H O M E

Admirals All
by Sir Henry Newbolt

(1897)


  1. Admirals All
  2. San Stefano
  3. Drake's Drum
  4. The Fighting Téméraire
  5. Hawke
  6. Væ Victis
  7. Vitaï Lampada
  8. A Ballad of John Nicholson
  9. The Guides at Cabul, 1879
  10. The Gay Gordans
  11. "He Fell Among Thieves"
  12. Ionicus
  13. The Dictionary of National Biography
  14. Laudabunt Alii
  15. The Vigil

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Drake's Drum
Admirals All




by Sir Henry John Newbolt

(1897)

Edited for the Web by Bob Blair

. Admirals All

    A Song of Sea Kings

    EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,
    Here's to the bold and free!
    Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
    Hail to the Kings of the Sea!
    Admirals all, for England's sake,
    Honour be yours and fame!
    And honour, as long as waves shall break,
    To Nelson's peerless name!

               Admirals all, for England's sake,
                              Honour be yours and fame!
               And honour, as long as waves shall break,
                         To Nelson's peerless name!

    Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay
    With the galleons fair in sight;
    Howard at last must give him his way,
    And the word was passed to fight.

    Never was schoolboy gayer than he,
    Since holidays first began:
    He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea,
    And under the guns he ran.

    Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared,
    Their cities he put to the sack;
    He singed His Catholic Majesty's beard,
    And harried his ships to wrack.
    He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls
    When the great Armada came;
    But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls,"
    And he stooped and finished the game.

    Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold,
    Duncan he had but two;
    But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled,
    And his colours aloft he flew.
    "I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried,
    "And I'll sink with a right good will:
    For I know when we're all of us under the tide
    My flag will be fluttering still."

    Splinters were flying above, below,
    When Nelson sailed the Sound:
    "Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now,"
    Said he, "for a thousand pound!"
    The Admiral's signal bade him fly
    But he wickedly wagged his head:
    He clapped the glass to his sightless eye,
    And "I'm damned if I see it!" he said.

    Admirals all, they said their say
    (The echoes are ringing still).
    Admirals all, they went their way
    To the haven under the hill.
    But they left us a kingdom none can take --
    The realm of the circling sea --
    To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake,
    And the Rodneys yet to be.

               Admirals all, for England's sake,
                         Honour be yours and fame!
               And honour, as long as waves shall break,
                         To Nelson's peerless name!

    Henry Newbolt

. San Stefano

    A Ballad of the Bold "Menelaus"

    IT WAS morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days,
    And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide,
    When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze
    And she hauled her cable home and took the tide.
    She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
    Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
    When the bold Menelaus put to sea.

    She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
           Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
           When the bold
    Menelaus put to sea.

    She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land,
    When she spied a pennant red and white and blue;
    They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand,
    But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew.
    She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt,
    But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay,
    And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out,
    With the guns grinning round them where they lay.

    Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race,
    Son and grandson of an admiral was he;
    And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase,
    And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea.
    And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late
    If they kept it til the Menelaus runs;
    Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight
    For the prize lying yonder by the guns!"

    When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay
    Came the Menelaus gliding like a ghost;
    And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away,
    And in silence every gunner took his post.
    With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke,
    And they hammered back like heroes all the night;
    But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke
    With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight.

    It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time,
    And the sky behind the down was flushing far;
    And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime,
    When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar.
    She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
    Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore
    When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.

    She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
           Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore
           When the bold
    Menelaus came from the sea.

    Henry Newbolt

. Drake's Drum

    DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
    Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
    An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
    Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
    Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
    An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

    Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
    (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)
    Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
    A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
    "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
    If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

    Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
    Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
    An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
    Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
    Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
    They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

    Henry Newbolt

. The Fighting Téméraire

    IT WAS eight bells ringing,
    For the morning watch was done,
    And the gunner's lads were singing
    As they polished every gun.
    It was eight bells ringing,
    And the gunner's lads were singing,
    For the ship she rode a-swinging,
    As they polished every gun.

               Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
                         Téméraire! Téméraire!
               Oh! to hear the round shot biting,
                              Téméraire! Téméraire!
               Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
               And to hear the round shot biting,
               For we're all in love with fighting
                         On the fighting Téméraire.

    It was noontide ringing,
    And the battle just begun,
    When the ship her way was winging,
    As they loaded every gun.
    It was noontide ringing,
    When the ship her way was winging,
    And the gunner's lads were singing
    As they loaded every gun.

               There'll be many grim and gory,
                         Téméraire! Téméraire!
               There'll be few to tell the story,
                         Téméraire! Téméraire!
               There'll be many grim and gory,
               There'll be few to tell the story,
               But we'll all be one in glory
                         With the Fighting Téméraire.

    There's a far bell ringing
    At the setting of the sun,
    And a phantom voice is singing
    Of the great days done.
    There's a far bell ringing,
    And a phantom voice is singing
    Of renown for ever clinging
    To the great days done.

               Now the sunset breezes shiver,
                         Téméraire! Téméraire!
               And she's fading down the river,
                         Téméraire! Téméraire!
               Now the sunset's breezes shiver,
               And she's fading down the river,
               But in England's song for ever
                         She's the Fighting Téméraire.

    Henry Newbolt

. Hawke

    IN SEVENTEEN hundred and fifty-nine,
    When Hawke came swooping from the West,
    The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line
    Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest.
    The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum
    With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum,
    For bragging time was over and fighting time was come
    When Hawke came swooping from the West.

    'Twas long past noon of a wild November day
    When Hawke came swooping from the West;
    He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay,
    But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast.
    Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight
    Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,
    But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light
    When Hawke came swooping from the West.

    The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind
    When Hawke came swooping from the West;
    One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned,
    And the shallows and the storm took the rest.
    The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore,
    The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more,
    For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore
    When Hawke came swooping from the West.

    Henry Newbolt

. Væ Victis

    BESIDE the placid sea that mirrored her
               With the old glory of dawn that cannot die,
    The sleeping city began to moan and stir,
               As one that fain from an ill dream would fly;
               Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh
    Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late, --
               Visions of honour lost and power gone by,
    Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate,
    And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate.

    They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd,
               That up her streets in silence hurrying passed,
    What manner of death should make their anguish loud,
               What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast,
               For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast
    As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse,
               A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast,
    And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips,
    "What of the ships, O Carthage? Carthage, what of the ships?"

    They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed
               To find the gates unguarded and open wide;
    They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed
               The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side
               And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride;
    But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope
               They saw the harbour, and sense within them died;
    Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope;
    It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope.

    Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled
               From sky to shore on level and endless seas,
    Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold
               That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes,
               The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees
    By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled,
               Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze,
    Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled,
    For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world.

    A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn
               And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk
    Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn,
               And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke
               Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke;
    Vainly -- for even now beneath their gaze
               A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke
    Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze,
    And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze.

    "O dying Carthage!" so their passion raved,
               "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate assuage?
    If these be taken, how may the land be saved
               Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?"
               And bitter memory cursed with idle rage
    The greed that coveted gold beyond renown,
               The feeble hearts that feared their heritage,
    The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down
    And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown.

    The endless noon, the endless evening through,
               All other needs forgetting, great or small,
    They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew
               As the hours died beneath that stifling pall.
               At last they saw the fires to blackness fall
    One after one, and slowly turned them home,
               A little longer yet their own to call
    A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome,
    With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come.

    Henry Newbolt

. Vitaï Lampada

    THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
    Ten to make and the match to win --
    A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
    An hour to play and the last man in.
    And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
    Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
    But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

    The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
    Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
    The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
    And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
    The river of death has brimmed his banks,
    And England's far, and Honour a name,
    But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

    This is the word that year by year
    While in her place the School is set
    Every one of her sons must hear,
    And none that hears it dare forget.
    This they all with a joyful mind
    Bear through life like a torch in flame,
    And falling fling to the host behind --
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

    Henry Newbolt

. A Ballad of John Nicholson

    IT FELL in the year of Mutiny,
    At darkest of the night,
    John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,
    On his way to Delhi fight.

    And as he by Jalándhar came,
    He thought what he must do,
    And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,
    To try if he were true.

    "God grant your Highness length of days,
    And friends when need shall be;
    And I pray you send your Captains hither,
    That they may speak with me."

    On the morrow through Jalándhar town
    The Captains rode in state;
    They came to the house of John Nicholson,
    And stood before the gate.

    The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,
    He was both proud and sly;
    His turban gleamed with rubies red,
    He held his chin full high.

    He marked his fellows how they put
    Their shoes from off their feet;
    "Now wherefore make ye such ado
    These fallen lords to greet?

    "They have ruled us for a hundred years,
    In truth I know not how,
    But though they be fain of mastery
    They dare not claim it now."

    Right haughtily before them all
    The durbar hall he trod,
    With rubies red his turban gleamed,
    His feet with pride were shod.

    They had not been an hour together,
    A scanty hour or so,
    When Mehtab Singh rose in his place
    And turned about to go.

    Then swiftly came John Nicholson
    Between the door and him,
    With anger smouldering in his eyes,
    That made the rubies dim.

    "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," --
    Oh, but his voice was low!
    He held his wrath with a curb of iron
    That furrowed cheek and brow.

    "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,
    When that the rest are gone,
    I have a word that may not wait
    To speak with you alone."

    The Captains passed in silence forth
    And stood the door behind;
    To go before the game was played
    Be sure they had no mind.

    But there within John Nicholson
    Turned him on Mehtab Singh,
    "So long as the soul is in my body
    You shall not do this thing.

    "Have ye served us for a hundred years
    And yet ye know not why?
    We brook no doubt of our mastery,
    We rule until we die.

    "Were I the one last Englishman
    Drawing the breath of life,
    And you the master-rebel of all
    That stir this land to strife --

    "Were I," he said, "but a Corporal,
    And you a Rajput King,
    So long as the soul was in my body
    You should not do this thing.

    "Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,
    Carry them whence they came;
    Your Captains saw your insolence,
    And they shall see your shame."

    When Mehtab Singh came to the door
    His shoes they burned his hand,
    For there in long and silent lines
    He saw the Captains stand.

    When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate
    His chin was on his breast:
    The captains said, "When the strong command
    Obedience is best."

    Henry Newbolt

. The Guides at Cabul, 1879

    SONS of the Island race, wherever ye dwell,
    Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn,
    The deed of an alien legion hear me tell,
    And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn,
    When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn,
    To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride,
    To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died.

    For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud,
    Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one,
    Answered a thousand yelling for English blood
    With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun,
    And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun,
    Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay,
    And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.

    Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold,
    Twice toiled in vain to drag it back,
    Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold,
    Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack,
    Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track.
    "Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout,
    And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt.

    And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again,
    And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke:
    "Come, for we know that the English all are slain,
    We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk;
    Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk."
    Silence fell for a moment, then was heard
    A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word.

    "Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong,
    That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight?
    We that live -- do ye doubt that our hands are strong?
    They that are fallen -- ye know that their blood was bright!
    Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of light
    The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred,
    Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?"

    Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart
    To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap
    Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart
    The doors not all their valour could longer keep;
    They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep,
    And with never a foot lagging or head bent
    To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went.

    Henry Newbolt

. The Gay Gordans

    (Dargai, October 20, 1897)

    WHO'S for the Gathering, who's for the Fair?
    (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
    The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there,
    (Highlanders! march! by the right!)
    There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air,
    There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare;
    But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare
    When they hear the pipers playing!

    The happiest English heart today
    (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
    Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may;
    (Steady there! steady on the right!)
    He sees his work and he sees his way,
    He knows his time and the word to say,
    And he's thinking of the tune that Gordons play
    When he sets the pipers playing.

    Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide,
    (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
    They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied;
    (Bayonets! and charge by the right!
    Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide,
    And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside;
    But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride,
    To the skirl of the pipers' playing.

    Henry Newbolt

. He Fell among Thieves

    "YE have robb'd," said he, "ye have slaughter'd and made an end,
    Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:
    What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?"
    "Blood for our blood," they said.

    He laugh'd: "If one may settle the score for five,
    I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day:
    I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive."
    "You shall die at dawn," said they.

    He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
    He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;
    All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
    He brooded, clasping his knees.

    He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
    The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows;
    He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
    Or the far Afghan snows.

    He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
    The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
    He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
    Calling him down to ride.

    He saw the gray little church across the park,
    The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;
    The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
    The brasses black and red.

    He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
    The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
    The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,
    His own name over all.

    He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,
    The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
    The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
    The Dons on the daïs serene.

    He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
    He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;
    He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,
    He saw the flag she flew.

    And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,
    And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;
    He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:
    His murderers round him stood.

    Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
    The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to dazzling white;
    He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,
    Cut by the Eastern height.

    "O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
    I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." A sword swept.
    Over the pass the voices one by one
    Faded, and the hill slept.

    Henry Newbolt

. Ionicus

    WITH failing feet and shoulders bowed
    Beneath the weight of happier days,
    He lagged among the heedless crowd,
    Or crept along suburban ways.
    But still through all his heart was young,
    A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung
    Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

    From ill-requited toil he turned
    To ride with Picton and with Pack,
    Among his grammars inly burned
    To storm the Afghan mountain-track.
    When midnight chimed, before Quebec
    He watched with Wolfe till he morning star;
    At noon he saw from Victory's deck
    The sweep and splendour of England's war.

    Beyond the book his teaching sped,
    He left on whom he taught the trace
    Of kinship with the deathless dead,
    And faith in all the Island race.
    He passed : his life a tangle seemed,
    His age from fame and power was far;
    But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed
    Of the sound and splendour of England's war.

    Henry Newbolt

. The Dictionary of National Biography

    SITTING at times over a hearth that burns
    With dull domestic glow,
    My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns
    To you who planned it so.

    Not of the great only you deigned to tell, --
    The stars by which we steer, --
    But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell
    To night again, are here.

    Such as were those, dogs of an elder day,
    Who sacked the golden ports,
    And those later who dare grapple their prey
    Beneath the harbour forts:

    Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world
    To find an equal fight,
    And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled
    Ships of the line in flight.

    Whether their fame centuries long should ring
    They cared not over-much,
    But cared greatly to serve God and the king,
    And keep the Nelson touch;

    And fought to build Britain above the tide
    Of wars and windy fate;
    And passed content, leaving to us the pride
    Of lives obscurely great.

    Henry Newbolt

. Laudabunt Alii

    (After Horace)

    LET others praise, as fancy wills,
    Berlin beneath her trees,
    Or Rome upon her seven hills,
    Or Venice by her seas;
    Stamboul by double tides embraced,
    Or green Damascus in the waste.

    For me there's nought I would not leave
    For the good Devon land,
    Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve
    Bedewed with spray-drift stand,
    And hardly bear the red fruit up
    That shall be next year's cider-cup.

    You too, my friend, may wisely mark
    How clean skies follow rain,
    And, lingering in your own green park
    Or drilled on Laffan's Plain,
    Forget not with the festal bowl
    To soothe at times your weary soul.

    When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe
    Good-bye for many a day,
    And some were sad and feared to go,
    And some that dared not stay,
    Be sure he bade them broach the best,
    And raised his tankard with the rest.

    "Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake
    For promised lands of gold!
    Brave lads, whatever storms may break,
    We've weathered worse of old!
    To-night the loving-cup we'll drain,
    To-morrow for the Spanish Main!"

    Henry Newbolt

. The Vigil

    ENGLAND! where the sacred flame
    Burns before the inmost shrine,
    Where the lips that love thy name
    Consecrate their hopes and thine,
    Where the banners of thy dead
    Weave their shadows overhead,
    Watch beside thine arms to-night,
    Pray that God defend the Right.

    Think that when to-morrow comes
    War shall claim command of all,
    Thou must hear the roll of drums,
    Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
    Now, before they silence ruth,
    Commune with the voice of truth;
    England! on thy knees to-night
    Pray that God defends the Right.

    Hast thou counted up the cost,
    What to foeman, what to friend?
    Glory sought is Honour lost,
    How should this be knighthood's end?
    Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed?
    What the surest gain of Greed?
    England! wilt thou dare to-night
    Pray that God defend the Right?

    So shalt thou when morning comes
    Rise to conquer or to fall,
    Joyful hear the rolling drums,
    Joyful hear the trumpet's call.
    Then let Memory tell thy heart
    England! what thou wert, thou art!"
    Gird thee with thine ancient might,
    Forth! and God defend the Right!

    Henry Newbolt



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