The Zeppelin Armada

Jessie Pope

1868 –

1941

To-day, since Zeppelins are in the air,
    And folks glance skywards as they go their ways,
Let us hark back a bit to an affair
    That happened in Queen Bess’s sturdy days,
When the Armada, backed by Spanish lust—
    A fleet that floating palaces resembled—
Sailed proudly forth to crush us in the dust,
    While all the tremulous in England trembled.

What was the fate of those unwieldy craft?
    Our little frigates made of British oak
Harassed the mighty galleons fore and aft,
    Handy to strike and shun the counterstroke.
The Great Invasion ended in defeat.
    No more could Philip play the part of mocker,
The rout of the Armada was complete,
    And down it went to Davy Jones’s locker.

What frigates did in 1558
    May be repeated in the air to-day,
When clumsy Zeppelins may meet their fate
    From aeroplanes that sting and dart away.
A well-equipped and handy air patrol
    Would circumvent an aerial attack.
If London is to be the Zeppes’ goal,
    It’s up to us to see they don’t go back!

This poem is in the public domain.

"Bobs"

The call came in the stormy night,
    Beneath a stranger’s sky.
The soldier of a life-long fight,
    Still fighting, went to die.

His country’s honour was his goal;
    Patient, unswerving, brave,
His mind, his heart, his work, his soul—
    His very all, he gave.  

He toiled to rouse us from our sleep,
    And now he takes his rest,
And we—it is not ours to weep,
    But follow his behest.

’Tis ours to make this matter plain—
    That though our “Bobs” has gone,
Though dust returns to dust again—
    His soul goes marching on.

Jessie Pope

2018

The Silent Camp

In heaven, a pale uncertain star,
    Through sullen vapour peeps,
On earth, extended wide and far,
In all the symmetry of war,
    A weary army sleeps.

The heavy-hearted pall of night
    Obliterates the lines,
Save where a dying camp-fire’s light
Leaps up and flares, a moment bright,
    Then once again declines.

Black, solemn peace is brooding low,
    Peace, still unbroken, when
There comes a sound, an ebb and flow—
The steady breathing, deep and slow,
    Of half-a-million men.

The pregnant dawn is drawing nigh,
    The dawn of power or pain;
But now, beneath the mournful sky,
In

Jessie Pope

2018

The Longest Odds

Leonidas of Sparta, years gone by,
    With but a bare three hundred of his braves,
In the ravine of famed Thermopylæ
    Held up the Persian army’s endless waves.
Smiling, among the forest of his spears,
    “Lay down your arms,” the haughty Xerxes cried.
The Spartan’s answer echoes down the years,
    “Come here and take them!” So they fought, and died.

Horatius—the odds grow longer now—
    With two bold friends, Lars Porsena defied.
That dauntless trio registered a vow
    To hold the bridge that stemmed the Tiber’s tide.
Their deed of valous makes our bosoms glow,
    A deed which

Jessie Pope

2018

Poems

The Zeppelin Armada

More by this poet

"Bobs"

The Silent Camp

The Longest Odds

Poems

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The Zeppelin Armada

More by this poet

"Bobs"

The Silent Camp

The Longest Odds

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