Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign Of a deathless love and pride; These cling more close than the laurels twine, They are strong as the world is wide: At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad Shall glory and love be laid, While Glory sings to an English lad, Or Love to an English maid. Wherever the gleams of an English fire On an English roof-tree shine, Wherever the fire of a youth’s desire Is laid upon Honour’s shrine, Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told, In the tale of the deeds of yore Like jewels of price in a chain of gold Are the name and the fame he bore. Wherever the track of our English ships Lies white on the ocean foam, His name is sweet to our English lips As the names of the flowers at home; Wherever the heart of an English boy Grows big with a deed of worth, Such names as his name have begot the same, Such hearts will bring it to birth. They say that his England, grown tired and old, Lies drunk by her heavy hoard; They say her hands have the grasp of the gold But not the grip of the sword, That her robe of glory is rent and shred, And that winds of shame blow through: Speak for your England, O mighty Dead, In the deeds you would have her do! Small skill have we to fight with the pen Who fought with the sword of old, For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen Is as much as one hand can hold. Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use, And the coward and the wise choose these; But fools and brave were our English crews When Nelson swept the seas. ’Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret, To ponder and pause and plan, But the way of Nelson was better yet, For that was the way of a man; They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough, They have bidden us palter and pray, But the way of Nelson was good enough, For that was the fighting way. If Nelson’s England must stoop to bear What never honour should brook, In vain does the tomb of her hero wear The laurel his brow forsook; In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns, If now must her lips refrain; In vain has she made us, her living sons, Her dead have made her in vain. So here with your bays be the dear head crowned, Lay flowers where the dear dust lies, And wreathe his column with laurel round To point his fame to the skies; But the greenest laurel that ever grew Is the laurel that’s yet to win; Crowned with his laurels he waits for You To bring Your laurels in! WATERLOO DAY [JUNE 18]