Collected Poems 1897 - 1907

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Collected Poems 1897 - 1907

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Collected Poems 1897 - 1907
Author: Henry Newbolt
Release Date: October 31, 2004 [EBook #13900]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS 1897 - 1907 ***

Processed by Tom Harris. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Harris, who loved poetry, and scanned from her own copy of the book.

Collected Poems 1897 - 1907 by Henry Newbolt
To Thomas Hardy

Drake's Drum
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' rüled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?) Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' 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 drummed 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!

The Fighting Téméraire
It was eight bells ringing, For the morning watch was done, And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun. It was eight bells ringing, And the gunner's lads were singing, For the ship she rode a-swinging, As they polished every gun.
Oh! to see the linstock lighting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to hear the round shot biting, Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to see the linstock lighting, And to hear the round shot biting, For we're all in love with fighting On the fighting Téméraire.
It was noontide ringing, And the battle just begun, When the ship her way was winging, As they loaded every gun. It was noontide ringing, When the ship her way was winging, And the gunner's lads were singing As they loaded every gun.
There'll be many grim and gory, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be few to tell the story, Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be many grim and gory, There'll be few to tell the story, But we'll all be one in glory With the Fighting Téméraire.
There's a far bell ringing At the setting of the sun, And a phantom voice is singing Of the great days done. There's a far bell ringing, And a phantom voice is singing Of renown for ever clinging To the great days done.
Now the sunset breezes shiver, Téméraire! Téméraire! And she's fading down the river, Téméraire! Téméraire!
Now the sunset's breezes shiver, And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever She's the Fighting Téméraire.

Admirals All
Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, Here's to the bold and free! Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, Hail to the Kings of the Sea! Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name!
Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name!
Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay With the galleons fair in sight; Howard at last must give him his way, And the word was passed to fight. Never was schoolboy gayer than he, Since holidays first began: He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, And under the guns he ran.
Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, Their cities he put to the sack; He singed his Catholic Majesty's beard, And harried his ships to wrack. He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls When the great Armada came; But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls," And he stooped and finished the game.
Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, Duncan he had but two; But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, And his colours aloft he flew. "I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried, "And I'll sink with a right good will: For I know when we're all of us under the tide