By tricks and spying,
By craft and lying,

And murder was her freedom overthrown.
Britons, guard your own.

"Vive l'Empereur" may follow by and by;
"God save the Queen" is here a truer cry.
God save the Nation,

The toleration,

And the free speech that makes a Briton known. Britons, guard your own.

Rome's dearest daughter now is captive France, The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his chance, Would unrelenting,

Kill all dissenting,

Till we were left to fight for truth alone.
Britons, guard your own.

Call home your ships across Biscayan tides,
To blow the battle from their oaken sides.
Why waste they yonder

Their idle thunder?

Why stay they there to guard a foreign throne?
Seamen, guard your own.

We were the best of marksmen long ago,
We won old battles with our strength, the bow,
Now practise, yeomen,

Like those bowmen,

Till your balls fly as their shafts have flown.
Yeomen, guard your own.

His soldier-ridden Highness might incline
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine:
Shall we stand idle,
Nor seek to bridle

His rude aggressions, till we stand alone?

Make their cause your own.

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.

Should he land here, and for one hour prevail,
There must no man go back to bear the tale :
No man to bear it -
Swear it! we swear it!

Although we fight the banded world alone,
We swear to guard our own.

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.*

My lords, we heard you speak; you told us all
That England's honest censure went too far;
That our free press should cease to brawl,
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war.
It was an ancient privilege, my lords,

463

To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words.

We love not this French God, this child of Hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise; But though we love kind Peace so well,

We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. It might safe be our censures to withdraw; And yet, my lords, not well; there is a higher law.

As long as we remain, we must speak free,

Though all the storm of Europe on us break; No little German state are we,

But the one voice in Europe; we must speak; That if to-night our greatness were struck dead, There might remain some record of the things we said.

If

you be fearful, then must we be bold. Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. Better the waste Atlantic roll'd

On her and us and ours for evermore.

*The Examiner, 1852, and signed "Merlin."

464 THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.

What! have we fought for freedom from our prime,

At last to dodge and palter with a public crime?

Shall we fear him? our own we never feared. From our first Charles by force we wrung our claims,

Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd,

And flung the burden of the second James.

I say we never fear'd! and as for these,

We broke them on the land, we drove them on the seas.

And you, my lords, you make the people muse,
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed -
Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ?
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede?
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed,

Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous fraud.

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin.

Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts

If easy patrons of their kin

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard : For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word.

Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget? We are not cotton-spinners all,

But some love England, and her honor yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand,

And hold against the world the honor of the land.

HANDS ALL ROUND.*

FIRST drink a health, this solemn night,
A health to England, every guest;
That man's the best cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom's oak for ever live

With stronger life from day to day;
That man 's the best Conservative
Who lops the mouldered branch away.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's hope confound!

To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and

A health to Europe's honest men !

Heaven guard them from her tyrants jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den,

From iron limbs and tortured nails!
We curse the crimes of southern kings,
The Russian whips and Austrian rods
We likewise have our evil things;

Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods.
Yet hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round!

What health to France, if France be she,
Whom martial progress only charms?

Yet tell her- better to be free

Than vanquish all the world in arms.

Her frantic city's flashing heats
But fire, to blast, the hopes of men.

*The Examiner, 1852, and signed "Merlin." VOL. I.

30

Why change the titles of your streets?
You fools, you'll want them all again.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

Gigantic daughter of the West,

We drink to thee across the flood,
We know thee and we love thee best,
For art thou not of British blood?
Should war's mad blast again be blown,
Permit not thou the tyrant powers
To fight thy mother here alone,

But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons,

When war against our freedom springs.
O speak to Europe through your guns!
They can be understood by kings.
You must not mix our Queen with those
That wish to keep their people fools;
Our freedom's foemen are her foes,
She comprehends the race she rules.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To our dear kinsman in the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.