Thanksgiving for the strong armed day,
That lifted war’s red curse,
When Peace, that lordly little word,
Was uttered in a voice that stirred—
Yea, shook the Universe.
Thanksgiving for the Mighty Hour
That brimmed the Victor’s cup,
When England signalled to the foe,
‘The German flag must be brought low
And not again hauled up!’
Thanksgiving for the sea and air
Free from the Devil’s might!
Thanksgiving that the human race
Can lift once more a rev’rent face,
And say, ‘God helps the Right.’
Thanksgiving for our men who came
In Heaven-protected ships,
The waning tide of hope to swell,
With ‘Lusitania’ and ‘Cavell’
As watchwords on their lips.
Thanksgiving that our splendid dead,
All radiant with youth,
Dwell near to us—there is no death.
Thanksgiving for the broad new faith
That helps us know this truth.
I had seen our splendid soldiers in their khaki uniforms,
And their leaders with a Sam Brown belt;
I had seen the fighting Britons and Colonials in swarms,
I had seen the blue-clad Frenchmen, and I felt
That the mighty martial show
Had no new sight to bestow,
Till I walked on Piccadilly, and my word!
By the bonnie Highland laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
To a wholly new sensation I was stirred.
They were like some old-time picture, or a scene from out a play,
They were stalwart, they were young, and debonnair;
Their jaunty little caps they wore in such a fetching way,
And they showed their handsome legs, and didn’t care—
And they seemed to own the town
As they strode on up and down—
Oh, they surely were a sight for tired eyes!
Those braw, bonnie laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
And I stared at them with pleasure and surprise.
I had read about the valour of old Scotland’s warrior sons—
How they fought to a finish, or else fell;
I had heard the name bestowed on them by agitated Huns,
Who called these skirted soldiers ‘Dames of Hell’;
And I gave them right of way
On their London holiday,
As I met them swinging down the street and Strand,
Those bonnie, bonnie laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
And I breathed a blessing on them and their land
Now the world is all rejoicing that the end of war has come—
And no heart is any gladder than my own,
That the brutal, blatant voices of the guns at last are dumb,
And the Dove of Peace from out her cage has flown.
Yet, when men no more march by,
Making pictures for the eye,
There’s a vital dash of colour earth will lack,
When the brave Highland laddies
Drop their kilts and their plaidies,
And return to common clothes of grey or black!
Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle’s thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves—and under.
Men of the sea, Men of the sea,
I lift mine eyes to the Flags unfurled—
The Flags of Victory blowing free
Over the new-born world.
And I cry ‘Thank God! these things can be!
Thank God, and the Men of the Sea!’
Little it matters to what they belong,
Marine or Navy—or Merchant Ship—
To the Men of the Sea I sing my song;
A song that rises from heart to lip.
I sing of the valour that ploughed a path
Straight through the snares of a crafty foe,
Through billows raging with wintry wrath,
And over the dens of the devils below.
To the splendid heroes of Jutland Bank
And the Royal Navy I give their due;
And cheek by jowl with them all, I rank
The brave mine-sweepers and merchant crew.
Trawler—Drifter—or English Fleet—
All are manned by the Men of the Sea,
And all together in my heart meet,
For a boat is a boat to the mind of me.
And who ever over the dread seas fared,
And however humble his work or place,
To the great Christ spirit must be compared—
Since he offered his life for the good of the race.
And how many lie in the deep-sea bed,
No man can reckon, and no man number;
But not one Soul of them all is dead,
For death is only the body’s slumber.
And the Men of the Mist, who from dark to dawn
On the deck or the bridge stand guard at night,
Oft feel the presence of comrades gone
Who keep watch with them, though veiled from sight.
Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle’s thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves—and under.
‘Invisible and silent’—Mystery
Surrounded that great Guardian of the Sea.
That Father—Mother—of the mighty main.
While loud in valley and on field and hill—
And over anguished plain
The battles thundered. God himself is still
And hidden from men’s view; and it were meet
That this subliminal force
Should move in utter silence on its course
Invisible—Inaudible—till that hour
When Time, Fate’s Minister, should speak and say—
‘Come forth! and show thy power!’
When Time commands, even the gods obey.
‘Invisible and silent’; yet the foe
Was driven from the Sea. All impotent
The brazen braggart went.
While commerce sent her brave ships to and fro;
And from Columbia’s shores there sailed away
Ten thousand men a day—
Ten thousand men a day! who reached their goals
Bringing new courage to war-weary souls.
Oh, silent wonder of the noisy sea!
Though alien, with the blood of Bunker Hill
Down filtering through my veins, the heart of me
Seems with a mingled love and awe to fill
And overflow at thought of that sublime,
Unparalleled large hour of Time;
When bloodless Victory saw the foes’ flag furled—
That insolent menace to a righteous world.
Great Britain’s Fleet unshaken in its might,
Proclaimed itself again in all men’s sight
The Mistress of the Main. Fair Freedom’s friend,
May peace and glory on thy path attend.
Lie down, and let the billows hide your shame,
Oh, shorn and naked outcast of the seas!
You who confided to each ocean breeze
Your coming conquests, and made loud acclaim
Of your own grandeur and exalted fame;
You who have catered to they world’s disease;
You who have drunk hate’s wine, and found the lees;
Lie down! and let all men forget your name!
You dreamed of world dominion! you! the spawn
Of hell and hatred—Foe to all things free—
Sworn enemy to honour, truth and right;
Too poor a thing now for the Devil’s pawn,