SAINT CUTHBERT

  When once a winter storm upon the shores of Fife
    Drave Cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith: 
  “To land in such a storm is certain loss of life!”
    “Return,” another cried, “by sea is equal death.” 
  Then Cuthbert, “Earth and sea against us both are set,
  But friends, look up, for Heaven lies open to us yet.”

ALFRED THE GREAT

A MILLENARY MEMORIAL

“In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me.”

  Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer
    Upon the rosary of his royal time,
  Who let “I do” wait not upon “I dare,”
    Yet both with duty kept in golden chime,
  Who, great in victory, greater in defeat,
    Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned
  From Ashdown’s field to Athelney’s lone retreat
    Upward for aye to lift his little land. 
  Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing,
    A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea,
  From slender strength to stately empire growing
    Hath given our isle great continents in fee. 
  For which on Alfred’s death-day each true heart
    Goes out in praise of his immortal part.

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON

  Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath
      Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell,
      Welcoming with thy whispered “All is well!”
  The awful aspect of the Angel Death. 
  As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun
      The heat and burthen of the fiery day,
      Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay,
  And wearing meekly honours stoutly won. 
  Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye
      Erin demanded from her bards of old,
      And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold
  Has waked once more her high heroic lay. 
      What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold
  Of Ossian’s mantle?  Thou hast passed away.

“MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY”

(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)

  London Town, hear a ditty,
    While we crown our comrades true: 
  “Men, not walls, make a City;”
    Ill befalls when men are few,—­

  Ill indeed when from his duty
    Into greed the burgess falls,
  Every hand on bribe and booty—­
    How shall stand that City’s walls?

  Never yet upon thine annals
    Hath been writ such a shame;
  Never down such crooked channels,
    London Town, thy commerce came.

  On the poor no tyrant burden,
    Debt secure and sacred trust,
  Honest gain and generous guerdon,
    These remain thy record just.