To All The Suffering Sons Of Toil, And All The Powers That Be.
CHEER up, ye hardy sons of toil,
Let hope dispel your pain;
Long is the night that never ends,
Bright days will come again;
And commerce smile
On our loved isle,
When “sunshine follows rain.”
Had you by folly wrought your woe,
Had you yourselves to blame,
Then might your grief find vent in tears,
Your heads bow down with shame;
But men afar,
In foolish war,
Have kindled sorrow’s flame.
I see Atlantic’s blue waves roll,
The storm is raging high;
The big ship’s masts go sweeping down,
And now they pierce the sky,
The waters dash,
The light’nings flash,
And “God alone is night.”
But, far beyond old ocean’s waves,
Another storm I hear;
More terrible its ragings sound,
More deadly and more drear –
Still pouring forth,
On battle plains appear.
O Britain! Home! my own dear isle,
If thou still rul’st the waves,
Go forth and stop this slaughter vile,
‘Mongst freemen, fools, and slaves;
And bid war cease,
And give us peace –
Blest is the hand that saves.
I marvel much, O British Lion,
If e’er so long before,
Two prowlers roamed thy hunting ground,
And never heard the roar.
And poor men weep,
Whilst thou’st asleep –
O shake thy tail once more.
Erect thy mane, and show thy teeth,
And cross the briny main;
Thy cubs want food – their larder’s low,
And must they growl in vain.
Up, then, and show
To friend or foe,
“Richard’s himself again!”