The Coming of the Belgians

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!— Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on; Ring out its welcome in the sky, And herald forth to Wimbledon Our warrior-guests from Belgium-land: From Belgium land they come, they come To share with us in Britons’ land The banquet-board and social home. Right welcome shall those warriors be To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land, For they have come across the sea To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!— Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on; Ring out its welcome in the sky: Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon.

’Tis there our laurels now are won— Where bloom the gorse’s golden flower, And where the butterfly, anon, Doth sport amid the bramble bower; And where the heather dights the plain, Where Nature, in its forest trim, Delights the eye, perfumes the main: Where every daisy is a gem; Where soars the cuckoo’s glad ding-dong, And the sweet blackbird’s merry air; Aye! where the skylark’s matin song Is, is of all the sweetest pray’r.

Hoist, Britons, host the banner high! etc.

’Tis there th’ elect of Englishmen, And Scotland’s fairest sons of might, Bemake the upland grove and glen, The pinnacle of fame and fight: ’Tis there Hibernia’s children hie, Join’d by the men of ancient Wales. For Honor’s prize each country vie; Ho! ho! ye plains, ye hills, ye vales; Ho! ho! my kinsmen, ho! and hail Our brother Belgians from afar, Who now (responsive) westward sail, To join in modern modes of war.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

To join in modern modes of war They came, our brother Belgians come, But not for conquest, nor the star Which desolates the peasant’s home; For honor, wisdom, love, and truth,— These are the prizes—these their aim: Behold those patriots, age and youth, All marksmen for their country’s fame. Then welcome them to Wimbledon, Ye Britons bold and bolder still; For there the laurels shall be won By those of most abundant skill.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

’Tis there our countrymen advance On the high road to royal regard, For there shall Edward nobly glance On Britain’s patriotic guard. Then on! ye willing warriors, on! Unfurl the standard, lift it high, And let it wave o’er Wimbledon,— A beacon to the Belgian eye. Up with your tents, encamp ye round “The flaming flag of liberty;” Send the swift ball forth to the mound; ’Tis won!—whose is the victory? * * *

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

Let Record mark this year of grace, When forth the Belgian from the east, With glowing heart and beaming face, Came o’er to share the British feast: When Britain, lit with loyalty, Drew forth its chamois as of yore, And deck’d with right baronialty The banquet-board with choicest store: Whereat the best skill’d war-men came, From highlands, lowlands, vales, and plains; And where the foremost heard his name Proclaim’d in proud triumphant strains.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!— Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on; Proclaim aloud the victory!— Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon!

Return visit of the Belgian Volunteers (to England), July, 1867.