AT the call of the bugle, and the roll of the drum, With the bold front of heroes our trained Rifles come, All marshalled and marching to strains that inspire And fan in each bosom the true martial fire. Defenders of Britain—her chosen, her own, Of danger she spake, and to arms ye have flown; And bright eyes are beaming, and proud hearts beat high, For the brave Volunteers marching gallantly by. Your movement is crowned with a glorious success, Our good Queen approves, and your country will bless Her brave sons and true in the Volunteer ranks; She gives you the boon of a proud mother's thanks. Let fort after fort darkly frown on the steep— Let steel-plated Warriors keep guard on the deep; Let Armstrong's dread thunders incessantly roar, And his dark tubes of death vomit flame on our shore. Oh, stronger than all, for defence of her coast. Her Volunteer patriots—her glory and boast; No foot of invader her soil shall profane, True hearts and true rifles she trusts not in vain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOTHER'S LOVE by THOMAS BURBIDGE TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT ON WHICH I DINED by WILLIAM COWPER NEW YEAR'S EVE by THOMAS HARDY THE BELLS OF SHANDON by FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY by HENRY VAN DYKE |