Awake! Young Men of England

Oh! give me the strength of the Lion,
The wisdom of reynard the Fox
And then Ill hurl troops at the Germans
And give them the hardest of knocks.

Oh! think of the War Lords mailed fist,
That is striking at England today:
And think of the lives that our soldiers
Are fearlessly throwing away.

Awake! Oh you young men of England,
For if, when your Countrys in need,
You do not enlist by the thousand,
You truly are cowards indeed.

Eric Blair

Eric Arthur Blair, known by his pen name George Orwell, was an English novelist, essayist, journalist and critic. He is best known for his allegorical novella 'Animal Farm' and the dystopian novel '1984'. Orwell's work is marked by lucid prose, awareness of social injustice, opposition to totalitarianism, and outspoken support of democratic socialism.

Eric Blair

Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

Ironic Poem About Prostitution

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

Kitchener

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

The Lesser Evil

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

English

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England's Brave Sons

The yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock,
And from his herd selects a trusty steed,
And sallies forth to help in hour of need;
Nor dreads the battle's shock.

The artisan from mine, or shop, or store,
Responds at duty's call without delay,
Nor stops to ask, "What will my nation pay?"
It calls--what needs he more?

The man of law--the herald of the cross--
The painter, skilled--he of the healing art--
The man of trade--come each with loyal heart,
Nor calculates his loss.

But brave as these are those of noble birth;
Genteel in manner, but with athlete frames,
They do full honor to their ancient names,
And prove by deeds their worth.

Palatial homes have they and wealth untold;
Nor need to labor, and no cause for fret,
But deeds...

Joseph Horatio Chant

Kitchener

No stone is set to mark his nations loss,
No stately tomb enshrines his noble breast;
Not een the tribute of a wooden cross
Can mark this heros rest.

He needs them not, his name untarnished stands,
Remindful of the mighty deeds he worked,
Footprints of one, upon times changeful sands,
Who neer his duty shirked.

Who follows in his steps no danger shuns,
Nor stoops to conquer by a shameful deed,
An honest and unselfish race he runs,
From fear and malice freed.

Eric Blair

An Ode To Englishmen.

I.

    I who have sung of love and lady bright
    And mirth and music and the world's delight,
    Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
    To move the minds of foemen when they fight.


II.

    Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
    And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
    And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
    Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?


III.

    Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
    The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
    And I must parley with the men of toil
    Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.


IV.

    I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
    And each true soul shall learn the least and most
    Of all his wrongs, ...

Eric Mackay

Killed In Action

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend;
"Only surviving son of" - so it ran -
"Beloved husband" and the rest of it.
But six months back I saw him full of life,
Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease
In some obscure but splendid field of France,
His strivings over and his conflicts done.
He was a fellow of most joyous moods
And quaint contrivings, ever on the point
Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand
But always baulked of meeting them at last.
He could not brook - and always so declared -
The weak pomposities of little men,
Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,
And plunged headlong into imprudences,
And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,
Holding his luck and not himself to blame
For aught that might betide when reckoning came.
Bu...

R. C. Lehmann

Greater Britain

Our hearts were not set on fighting,
    We did not pant for the fray,
And whatever wrongs need righting,
    We would not have met that way.
But the way that has opened before us
    Leads on thro' a blood-red field;
And we swear by the great God o'er us,
    We will die, but we will not yield.

The battle is not of our making,
    And war was never our plan;
Yet, all that is sweet forsaking,
    We march to it, man by man.
It is either to smite, or be smitten,
    There's no other choice to-day;
And we live, as befits the Briton,
    Or we die, as the Briton may.

We were not fashioned for cages,
    Or to feed from a keeper's hand;
Our strength which has grown thro' ages
    Is the strength of a slave-free land.
We cannot kneel...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Last Of The Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they kuew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

Rudyard