LAUREATE, whose martial chord
Sounded too late, unheard.
We thank thee for that word!
Reapers in fields unsown.
No hireling’s part the Hun,
The blood he sheds, his own.
False to thy sons of old.
Falser to brothers now,
Perjured a thousandfold,
To keep a tainted vow!
Where is the land or sea
But holds a savage horde,
Slaves of thy golden key,
And bondmen of thy sword!
II.
The Hun at Europe’s gate
Shall keep thy wolves at bay.
Come they, or soon or late,
From Nippon or Cathay,
From Africa’s stolen mines,
Or Austral deserts bare,
On horse or foot or air.
III.
The Hun shall keep the gate
The Briton has betrayed
To Tartar greed and hate,
Unflinching, undismayed.
Grant then your Norman gods
Be absent when you call,
Lest with such fearful odds
The Saxon gate may fall,
Letting the heathen through,
To plunge our world in night.
They know not what they do.
Yet sin against the light!
Britain! They serve who stand and wait,
Fear not, the Hun will hold thy gate.