The Old Flag

An Emperor babbled in his dreams, —
Ne'er sleeps the secret in his soul, —
" The Lion is old, and ready he seems
To draw my Chariot to its goal."
With awful light the Lion's eye
Began to flame — sublime he stands!
With looks that make the Tyrant try
To hide his bloody hands.
Thank God, the advancing tide is met!
Thank God, the Old Flag's flying yet.

We love our Native Land and Laws,
And He would rather we did not!
We are Conspirators because
We are in our little green grass plot!
But let him follow up his frown,
Marshal his Myriads for the blow;
Those who are doomed to drown must drown,
The rest we take in tow!
In Cherbourg's sight their Gallows set
Beside the Old Flag flying yet.

Our Ghost of Greatness hath not fled
At crowing of the Gallic Cock;
A foreign Despot's heel shall tread
No print upon our English rock.
Here Freedom by the Lion grand
Sits safe, and Unadike doth hold
Him gently with her gentle hand;
And long as Seas enfold,
High on our topmost heights firm-set,
We keep her Old Flag flying yet.

To Freedom we must aye be true;
Our England must be Freedom's home;
For sake of our dead Darlings who
Went heavenward crowned with martyrdom.
'Twas She who made us what we are,
Throned on our Sea-cliffs gray and grand;
Great image of majestic care;
Fair Bride of Fatherland!
We do but pay the filial debt
To keep her Old Flag flying yet.

This little Isle is Freedom's Bark
That rideth in a perilous path:
Around us one wide sea of dark
That beats and breaks in stormy wrath.
The Despots drove poor Freedom forth,
By bloody footprints tracked her road; —
And Homeless, Homeless, else on earth
She takes to her Sea-abode!
She turns on us her eyes tear-wet;
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Statesmen have drawn back meek and mute,
Or pardon begged from bullying foes,
Whene'er a Military boot
Was stamped upon retreating toes.
They shrink to hear Him at our gates,
This ominous thing of gloom and gore,
Though Revolution for him waits
At Danger's every door.
But little do we heed his threat!
We keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Over the praying Peoples rolled
The dark tide, and we helped them not.
Yet on our lifted hands, behold,
We cry, behold no bloody spot!
This famous people's heart is sound,
It fights for all that bleed and smart;
We — banned above — meet underground,
Meet in a touch of heart.
We cannot our old fame forget;
We keep the Old Flag flying yet.

We have a true and tender clasp
For Freedom's friends where'er their home,
And for her foes as grim a grasp,
No matter when or whence they come.
We like that gay light-hearted France
That into stormy splendour breaks,
When its brave music for the dance
Of Death the battle makes;
And foot to foot would proudly set
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.

But what is France! this cruel Power
That builds above her martyred dead,
Whose spirits thicken hour by hour
The air about its doomed head!
This Death-in-Life throned on the grave,
That in the darkness waits its prey?
Like Coral-workers 'neath the wave,
It dies on reaching day.
The Sun of France hath not thus set,
But, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

France, who hath stood erect and first,
Will not lie latest in the dust:
Ere long her breath of scorn will burst
This bubble blown of bloody lust.
Quietly, quietly turns the tide,
And when this shore lies black and bare,
There shall be no more sea to hide
The Wrecker's secrets there.
Our lot is cast, our task is set,
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Save him! this Burglar of the night
Broke into Freedom's sacred shrines!
This Lie uncrowned whene'er the light
Of merciless next morninsf shines!
This terror of a land struck dumb,
Who fed the Furies with brave blood!
We cannot save him when they come
For his. Not if we would.
Too slippery is the hand blood-wet!
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

The Tyrant sometimes waxeth strong
To drag a fate more fearful down:
He veileth Justice who ere long
Shall see Eternal Justice frown.
The Kings of Crime from near and far
Shall come to crown him with their crown;
Under the Shadow of Doom his Star
Will redden, and go down.
And clay shall dawn when it hath set;
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Leaves fall, but lo! the young buds peep!
Flowers die and still their seed shall bloom;
From death the quick young life will leap
When Spring comes breathing by the tomb.
And though their graves are hushed, in stern
Heroic dream the dead men lie!
To God their still white faces turn:
The Murdered do not die.
Will God the Martyrs' seed forget?
No. Keep the Old Flag flying yet.

This triumph of the Spoken word
Is well, my England, but give heed,
The World leans on thee as a Sword
For Freedom in her battle-need.
Star of a thousand battles red,
Be thou the Beacon of the Free!
Turn round thy luminous side, and shed
God's light o'er land and sea.
Through floods, or flames, or bloody sweat,
Keep thou the Old Flag flying yet.

The splendid shiver of brave blood
Is thrilling through our England now!
She who so often hath withstood
The Tyrants, lifts her brightened brow.
God's precious charge we proudly keep
In circling arms of victory!
With Freedom we shall live, or sleep
With our dear Dead who are free.
God forget us when we forget
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.