England is waiting to be led,
If through the dying and the dead.
We do not seek the party fame
That trafficks in a people's fall,
But one to shield our burning shame
And answer just his country's call;
To weld us in a solid wall,
And kindle with a common flame.
Ah, when she finds the fitting man,
England will do what England can.
ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed,
As witness conquered tides,
And many a pasture sown with crimson seed--
Our English Ironsides;
And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain,
They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain.
The same grand spirit in the same grim stress
Arms them with stubborn mail;
They see the light of duty's loveliness
And over death prevail.
They never count the price or weigh the odds,
The work is theirs, the victory is God's.
They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock,
Where stern the horseman rides,
Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock--
Our English Ironsides.
Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag
They bear the honour of the ancient flag.
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