The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 8 | Page 9

rise, More dreadful from each foreign
stroke; As the loud blasts that tear the skies Serve but to root thy native
oak. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee
down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe--but thy
renown. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine.
_Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard
the fair. _Rule, Britannia, rule the leaves! For Britons never will be
slaves._
JAMES THOMSON.
* * * * *

THE BOWMAN'S SONG.
FROM "THE WHITE COMPANY."
What of the bow? The bow was made in England: Of true wood, of
yew wood, The wood of English bows; So men who are free Love the
old yew-tree And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord? The cord was made in England: A rough cord, a
tough cord, A cord that bowmen love; So we'll drain our jacks To the
English flax And the land where the hemp was wove.
What of the shaft? The shaft was cut in England: A long shaft, a strong
shaft, Barbed and trim and true; So we'll drink all together To the gray
goose feather, And the land where the gray goose flew.
What of the men? The men were bred in England: The bowman--the
yeoman-- The lads of dale and fell. Here's to you--and to you! To the
hearts that are true And the land where the true hearts dwell.
SIR A. CONAN DOYLE.
* * * * *

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.
When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food, It ennobled our
hearts, and enriched our blood; Our soldiers were brave, and our
courtiers were good. _O, the Roast Beef of old England, And O, the old
English Roast Beef_!
But since we have learned from effeminate France To eat their ragouts,
as well as to dance, We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance.
_O, the Roast Beef_, etc.
HENRY FIELDING.
* * * * *

Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open house
with good cheer all day long, Which made their plump tenants rejoice
in this song. _O, the Roast Beef_, etc.
When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea, and
such slip-slops, were known, The world was in terror, if e'en she did
frown. _O, the Roast Beef_, etc.
In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, They seldom or never
returned back again; As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. _O, the
Roast Beef_, etc.
O, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, And when wrongs were
cooking, to set ourselves right; But now we're--hum?--I could,
but--good night; _O, the Roast Beef of old England, And O, the old
English Roast Beef_!
The last four stanzas added by RICHARD LOVERIDGE.
* * * * *

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.
Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, If ever I lived upon dry
land, The spot I should hit on would be little Britain! Says Freedom,
"Why, that's my own island!" O, it's a snug little island! A right little,
tight little island! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy
as this little island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, Came by water,--he
couldn't come by land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turned
their backs on, And all for the sake of our island. O, what a snug little
island! They'd all have a touch at the island! Some were shot dead,
some of them fled, And some stayed to live on the island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried, "Drat it, I
never liked my land. It would be much more handy to leave this
Normandy, And live on your beautiful island." Says he, "'Tis a snug
little island; Sha'n't us go visit the island?" Hop, skip, and jump, there
he was plump, And he kicked up a dust in the island.
But party deceit helped the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed
to buy land; By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been licked,
Had they stuck to the king of their island. Poor Harold, the king of our

island! He lost both his life and his island! That's all very true: what
more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his island!
The Spanish armada set out to invade--a, 'Twill sure, if they ever come
nigh land. They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen