For Frenchy ships, an’ German too, an’ Russian, you may bet, It’s safer for to land an’ ’ome by tram, Than out to come an’ gallivant an’ risk the kind o’ wet That follers runnin’ counter to a Ram. For when the _Terror_ lifts ’is ’ead an’ goes for wot is near, I’m sorry for them ships wot sails so free: It’s best to up an’ elsewhere, an’ be werry far from ’ere, When Rams ’ave took to bleatin’ on the sea! _William Sharp._ RODD CVII SPRING THOUGHTS My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away, It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May. Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride; Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat. O England, island England, if it has been my lot To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not, I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows, The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose, The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled, The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world: I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured trees, The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas. The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes, The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide comes. Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed, The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste, Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea! And keep for those who leave thee and find no better place, The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother face! _Sir Rennell Rodd._ WATSON CVIII ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES She stands, a thousand wintered tree, By countless morns impearled; Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, Her branches sweep the world; Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, Clothe the remotest strand With forests from her scatterings made, New nations fostered in her shade, And linking land with land. O ye by wandering tempest sown ’Neath every alien star, Forget not whence the breath was blown That wafted you afar! For ye are still her ancient seed On younger soil let fall-- Children of Britain’s island-breed, To whom the Mother in her need Perchance may one day call. _William Watson._ DOYLE CIX THE SONG OF THE BOW What of the bow? The bow was made in England: Of true wood, of yew-wood, The wood of English bows; So men who are free Love the old yew-tree And the land where the yew-tree grows.