Sir Henry Newbolt Poems

Our game was his but yesteryear;
We wished him back; we could not know
The self-same hour we missed him here
He led the line that broke the foe.
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Praise thou with praise unending,
The Master of the Wine;
To all their portions sending
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She is a lady fair and wise,
Her heart her counsel keeps,
And well she knows of time that flies
And tide that onward sweeps;
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Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,
Here's to the bold and free!
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
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It's good to see the school we knew,
the land of youth and dream.
To greet again the rule we knew,
before we took the stream.
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With failing feet and shoulders bowed
Beneath the weight of happier days,
He lagged among the heedless crowd,
Or crept along suburban ways.
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(from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.)
I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,
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By the hearth-stone
She sits alone,
The long night bearing:
With eyes that gleam
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Mother, with unbowed head
Hear thou across the sea
The farewell of the dead,
The dead who died for thee.
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A Song of the Great Retreat

Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town,
Lights out and never a glint o' moon:
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