Beneath the shadow of its peace
Though riddled to a rag,
The down-trod nations gain release,
And rally round the flag;
We fight the battles of the Lord,
And never may we yield
A foot we measure with the sword--
On the red harvest-field;
And we will not retreat, while one
Stout heart remains to fight;
Let England hold what England won,
And God defend the right.
THE VOLUNTEER.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Conscription? Never! The word belongs
To the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs,
And unto them alone.
The first and worst of the Tyrant's terms,
Barbed to spike at the writhing worms
That crawl about his throne.
Only the mob at a despot's heels
Would juggle a man at Fortune's wheels,
Or conjure one with the die that reels
From the lip of the dice-cup thrown!
The soldier forced to the field of fight,
With never a reck of the wrong or right,
Wherever a flag may wave--
By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown--
Fights with a will that is not his own,
A victim and a slave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue
By the hand of Knavery.
Pages:
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271