A War Chant

O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long, And his hate is a deadly thing; It was held in his heart till its growth was strong, Now, words have woven it into a song For little children to sing.

It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell, And hatred hid death in the sea; In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell, And the humble-hearted be.

Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky In a fury of smoke and flame; His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,-- He hath shown no pity to those who die For the glory of his name.

He sealed his hate with the blood of his men-- O, the young in their coats of grey!-- They are cast aside, and in river, and fen, Deep-hidden, where none will find them again Till the last white judgment day.

Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead; The world hath accepted its pain; Still, over old battlefields, newly red, The shattered ranks of his army are led In pomp and a high disdain.

Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great, O England! thou well beloved land; When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,-- And the angel who stands before the gate, The sword of flame in his hand!