Admirals All

EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,

Here's to the bold and free!

Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,

Hail to the Kings of the Sea!

Admirals all, for England's sake,

Honour be yours and fame!

And honour, as long as waves shall break,

To Nelson's peerless name!

           Admirals all, for England's sake,

                          Honour be yours and fame!

           And honour, as long as waves shall break,

                     To Nelson's peerless name!

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay

With the galleons fair in sight;

Howard at last must give him his way,

And the word was passed to fight.

Never was schoolboy gayer than he,

Since holidays first began:

He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea,

And under the guns he ran.

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared,

Their cities he put to the sack;

He singed His Catholic Majesty's beard,

And harried his ships to wrack.

He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls

When the great Armada came;

But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls,"

And he stooped and finished the game.

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold,

Duncan he had but two;

But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled,

And his colours aloft he flew.

"I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried,

"And I'll sink with a right good will:

For I know when we're all of us under the tide

My flag will be fluttering still."

Splinters were flying above, below,

When Nelson sailed the Sound:

"Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now,"

Said he, "for a thousand pound!"

The Admiral's signal bade him fly

But he wickedly wagged his head:

He clapped the glass to his sightless eye,

And "I'm damned if I see it!" he said.

Admirals all, they said their say

(The echoes are ringing still).

Admirals all, they went their way

To the haven under the hill.

But they left us a kingdom none can take --

The realm of the circling sea --

To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake,

And the Rodneys yet to be.

           Admirals all, for England's sake,

                     Honour be yours and fame!

           And honour, as long as waves shall break,

                     To Nelson's peerless name!

San Stefano

IT was morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days,

And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide,

When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze

And she hauled her cable home and took the tide.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,

Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;

And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,

When the bold Menelaus put to sea.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,

Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;

And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,

When the bold Menelaus put to sea.

She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land,

When she spied a pennant red and white and blue;

They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand,

But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew.

She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt,

But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay,

And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out,

With the guns grinning round them where they lay.

Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race,

Son and grandson of an admiral was he;

And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase,

And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea.

And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late

If they kept it til the Menelaus runs;

Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight

For the prize lying yonder by the guns!"

When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay

Came the Menelaus gliding like a ghost;

And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away,

And in silence every gunner took his post.

With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke,

And they hammered back like heroes all the night;

But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke

With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight.

It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time,

And the sky behind the down was flushing far;

And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime,

When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,

Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;

And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore

When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,

Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;

And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore

When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.

Drake's Drum

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)

Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,

A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,

Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,

An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,

An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

The Fighting Téméraire

IT was eight bells ringing,

For the morning watch was done,

And the gunner's lads were singing

As they polished every gun.

It was eight bells ringing,

And the gunner's lads were singing,

For the ship she rode a-swinging,

As they polished every gun.

           Oh! to see the linstock lighting,

                     Téméraire! Téméraire!

           Oh! to hear the round shot biting,

                          Téméraire! Téméraire!

           Oh! to see the linstock lighting,

           And to hear the round shot biting,

           For we're all in love with fighting

                     On the fighting Téméraire.

It was noontide ringing,

And the battle just begun,

When the ship her way was winging,

As they loaded every gun.

It was noontide ringing,

When the ship her way was winging,

And the gunner's lads were singing

As they loaded every gun.

           There'll be many grim and gory,

                     Téméraire! Téméraire!

           There'll be few to tell the story,

                     Téméraire! Téméraire!

           There'll be many grim and gory,

           There'll be few to tell the story,

           But we'll all be one in glory

                     With the Fighting Téméraire.

There's a far bell ringing

At the setting of the sun,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of the great days done.

There's a far bell ringing,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of renown for ever clinging

To the great days done.

           Now the sunset breezes shiver,

                     Téméraire! Téméraire!

           And she's fading down the river,

                     Téméraire! Téméraire!

           Now the sunset's breezes shiver,

           And she's fading down the river,

           But in England's song for ever

                     She's the Fighting Téméraire.

Hawke

IN seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,

When Hawke came swooping from the West,

The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line

Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest.

The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum

With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum,

For bragging time was over and fighting time was come

When Hawke came swooping from the West.

'Twas long past noon of a wild November day

When Hawke came swooping from the West;

He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay,

But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast.

Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight

Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,

But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light

When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind

When Hawke came swooping from the West;

One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned,

And the shallows and the storm took the rest.

The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore,

The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more,

For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore

When Hawke came swooping from the West.

Væ Victis

BESIDE the placid sea that mirrored her

           With the old glory of dawn that cannot die,

The sleeping city began to moan and stir,

           As one that fain from an ill dream would fly;

           Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh

Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late, --

           Visions of honour lost and power gone by,

Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate,

And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate.

They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd,

           That up her streets in silence hurrying passed,

What manner of death should make their anguish loud,

           What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast,

           For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast

As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse,

           A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast,

And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips,

"What of the ships, O Carthage? Carthage, what of the ships?"

They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed

           To find the gates unguarded and open wide;

They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed

           The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side

           And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride;

But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope

           They saw the harbour, and sense within them died;

Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope;

It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope.

Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled

           From sky to shore on level and endless seas,

Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold

           That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes,

           The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees

By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled,

           Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze,

Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled,

For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world.

A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn

           And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk

Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn,

           And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke

           Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke;

Vainly -- for even now beneath their gaze

           A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke

Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze,

And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze.

"O dying Carthage!" so their passion raved,

           "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate assuage?

If these be taken, how may the land be saved

           Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?"

           And bitter memory cursed with idle rage

The greed that coveted gold beyond renown,

           The feeble hearts that feared their heritage,

The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down

And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown.

The endless noon, the endless evening through,

           All other needs forgetting, great or small,

They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew

           As the hours died beneath that stifling pall.

           At last they saw the fires to blackness fall

One after one, and slowly turned them home,

           A little longer yet their own to call

A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome,

With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come.

Vitaï Lampada

THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close to-night --

Ten to make and the match to win --

A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --

Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --

The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed his banks,

And England's far, and Honour a name,

But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year

While in her place the School is set

Every one of her sons must hear,

And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling fling to the host behind --

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

A Ballad of John Nicholson

IT fell in the year of Mutiny,

At darkest of the night,

John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,

On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalándhar came,

He thought what he must do,

And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,

To try if he were true.

"God grant your Highness length of days,

And friends when need shall be;

And I pray you send your Captains hither,

That they may speak with me."

On the morrow through Jalándhar town

The Captains rode in state;

They came to the house of John Nicholson,

And stood before the gate.

The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,

He was both proud and sly;

His turban gleamed with rubies red,

He held his chin full high.

He marked his fellows how they put

Their shoes from off their feet;

"Now wherefore make ye such ado

These fallen lords to greet?

"They have ruled us for a hundred years,

In truth I know not how,

But though they be fain of mastery

They dare not claim it now."

Right haughtily before them all

The durbar hall he trod,

With rubies red his turban gleamed,

His feet with pride were shod.

They had not been an hour together,

A scanty hour or so,

When Mehtab Singh rose in his place

And turned about to go.

Then swiftly came John Nicholson

Between the door and him,

With anger smouldering in his eyes,

That made the rubies dim.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," --

Oh, but his voice was low!

He held his wrath with a curb of iron

That furrowed cheek and brow.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,

When that the rest are gone,

I have a word that may not wait

To speak with you alone."

The Captains passed in silence forth

And stood the door behind;

To go before the game was played

Be sure they had no mind.

But there within John Nicholson

Turned him on Mehtab Singh,

"So long as the soul is in my body

You shall not do this thing.

"Have ye served us for a hundred years

And yet ye know not why?

We brook no doubt of our mastery,

We rule until we die.

"Were I the one last Englishman

Drawing the breath of life,

And you the master-rebel of all

That stir this land to strife --

"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal,

And you a Rajput King,

So long as the soul was in my body

You should not do this thing.

"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,

Carry them whence they came;

Your Captains saw your insolence,

And they shall see your shame."

When Mehtab Singh came to the door

His shoes they burned his hand,

For there in long and silent lines

He saw the Captains stand.

When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate

His chin was on his breast:

The captains said, "When the strong command

Obedience is best."