Sword Of Jehovah.

Sword of Jehovah, swing
O'er the world's ravening,
Wide on the tempest's wing,
Swing far! Swing free!
Where the mailed hand is set,
Braced to the bayonet,
Bloody and warm and wet,
Swing far! Swing free!

Strike where the sordid great
Revel in royal state,
Liberty desolate,
Strike far! Strike free!
Where the King's coursers champ,
Where the mailed millions tramp,
Ringed round the tyrant's camp,
Strike far! Strike free!

Fall where the Kaiser stands,
Guarded by gory bands,
Known by their bloody hands,
Fall far! Fall free!
Till the last Despots die,
Till the Christ, lifted high,
Consummates Destiny,
Fall far! Fall free!

A. H. Laidlaw

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A. H. Laidlaw

Custer.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

Death Song Of The Enfants Perdus.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

Weep Not For Him.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

The Lily Land Of France.

A. H. Laidlaw, Simple Poetry

English

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A Million More

The nation calls aloud again,
For Freedom wounded writhes in pain.
Gird on your armor, Northern men;
Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen;
A million bayonets gleam and flash;
A thousand cannon peal and crash;
Brothers and sons have gone before;
A million more! a million more!

Fire and sword! aye, sword and fire!
Let war be fierce and grim and dire;
Your path be marked by flame and smoke,
And tyrant's bones and fetters broke:
Stay not for foe's uplifted hand;
Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand
Till Freedom reign from shore to shore,
Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore.

If leader stay the vengeance-rod,
Let him beware the wrath of God;
The maddened millions long his trust
Will crush his puny bones to dust,
And all the la...

Hanford Lennox Gordon

See The Field Of Battle Gleams.

See, the field of battle gleams
Yonward past the tented streams,
There the foe is camping;
By the thirst-assuaging rill,
From the copse behind the hill
Hear his war-steeds champing.

Northern Knights and Southern Sons,
Onward to the gleaming guns!
Now's the hour of battle!
Though his files be ten to one,
Seek the foe from sun to sun,
Where his muskets rattle.

O'er the walls with slaughter wet,
O'er the ball-scarred parapet,
Daring man and missile,
Charge to meet his best or worst,
Where his shrieking bombshells burst
And his bullets whistle.

Roll in waves of living blue,
Pierce the columned centre through,
Fill the world with wonder;
Rush, as with a lion's will,
Where his lightnings flash to kill
And his cann...

A. H. Laidlaw

The Battle.

    Heavy and solemn,
    A cloudy column,
    Through the green plain they marching came!
Measure less spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
The looks are bent on the shaking ground,
And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the major along the front
        "Halt!"
And fettered they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt!

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing,
"See you the foeman's banners waving?"
"We see the foeman's banners waving!"
"God be with ye children and wife!"
Hark to the music the trump and the fife,
How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the strife!
Thrilling the...

Friedrich Schiller

The Song Of The Sword - To Rudyard Kipling

The Sword
Singing -
The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
Clanging imperious
Forth from Time's battlements
His ancient and triumphing Song.

In the beginning,
Ere God inspired Himself
Into the clay thing
Thumbed to His image,
The vacant, the naked shell
Soon to be Man:
Thoughtful He pondered it,
Prone there and impotent,
Fragile, inviting
Attack and discomfiture;
Then, with a smile -
As He heard in the Thunder
That laughed over Eden
The voice of the Trumpet,
The iron Beneficence,
Calling his dooms
To the Winds of the world -
Stooping, He drew
On the sand with His finger
A shape for a sign
Of his way to the eyes
That in wonder should waken,
For a proof of His will
To the breaking...

William Ernest Henley

The Vigil

England! where the sacred flame
    Burns before the inmost shrine,
Where the lips that love thy name
    Consecrate their hopes and thine,
Where the banners of thy dead
Weave their shadows overhead,
Watch beside thine arms to-night,
Pray that God defend the Right.

Think that when to-morrow comes
    War shall claim command of all,
Thou must hear the roll of drums,
    Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
Now, before they silence ruth,
Commune with the voice of truth;
England! on thy knees to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.

Hast thou counted up the cost,
    What to foeman, what to friend?
Glory sought is Honour lost,
    How should this be knighthood's end?
Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed?
What the surest gain of gr...

Henry John Newbolt

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