We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, Her standard be justice, her watchword ‘Be free’; Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. _David Garrick._ COLLINS XXIII THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there. _William Collins._ COWPER XXIV BOADICEA When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country’s gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief: ‘Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, ’Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. ‘Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. ‘Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-- Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! ‘Other Romans shall arise Heedless of a soldier’s name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. ‘Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. ‘Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.’ Such the bard’s prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She with all a monarch’s pride Felt them in her bosom glow, Rushed to battle, fought, and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe: ‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you!’ _William Cowper._ XXV THE _ROYAL GEORGE_