Early we left you and late are returning Back to the land of our story and birth, Back to the land of our glory and yearning, Back from the uttermost ends of the earth. Hear you the bucket and clang of the brasses Working together by perfect decree? That is the tale of the glory which passes-- That is the song of the snotties at sea! Often at noon when the gale’s at its strongest, Sadly we think of the days that are gone; Often at night when the watches are longest Have your remembrances heartened us on. And in the mazes of dim recollection, Still we’ll remember the days that are past, Till, on the hopes of a schoolboy affection, Death and his angels shall trample at last. What though the enemy taunt and deride us! Have we forgotten the triumphs of yore? What if the oceans may seem to divide us! Brothers, remember the friendship we bore. Lo! it is finished--the day of probations. Up! and we stand for the England to be. Then, as the Head and the Front of the Nations, Brothers, your health!--from the snotties at sea! _‘Stand well,’ say the snotties (‘Good luck,’ say the snotties), ‘And wisely and firmly and great shall we be; For monarchies tremble, And empires dissemble, But Britain shall stand’--say the snotties at sea!_ _George Frederic Stewart Bowles._ [A] From _A Gun-Room Ditty Box_ (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission of author and publishers. II WALES GRAY CXIX THE BARD ‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears.’ Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance; ‘To arms!’ cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master’s hand and prophet’s fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: ‘Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.