RUDYARD KIPLING

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start

We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow ! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song how long ! how long !

Pull out on the trail again !

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And the deuce knows what we may do

But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail,

the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail the trail that

is always new.

��867. Recessional

June 22,

��OD of our fathers, known of old

Lord of our far-flung battle-line Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies The captains and the kings depart

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

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