a sure road
    And nearer, lad, to home.

Your name, the name they cherish?
    'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:
But stone and all may perish
    With little loss to you.
While fame's fame you're Devon, lad,
    The Glory of the West;
Till the roll's called in heaven, lad,
    You may well take your rest.

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Gold

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

On Spion Kop

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Sangreal

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The Last Word

Before the April night was late
A rider came to the castle gate;
A rider breathing human breath,
But the words he spoke were the words of Death.

"Greet you well from the King our lord,
He marches hot for the eastward ford;
Living or dying, all or one,
Ye must keep the ford till the race be run.

Sir Alain rose with lips that smiled,
He kissed his wife, he kissed his child:
Before the April night was late
Sir Alain rode from the castle gate.

He called his men-at-arms by name,
But one there was uncalled that came:
He bade his troop behind him ride,
But there was one that rode beside.

        "Why will you spur so fast to die?
        Be wiser ere the night go by.
        A message late is a message lost;
        For all your...

Henry John Newbolt

The Two April Mornings

We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said
`The will of God be done!'

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass
And by the steaming rills
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

`Our work,' said I, `was well begun;
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?'

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

`Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left
Full...

William Wordsworth

A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below,
    On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
    That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
    The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

        So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
            The Master's up and away!
        Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
            From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
    'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
    And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
    His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
    Before he leaves the l...

Henry John Newbolt

The Death Of Admiral Blake

(August 7th, 1657)

Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement,
    And freshly crowned with never-dying fame,
Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England,
    Across the Bay the squadron homeward came.

Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight,
    When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms;
Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight
    That does but darken more the nodding plumes.

Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant,
    And fain to rest him after all his pain;
Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten,
    He prayed to see the western hills again.

Fainter than stars in a sk...

Henry John Newbolt

The May Queen

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,
For Im to be Queen o the May, mother, Im to be Queen o the May.

Theres many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
Theres Margaret and Mary, theres Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So Im to be Queen o the May, mother, Im to be Queen o the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For Im to be Queen o the May, mother, Im to be Queen o the May.

As I came up the vall...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Presage Of Victory

I


Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,
How England honours all her thousand dead.
Then first I knew how faith through black grief burns,
Until the ruined heart glows while it yearns
For one that never more returns--
Glows in the spent embers of its pride
For one that careless lived and fearless died.
And then I knew, then first,
How everywhere Hope from her prison had burst--
On every hill, wide dale, soft valley's lap,
In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs,
And streets confused with streets in clanging towns--
Like spring from winter's jail pouring her sap
Into the idle wood of last year's trees.
Then first I knew how the vast world-disease
Would die away, and England upon her seas
Shake every scab of sickness; toward new sk...

John Frederick Freeman