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				Title:     School Fencibles 
			    
Author: William Johnson Cory [
More Titles by Cory]		                
			    
We come in arms, we stand ten score,
     Embattled on the castle green;
     We grasp our firelocks tight, for war
     Is threatening, and we see our Queen.
     And "will the churls last out till we
     Have duly hardened bones and thews
     For scouring leagues of swamp and sea
     Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?
     We ask; we fear not scoff or smile
     At meek attire of blue and grey,
     For the proud wrath that thrills our isle
     Gives faith and force to this array.
     So great a charm is England's right,
     That hearts enlarged together flow,
     And each man rises up a knight
     To work the evil-thinkers woe.
     And, girt with ancient truth and grace,
     We do our service and our suit,
     And each can be, what'er his race,
     A Chandos or a Montacute.
     Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,
     Bless the real swords that we shall wield,
     Repeat the call we now obey
     In sunset lands, on some fair field.
     Thy flag shall make some Huron Rock
     As dear to us as Windsor's keep,
     And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock
     The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.
     The stately music of thy Guards,
     Which times our march beneath thy ken,
     Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,
     From heart to heart, when we are men.
     And when we bleed on alien earth,
     We'll call to mind how cheers of ours
     Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth
     Amongst thy glowing orange bowers.
     And if for England's sake we fall,
     So be it, so thy cross be won,
     Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,
     And worn in death, for duty done.
     Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate,
     Blending his image with the hopes of youth
     To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate
     Chills not our fancies with the iron truth.
     Death from afar we call, and Death is here,
     To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;
     And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,
     Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our
     Queen.
     1861.
[The end]
William Johnson Cory's poem: School Fencibles
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