If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! _Rudyard Kipling._ WATT CXVII THE GREY MOTHER Lo, how they come to me, Long through the night I call them, Ah, how they turn to me! East and South my children scatter, North and West the world they wander, Yet they come back to me, Come with their brave hearts beating, Longing to die for me, Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, Throned amid the northern waters, Where they have died for me, Died with their songs around me, Girding my shores for me. Narrow was my dwelling for them, Homes they builded o’er the ocean, Yet they leave all for me, Hearing their Mother calling, Bringing their lives for me. Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, Out from under stars I know not, Come they to fight for me, Sons of the sons I nurtured, God keep them safe for me! Long ago their fathers saved me, Died for me among the heather, Now they come back to me, Come, in their children’s children ... Brave of the brave for me. In the wilds and waves they slumber, Deep they slumber in the deserts, Rise they from graves for me, Graves where they lay forgotten, Shades of the brave for me. Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, For I see them fall and perish, Strewing the hills for me, Claiming the world in dying, Bought with their blood for me. Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, Blessing now her dying children,-- God keep you safe for me, Christ watch you in your sleeping, Where ye have died for me! And when God’s own slogan soundeth, All the dead world’s dust awaking, Ah, will ye look for me? Bravely we’ll stand together I and my sons with me. _Lauchlan MacLean Watt._ BOWLES CXVIII THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES[A] Listen! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, Hearken! my brothers of over the seas, Say! do your class-rooms seem dingy and narrow? List to the sound of the sea-scented breeze. Now for a moment if dreary your lot is, Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, List to the tale and the song of the snotties, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea. _The song of the snotties (The poor little snotties), Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, The dirk and the patches, The bruises and scratches, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea!_