Sir Henry Newbolt

He fell among Thieves

‘Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughter’d and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’ ‘Blood for our blood,’

The Schoolfellow

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. Blood-red behind our guarded posts

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

A Letter From the Front

I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack such a lovely morning And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight

The War Films

O living pictures of the dead, O songs without a sound, O fellowship whose phantom tread Hallows a phantom ground How in a gleam have these revealed The faith we had not found. We

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad. Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, Spoilers strong in

The Nightjar

We loved our nightjar, but she would not stay with us. We had found her lying as dead, but soft and warm, Under the apple tree beside the old thatched wall. Two days we

The Toy Band

A Song of the Great Retreat Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, Lights out and never a glint o’ moon: Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, Sad sighed the

The Fighting Tйmйraire

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

Clifton Chapel

This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth, And heard the words that one by one The touch of Life has turn’d to truth. Here in a day

A Ballad of John Nicholson

It fell in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalбndhar came, On his way to Delhi fight. And as he by Jalбndhar came, He thought what he must

Ionicus

With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, A courage, a

Vitaп Lampada

There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night Ten to make and the match to win A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it’s