The Awakening

 

Awakening by Eddy Morrison

To Them we are but children
sleeping in our Lottery Halls
Be dull be dumbed my child
and We will look after things

To Them we are mere cattle
Herded through our days
and slaughtering ourselves
at Their bidding

To Them we are a sleeping Nation
near comatose under Their Order
Do not think
Their dungeons await

Yet to Them we are Their Doom
and a people are stirring

and false dreams are ending
Awake now - and throw off Their chains



The Long Sleep Is Ending

The long sleep is ending by Eddy Morrison
The Tor is cold, neither tourist nor lunatics clod
can warm the sad sod
that covers the caverns of your rest.
The land sickens and is ashen,
and lost are the best
brave knights, all gone under foreign clays.
Our days are dark and
far too numerous.
The land is dying
your people lying in the utter apathy
that goes beyond despair,
still care.
Awaken their minds and hearts.
Come home, and make us part again of Albion
Oh, Once and Future King.

"Rule Britannia"

RULE BRITANNIA

 When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang the strain :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall ;
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke ;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;
All their attempts to hurl thee down
Will but arouse thy geii'rous flame,
And work their woe but thy renown :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

James Thomson

Senlac Hill

Senlac Hill by Eddy Morrison (January 2013)

From Senlac Hill the fyrd looked down
upon those who would seize England's Crown
the Norman's ranks full serried wide
A Bastard's horde; a Bastard's pride

Upon The Hill, the shield-wall stands
As Saxon men defend their lands
'The Fighting Man' above them flies
below the Housecarls steadfast eyes

All day the shield-wall holds its own
defending English Harold's throne
All day both horse and sword surge in
Yet shield-wall stands and stands to win

But then the Bastard's ruse it out
and Saxons fall and Saxons rout
The arrow storm - that darkens sky
and pierces Crown and pierces eye

Then Senlac Hill confirms its name
as Saxon blood pours forth in vain
A shield-wall broke; a King brought down
A Bastard crowned in London Town

Today our children play and we
from Abbey grounds look down and see
The Hill, those fields where Swan-Neck cried
Where Harold fell - and England died

England

ENGLAND
(From Shakespeare's Richard II)


THIS royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise ;

This fortress, built by nature for herself,

Against infection and the hand of war ;

This happy breed of men, this little world ;

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands :

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,

Renowned for their deeds as far from home,

(For Christian service, and true chivalry,)

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,

Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son :

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world . . .

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune.

II

THIS England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.

Sir Walter Scott

BREATHES THERE THE MAN

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land ! '

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell ;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott.