WORN with the battle, by Stamford town, | |
| Fighting the Norman, by Hastings bay, | |
| Harold, the Saxon’s, sun went down, | |
| While the acorns were falling one autumn day, | |
| Then the Norman said, “I am lord of the land: | 5 |
| By tenor of conquest here I sit; | |
| I will rule you now with the iron hand;” | |
| But he had no thought of the Saxon grit. | |
| |
| He took the land, and he took the men, | |
| And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, | 10 |
| Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen, | |
| Ate up the corn and drank the wine, | |
| And said to the maiden, pure and fair, | |
| “You shall be my leman, as is most fit, | |
| Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;” | 15 |
| But he had not measured the Saxon grit. | |
| |
| To the merry green-wood went bold Robin Hood, | |
| With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, | |
| Driving the arrow into the marrow, | |
| Of all the proud Normans that came in his way; | 20 |
| Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, | |
| Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, | |
| Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, | |
| This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. | |
| |
| And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife, | 25 |
| And Watt the smith his hammer brought down, | |
| For ruth of the maid he loved better than life, | |
| And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. | |
| From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, | |
| “Our life shall not be by the King’s permit; | 30 |
| We will fight for the right, we want no more;” | |
| Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. | |
| |
| For slow and sure as the oaks had grown | |
| From the acorns falling that autumn day, | |
| So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town | 35 |
| To a nobler stature grew alway; | |
| Winning by inches, holding by clinches, | |
| Standing by law and the human right, | |
| Many times failing, never once quailing, | |
| So the new day came out of the night. * * * * * | 40 |
| Then rising afar in the Western sea, | |
| A new world stood in the morn of the day, | |
| Ready to welcome the brave and the free, | |
| Who could wrench out the heart and march away | |
| From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, | 45 |
| Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, | |
| To ampler spaces for heart and hand— | |
| And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. | |
| |
| Steadily steering, eagerly peering, | |
| Trusting in God your fathers came, | 50 |
| Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, | |
| Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. | |
| Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, | |
| And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, | |
| They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, | 55 |
| And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. | |
| |
| They whittled and waded through forest and fen, | |
| Fearless as ever of what might befall; | |
| Pouring out life for the nurture of men; | |
| In faith that by manhood the world wins all. | 60 |
| Inventing baked beans and no end of machines; | |
| Great with the rifle and great with the axe— | |
| Sending their notions over the oceans, | |
| To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. | |
| |
| Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, | 65 |
| Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, | |
| Maintaining the meetin’, exalting the scholar, | |
| But a little too anxious about a good trade; | |
| This is young Jonathan, son of old John, | |
| Positive, peaceable, firm in the right; | 70 |
| Saxon men all of us, may we be one, | |
| Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. | |
| |
| Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown | |
| From the acorns that fell on that autumn day, | |
| So this new manhood in city and town, | 75 |
| To a nobler stature will grow alway; | |
| Winning by inches, holding by clinches, | |
| Slow to contention, and slower to quit, | |
| Now and then failing, never once quailing, | |
| Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. | 80 |
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