Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/47
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The Battle of the Free.
11
Oh, England! call thy children then,
And they will gladly answer thee.
Hark! to the shores of the Island of the Free,
Their answer cometh floating o’er the voiceful sea!
England, exult!
For thy numberless sons are gathering unto thee.
Oh, England! bear thee proudly
In the direst need of war!
Thy sons,—the sons of Freedom,—
Are sailing from afar.
They are coming—they are coming—
To carry the banners of the Island of the Sea,
And to fight in the Battle of the Free.
And they will gladly answer thee.
Hark! to the shores of the Island of the Free,
Their answer cometh floating o’er the voiceful sea!
England, exult!
For thy numberless sons are gathering unto thee.
Oh, England! bear thee proudly
In the direst need of war!
Thy sons,—the sons of Freedom,—
Are sailing from afar.
They are coming—they are coming—
To carry the banners of the Island of the Sea,
And to fight in the Battle of the Free.
To arms! To arms!
Echoes from the Western glades,—
Echoes from the forest shades
Are flinging back their answer to the Island of the Sea,
Where her children are arming for the Battle of the Free.
They have heard the din of battle that comes wafted on the breeze,
In the sighing and the moaning of the tall dark forest trees;
And their souls are stirred within them, and their homes have lost their charms,
When the Fatherland is calling all its chivalry to arms.
To arms! To arms! the axe is ringing
In the dark primeval wood,
And a new-born forest springing
On St. Lawrence’s kingly flood.
A noble foliage on its boughs the parent forest bore,
Whence yon tapering mast was taken on the green Canadian shore;
But it bears a nobler burden now, as yon navy sweeps to sea,—
For it bears the cross of England—the banner of the Free!
Echoes from the Western glades,—
Echoes from the forest shades
Are flinging back their answer to the Island of the Sea,
Where her children are arming for the Battle of the Free.
They have heard the din of battle that comes wafted on the breeze,
In the sighing and the moaning of the tall dark forest trees;
And their souls are stirred within them, and their homes have lost their charms,
When the Fatherland is calling all its chivalry to arms.
To arms! To arms! the axe is ringing
In the dark primeval wood,
And a new-born forest springing
On St. Lawrence’s kingly flood.
A noble foliage on its boughs the parent forest bore,
Whence yon tapering mast was taken on the green Canadian shore;
But it bears a nobler burden now, as yon navy sweeps to sea,—
For it bears the cross of England—the banner of the Free!