What of the cord? The cord was made in England: A rough cord, a tough cord, A cord that bow-men love; And so we will sing Of the hempen string And the land where the cord was wove. What of the shaft? The shaft was cut in England: A long shaft, a strong shaft, Barbed and trim and true; So we’ll drink all together To the grey goose-feather And the land where the grey goose flew. What of the mark? Ah, seek it not in England, A bold mark, our old mark, Is waiting over-sea. When the strings harp in chorus, And the lion flag is o’er us, It is there that our mark will be. What of the men? The men were bred in England; The bow-men--the yeomen, The lads of dale and fell. Here’s to you--and to you! To the hearts that are true And the land where the true hearts dwell! _Arthur Conan Doyle._ CX A BALLAD OF THE RANKS Who carries the gun? A lad from over the Tweed. Then let him go, for well we know He comes of a soldier breed. So drink together to rock and heather, Out where the red deer run, And stand aside for Scotland’s pride-- The man who carries the gun! _For the Colonel rides before, The Major’s on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank. But when it’s ‘Action front!’ And there’s fighting to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who carries the gun._ Who carries the gun? A lad from a Yorkshire dale. Then let him go, for well we know The heart that never will fail. Here’s to the fire of Lancashire, And here’s to her soldier son! For the hard-bit North has sent him forth-- The lad who carries the gun. Who carries the gun? A lad from a Midland shire. Then let him go, for well we know He comes of an English sire. Here’s a glass to a Midland lass And each can choose the one, But East and West we claim the best For the man who carries the gun. Who carries the gun? A lad from the hills of Wales. Then let him go, for well we know That Taffy is hard as nails. There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells, And of w’s more than one, With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men And it’s they who carry the gun. Who carries the gun? A lad from the windy West. Then let him go, for well we know That he is one of the best. There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, And Devon yields to none. Or you may get in Somerset Your lad to carry the gun. Who carries the gun? A lad from London town. Then let him go, for well we know The stuff that never backs down. He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, For he is the fog-smoke’s sun, And his heart is light, and his pluck is right-- The man who carries the gun.