Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us-- Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!

Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant gives the door to us, Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud to lee: Till the last, last flicker goes From the tumbling water-rows, And we're off to Mother Carey (Walk her down to Mother Carey!) Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

THE SEA-WIFE.

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o' rovin' men And casts them over sea,

And some are drowned in deep water, And some in sight o' sh.o.r.e.

And word goes back to the weary wife, And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate and gear, And hearth and garth and bield, She willed her sons to the white harvest, And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing, To ride the horse of tree; And syne her sons come home again Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again With little into their hands, But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men In the new and naked lands.

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men By more than the easy breath, And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, But poor in the goods o' men, So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked skin, Or win to their hearts' desire, They tell it all to the weary wife That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind That makes the white ash spin; And tide and tide and 'tween the tides Her sons go out and in;

(Out with great mirth that do desire Hazard of trackless ways, In with content to wait their watch And warm before the blaze);

And some return by failing light, And some in waking dream, For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts That ride the rough roof-beam.

Home, they come home from all the ports, The living and the dead; The good wife's sons come home again For her blessing on their head!

HYMN BEFORE ACTION.

The earth is full of anger, The seas are dark with wrath; The Nations in their harness Go up against our path!

Ere yet we loose the legions-- Ere yet we draw the blade, Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord G.o.d of Battles, aid!

High l.u.s.t and froward bearing, Proud heart, rebellious brow-- Deaf ear and soul uncaring, We seek Thy mercy now: The sinner that forswore Thee, The fool that pa.s.sed Thee by, Our times are known before Thee-- Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us At altars not Thine own, Who lack the lights that guide us, Lord, let their faith atone; If wrong we did to call them, By honour bound they came; Let not Thy wrath befall them, But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror, Revenge that knows no rein-- Light haste and lawless error, Protect us yet again.

Cloak Thou our undeserving, Make firm the shuddering breath, In silence and unswerving To taste thy lesser death!

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow, Remember, reach and save The soul that comes to-morrow Before the G.o.d that gave!

Since each was born of woman, For each at utter need-- True comrade and true foeman, Madonna, intercede!

E'en now their vanguard gathers, E'en now we face the fray-- As Thou didst help our fathers, Help Thou our host to-day!

Fulfilled of signs and wonders, In life, in death made clear-- Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord G.o.d of Battles, hear!

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE.

(_From Many Inventions_).

_Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I shall not find Thee quick and kind, Nor know Thee till I die: Enough for me in dreams to see And touch Thy garments' hem: Thy feet have trod so near to G.o.d I may not follow them._

Through wantonness if men profess They weary of Thy parts, E'en let them die at blasphemy And perish with their arts; But we that love, but we that prove Thine excellence august, While we adore discover more Thee perfect, wise, and just.

Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need, What is is Thine of fair design In thought and craft and deed; Each stroke aright of toil and fight, That was and that shall be, And hope too high, wherefore we die, Has birth and worth in Thee.

Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee To gild his dross thereby, And knowledge sure that he endure A child until he die-- For to make plain that man's disdain Is but new Beauty's birth-- For to possess, in loneliness, The joy of all the earth.

As Thou didst teach all lovers speech, And Life all mystery, So shalt Thou rule by every school Till love and longing die, Who wast or yet the lights were set, A whisper in the Void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed.

Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, Across the pressing dark, The children wise of outer skies Look hitherward and mark A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, Rekindling thus and thus, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne Strange tales to them of us.

Time hath no tide but must abide The servant of Thy will; Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme The ranging stars stand still-- Regent of spheres that lock our fears Our hopes invisible, Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and h.e.l.l!

Pure Wisdom hath no certain path That lacks thy morning-eyne, And captains bold by Thee controlled Most like to G.o.ds design; Thou art the Voice to kingly boys To lift them through the fight, And Comfortress of Unsuccess, To give the dead good-night--

A veil to draw 'twixt G.o.d His Law And Man's infirmity, A shadow kind to dumb and blind The shambles where we die; A sum to trick th' arithmetic Too base of leaguing odds, The spur of trust, the curb of l.u.s.t, Thou handmaid of the G.o.ds!

Oh Charity, all patiently Abiding wrack and scaith!

Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats Yet drops no jot of faith!

Devil and brute Thou dost trans.m.u.te To higher, lordlier show, Who art in sooth that lovely Truth The careless angels know!

_Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I may not find Thee quick and kind, Nor meet Thee till I die._

_Yet may I look with heart unshook On blow brought home or missed-- Yet may I hear with equal ear The clarions down the list; Yet set my lance above mischance And ride the barriere-- Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis, My Lady is not there!_

THE FLOWERS.

"To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic, almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress, are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote; the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill subst.i.tute for the rathe primrose, nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April as the English thrush."--_The Athenaeum._

_Buy my English posies-- Kent and Surrey may, Violets of the Undercliff Wet with Channel spray; Cowslips from a Devon combe Midland furze afire-- Buy my English posies, And I'll sell your hearts' desire!_