Author: Scott Mannion

Song of the Sons “One from the ends of the earth—gifts at an open door— Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more! From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed, Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed! Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude? Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?” “Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in— We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe; Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in— We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe; Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. Gifts have we only to-day—Love without promise or fee— Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea! Mother England Answers “Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban; Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man. Flesh of the flesh that I bred, bone of the bone that I bare; Stark as your sons shall be—stern as your fathers were. Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether, But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together. “My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by. Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether, But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together. My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by; Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry. My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by; Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry. Look, I have made ye a place and opened wide the doors, That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors— Wards of the Outer March, Lords of the Lower Seas, Ay, talk to your grey mother that bore you on her knees!—” “That ye may talk together, brother to brother’s face— Thus for the good of your peoples—thus for the Pride of the Race. Also, we will make promise. So long as The Blood endures, I shall know that your good is mine: ye shall feel that my strength is yours: In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall.” “Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands, And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands. This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom, This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom. The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will,” “Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still.” “Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you, After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few. Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways, Baulking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise. Stand to your work and be wise—certain of sword and pen,”... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet. The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.And the eyes of the King’s Servants turned terribly every way,And the gold of the King’s Servants rose higher every day.They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,Till there was no bed in a monk’s house, nor food that man could find.The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak.The King’s Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak. And the face of the King’s Servants grew greater than the King:He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey’s fruits,And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale. A war that we understood not came over the world and wokeAmericans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people’s reign:And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and scorned us never again.Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing notThe strange fierce face of the Frenchmen who knew for what they fought,And the man who seemed to be more than a man we strained against and broke;And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke. Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain,He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:We only know the last sad squires rode slowly towards the sea,And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we. They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs. We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,Our wrath come after Russia’s wrath and our wrath be the worst.It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our restGod’s scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away,(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,An’ dreamin’ arl the time O’ Plymouth Hoe.Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,Wi’ sailor lads a-dancing’ heel-an’-toe,An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’,He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas,(Capten, art tha’ sleepin’ there below?)Roving’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,A’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.“Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low;If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,An’ drum them up the Channel as we drumm’d them long ago.” Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,An’ dreamin arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago!... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

 Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature’s highest dower: Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. —’Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: —Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: —He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:— ‘Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,— Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not— Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape or danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name— Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies; The Captains and the Kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boastings 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!... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here