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Article TO THE ARMY. Page 1 of 1
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
To The Army.
TO THE AEMT .
BY BRO . G . K . GILLESPIE , A . M .
CROWN" high the bowl , raise loud the cheer , to the gallant warrior band , Who fight for home , for sires and sons , on Euxine ' s distant strand : To the bleeding bulwarks of our peace , who fearless breast the steep Of Alma ' s deathful heights , or wake wild thunders o ' er the deep . Be nerved your arm , ye heroes free ! ' gainst a despot's chain ye draw The sword of Right , to vindicate all nations' outraged law : And , wreathed with victory , back to hurl , to the chilly North afar , The robber horde that on neighbours weak wages unholy war .
Burn fierce your ire ! a hypocrite blasphemes Religion ' s fame , And stealthy masks th' enslaver ' s vows beneath her sacred name . Fain would barbarian swarms again o ' er freemen ' s arts prevail , More odious still in cloaking Crime with Superstition ' s veil . Smite home ! for Europe ' s liberty , for justice , and to save The rights , the powers , the hopes , of man from a disgraceful grave : For , ' neath despot ' s frown , to noble deeds in vain the soul aspires ; Quelled by a tyrant's darkening sway , its heaven-lit flame expires .
Soldiers ! in you are fixed the hopes and pride of Britain bold , In you—inspired by the deathless fame won by your sires of old . Unanimous your Fatherland acclaims your stern emprise , And he who falls in your glorious cause for all his country dies . Up ! then , at duty ' s call , ye sons of Albion's warlike ground ; Forward ! ye Highlandmen , ' mid battle's thickest ever found ; Ye kindred septs of Welsh and Celts from green Hibernia ' s shore , Do feats like those your fathers wrought for Bards to sing of yore .
To victory on ! your fatal steel , thank God ! ye urge no more 'Gainst Gallia ' s sons , who so oft have heard your cannon ' s vengeful roar . Brothers in arms now , by your side , they with tiger-onset show How blest is he who has made a friend of a once relentless foe .
Hew down the Buss !—th' ensanguined guilt of the fell aggressor ' s deed , Deep branded on his ruthless serfs , invokes the felon ' s meed : — Till last ye strike , with might combined , resistless Freedom ' s blow ; Till ye earn undying name , and lay the lawless tyrant low . Nor , warriors ! fear—the only dread that Britons ever knew—For those ye leave your absence or , perchance , your fall to rue . Your tender care , adopted by a nation ' s fostering love , Shall know no pang which gratitude or friendship can remove .
Smile fair your hope I if in death ye sleep , of fame ye wear the crown ; If unhurt amidst war ' s madding din , high soar ye in renown . Then be firm your ranks ! away to sweep the foeman ' s savage boasts , And undismayed commit your fate to the rule of the Lord of Hosts . November , 1854 .
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
To The Army.
TO THE AEMT .
BY BRO . G . K . GILLESPIE , A . M .
CROWN" high the bowl , raise loud the cheer , to the gallant warrior band , Who fight for home , for sires and sons , on Euxine ' s distant strand : To the bleeding bulwarks of our peace , who fearless breast the steep Of Alma ' s deathful heights , or wake wild thunders o ' er the deep . Be nerved your arm , ye heroes free ! ' gainst a despot's chain ye draw The sword of Right , to vindicate all nations' outraged law : And , wreathed with victory , back to hurl , to the chilly North afar , The robber horde that on neighbours weak wages unholy war .
Burn fierce your ire ! a hypocrite blasphemes Religion ' s fame , And stealthy masks th' enslaver ' s vows beneath her sacred name . Fain would barbarian swarms again o ' er freemen ' s arts prevail , More odious still in cloaking Crime with Superstition ' s veil . Smite home ! for Europe ' s liberty , for justice , and to save The rights , the powers , the hopes , of man from a disgraceful grave : For , ' neath despot ' s frown , to noble deeds in vain the soul aspires ; Quelled by a tyrant's darkening sway , its heaven-lit flame expires .
Soldiers ! in you are fixed the hopes and pride of Britain bold , In you—inspired by the deathless fame won by your sires of old . Unanimous your Fatherland acclaims your stern emprise , And he who falls in your glorious cause for all his country dies . Up ! then , at duty ' s call , ye sons of Albion's warlike ground ; Forward ! ye Highlandmen , ' mid battle's thickest ever found ; Ye kindred septs of Welsh and Celts from green Hibernia ' s shore , Do feats like those your fathers wrought for Bards to sing of yore .
To victory on ! your fatal steel , thank God ! ye urge no more 'Gainst Gallia ' s sons , who so oft have heard your cannon ' s vengeful roar . Brothers in arms now , by your side , they with tiger-onset show How blest is he who has made a friend of a once relentless foe .
Hew down the Buss !—th' ensanguined guilt of the fell aggressor ' s deed , Deep branded on his ruthless serfs , invokes the felon ' s meed : — Till last ye strike , with might combined , resistless Freedom ' s blow ; Till ye earn undying name , and lay the lawless tyrant low . Nor , warriors ! fear—the only dread that Britons ever knew—For those ye leave your absence or , perchance , your fall to rue . Your tender care , adopted by a nation ' s fostering love , Shall know no pang which gratitude or friendship can remove .
Smile fair your hope I if in death ye sleep , of fame ye wear the crown ; If unhurt amidst war ' s madding din , high soar ye in renown . Then be firm your ranks ! away to sweep the foeman ' s savage boasts , And undismayed commit your fate to the rule of the Lord of Hosts . November , 1854 .