Songs of Action Part 3

'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried- Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail!

'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried, But comelier men I never have spied!'

Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack, Out upon the Lowland sea!

There's a wooden path that the rovers know- Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails!

There's a wooden path that the rovers know, Where none come back, though many must go: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Lying with his yard aback, Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the trader of Stepney town?- Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending!

Where is the trader of Stepney town?

There's gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown: Ho for bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback, Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?- Wake her up! Shake her up! Every st.i.tch a-drawing!

Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?

We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack, Right across the Lowland sea!

So it's up and its over to Stornoway Bay, Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails!

It's off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay, Where the liquor is good and the la.s.ses are gay: Waiting for their bully Jack, Watching for him sailing back, Right across the Lowland sea.

A BALLAD OF THE RANKS

Who carries the gun?

A lad from over the Tweed.

Then let him go, for well we know He comes of a soldier breed.

So drink together to rock and heather, Out where the red deer run, And stand aside for Scotland's pride- The man that carries the gun!

For the Colonel rides before, The Major's on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank.

But when it's 'Action front!'

And fighting's to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who holds the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from a Yorks.h.i.+re dale.

Then let him go, for well we know The heart that never will fail.

Here's to the fire of Lancas.h.i.+re, And here's to her soldier son!

For the hard-bit north has sent him forth- The lad that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from a Midland s.h.i.+re.

Then let him go, for well we know He comes of an English sire.

Here's a gla.s.s to a Midland la.s.s, And each can choose the one, But east and west we claim the best For the man that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from the hills of Wales.

Then let him go, for well we know, That Taffy is hard as nails.

There are several ll's in the place where he dwells, And of w's more than one, With a 'Llan' and a 'pen,' but it breeds good men, And it's they who carry the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from the windy west.

Then let him go, for well we know That he is one of the best.

There's Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, And Devon yields to none.

Or you may get in Somerset Your lad to carry the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from London town.

Then let him go, for well we know The stuff that never backs down.

He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, For he is the fog-smoke's son, And his heart is light and his pluck is right- The man who carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?

A lad from the Emerald Isle.

Then let him go, for well we know, We've tried him many a while.

We've tried him east, we've tried him west, We've tried him sea and land, But the man to beat old Erin's best Has never yet been planned.

Who carries the gun?

It's you, and you, and you; So let us go, and we won't say no If they give us a job to do.

Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, Comrades every one; So one last cup, and drink it up To the man who carries the gun!

For the Colonel rides before, The Major's on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank.

And when it's 'Action front!'

And there's fighting to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who holds the gun.

A LAY OF THE LINKS

It's up and away from our work to-day, For the breeze sweeps over the down; And it's hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame, And the bracken is bronzing to brown.

With the turf 'neath our tread and the blue overhead, And the song of the lark in the whin; There's the flag and the green, with the bunkers between- Now will you be over or in?

The doctor may come, and we'll teach him to know A tee where no tannin can lurk; The soldier may come, and we'll promise to show Some hazards a soldier may s.h.i.+rk; The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke, That at last he is high in his aims; And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand That is worth every club in St. James'.

The palm and the leather come rarely together, Gripping the driver's haft, And it's good to feel the jar of the steel And the spring of the hickory shaft.

Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique?

A cleek here is common to all; And the lie that might sting is a very small thing When compared with the lie of the ball.

Come youth and come age, from the study or stage, From Bar or from Bench-high and low!

A green you must use as a cure for the blues- You drive them away as you go.

We're outward bound on a long, long round, And it's time to be up and away: If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow, At least we'll be happy to-day.

THE DYING WHIP

It came from gettin' 'eated, that was 'ow the thing begun, And 'ackin' back to kennels from a ninety-minute run; 'I guess I've copped brownchitis,' says I to brother Jack, An' then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.

At night there came a sweatin' as left me deadly weak, And my throat was sort of tickly an' it 'urt me for to speak; An' then there came an 'ackin' cough as wouldn't leave alone, An' then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone