The Silk-Hat Soldier

    I saw him in a picture, and I felt I'd like to cry -
            He stood in line,
            The man "for mine,"
    A tall silk-hatted "guy" -
            Right on the call,
            Silk hat and all,
    He'd hurried to the cry -
    For he loves England well enough for England to die.

    I've seen King Harry's helmet in the Abbey hanging high -
            The one he wore
            At Agincourt;
    But braver to my eye
            That city toff
            Too keen to doff
    His stove-pipe - bless him - why?
    For he loves England well enough for England to die.

    And other fellows in that line had come too on the fly,
            Their joys and toys,
            Brave English boys,
    For good and all put by;
            O you brave best,
            Teach all the rest
    How pure the heart and high
    When one loves England well enough for England to die.

    One threw his cricket-bat aside, one left the ink to dry;
            All peace and play
            He's put away,
    And bid his love good-bye -
            O mother mine!
            O sweetheart mine!
    No man of yours am I -
    If I love not England well enough for England to die.

    I guess it strikes a chill somewhere, the bravest won't deny,
            All that you love,
            Away to shove,
    And set your teeth to die;
            But better dead,
            When all is said,
    Than lapped in peace to lie -
    If we love not England well enough for England to die.

Richard Le Gallienne

Richard Le Gallienne was an English author and poet born on January 20, 1866. Known for his lyrical poetry, he was a key figure in the literary circles of the fin de siècle. He contributed to the literary magazine 'The Yellow Book' and was involved with the Rhymers' Club, an influential group of London-based poets. His works often explored themes of beauty, love, and nature. His influence extended to both sides of the Atlantic, and he spent the latter part of his life in the United States, where he continued to write until his death on September 15, 1947.

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English

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What Have I Done For You

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us:    we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:

William Ernest Henley

The English Graves

Were I that wandering citizen whose city is the world,
I would not weep for all that fell before the flags were furled;
I would not let one murmur mar the trumpets volleying forth
How God grew weary of the kings, and the cold hell in the north.
But we whose hearts are homing birds have heavier thoughts of home,
Though the great eagles burn with gold on Paris or on Rome,
Who stand beside our dead and stare, like seers at an eclipse,
At the riddle of the island tale and the twilight of the ships.

For these were simple men that loved with hands and feet and eyes,
Whose souls were humbled to the hills and narrowed to the skies,
The hundred little lands within one little land that lie,
Where Severn seeks the sunset isles or Sussex scales the sky.

And what is theirs, though...

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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

In The Artillery.

We are moving on in silence,
Save for rattling iron and steel,
And a skirmish echoing round us,
Showering faintly, peal on peal.

Like a lion roars the North wind
As a-horse we sternly clank,
While beside the guns our men drop,
Slyly shot from either flank.

You are musing, love, and smiling
By the hearth-fire of the Mill,
While the tangled oaks are cracking
Boughs upon the windy hill.

I can see the moonlight shining
Over fields of frozen calm;
I can hear the chapel organ,
And the singing of the psalm.

Fare you well, then, English village,
Which of all I loved the most,
Where my ghost alone can wander
Once again, when life is lost.

Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset;
You will never utter wail
For the sol...

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

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

Rhymes And Rhythms - XXV

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
    England,
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
    England,
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:

William Ernest Henley