Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun? Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line: Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun! _Flos Mercatorum!_ Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande, Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done! Ay, for we be members, one of another, 'Each for all and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington! _Chorus:_--Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun! Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of Englande! 'Each for all, and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington. Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'ull ye bring home again? Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea! Whom will ye traffic with? The King of the sunset!-- What shall be your pilot, then?--A wind from Galilee! --Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?-- Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see! Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters; After many days it shall return with usury. _Chorus:_--Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? Englande! Englande! Englande! Englande! Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea. What need to tell you, sirs, how Whittington Remembered? Night and morning, as he knelt In those old days, O, like two children still, Whittington and his Alice bowed their heads Together, praying. From such simple hearts, O never doubt it, though the whole world doubt The God that made it, came the steadfast strength Of England, all that once was her strong soul, The soul that laughed and shook away defeat As her strong cliffs hurl back the streaming seas. Sirs, in his old age Whittington returned, And stood with Alice, by the silent tomb In little Pauntley church. There, to his Arms, The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head So proudly blazoned on the painted panes; (O, sirs, the simple wistfulness of it Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think Tears tremble through it, for the Mermaid Inn) He added his new crest, the hard-won sign And lowly prize of his own industry, _The Honey-bee_. And, far away, the bells Peal softly from the pure white City of God:-- _Ut fragrans nardus Fama fuit iste Ricardus._ With folded hands he waits the Judgment now. Slowly our dark bells toll across the world, For him who waits the reckoning, his accompt Secure, his conscience clear, his ledger spread A _Liber Albus_ flooded with pure light. _Flos Mercatorum, Fundator presbyterorum_,...