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" I heard it sung a thousand
times or more on royal festivals and tours, but listening to it then
from that dark old barn in Flanders, where a number of "K.'s men" lay
on the straw a night or two away from the ordeal of advanced trenches,
in which they had to take their turn, I heard it with more emotion
than ever before. In that anthem, chanted by these boys in the
darkness, was the spirit of England. If I had been king, like that
Harry who wandered round the camp of Agincourt, where his men lay
sleeping, I should have been glad to stand and listen outside that
barn and hear those words:
Send him victorious, Happy and glorious.
As the chief of the British tribes, the fifth George received his
tribute from those warrior boys who had come out to fight for the flag
that meant to them some old village on the Sussex Downs, where a
mother and a sweetheart waited, or some town in the Midlands where the
walls were placarded with posters which made the Germans gibe, or old
London, where the 'buses went clanging down the Strand.


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