Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife, "Our life shall not be by the King's permit; We will fight for the right, we want no more;" Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. For slow and sure as the oaks had grown From acorns falling that autumn day, Then rising afar in the Western sea, A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and free, Who would wrench out the heart and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, To ampler spaces for heart and hand And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. Steadily steering, eagerly peering, Trusting in God your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. They whittled and waded through forest and fen, In faith that by manhood the world wins all. 1 To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown Slow to contention, and slower to quit, Robert Collyer [1823-1912] AT GIBRALTAR I ENGLAND, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow, The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. Still surging dark against the Christian bound While Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. I turn, and meet the cruel, turbaned face. George Edward Woodberry [1855 GIBRALTAR SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Of a sweet evening screened by either shore To see her red coats marching from the hill. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840– MOTHER ENGLAND I THERE was a rover from a western shore, Then mother-Mother England!-home I came Like one who hath been all too long away! II As nestling at thy feet in peace I lay, A thought awoke and restless stirred in me: "GOD SAVE THE KING" GOD save our gracious King, God save the King! Send him victorious, Long to reign over us, O Lord our God, arise, And make them fall. Confound their politics, God save us all! Thy choicest gifts in store, To sing with heart and voice, God save the King! Henry Carey (?) [ ? +743] RULE, BRITANNIA From "Alfred " WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Britons never will be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; But work their woe, and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; |