S. Frances Harrison
From the North Sea comes a peril? Front it, Britons, yet again,
With the same old fighting instinct, in the same old Viking vein.
In the moment of her triumph, when the answering cannon roar,
When the wireless weaves a greeting, when the hillside rockets soar,
When the shafts of death have slackened, when the sands of war have run,
Let her think upon her children far away against the sun.
Not alone she trod the Valley, not alone she set her teeth
To the gripping of her Empire; ere she cast away the sheath
Sons and daughters rallied round her sternly girt for quick affray
From the rocks of the Atlantic to the gates of Mandalay.
Hearts are hers that never saw her, thoughts are hers that often leap
From the circle of the prairie to the crested wavelets' steep;
Deeds are hers, the will to do them, when the fiends of war break loose,
Little fear that we, her children, should proclaim dishonest truce.
Let her shade her eyes long dazzled by the searchlight's blinding glare,
Let her dream in grateful transport of a land both broad and fair,
Triple-sown for ample harvest, acres golden, acres green,
Waiting only for the reapers she shall send her own demesne.
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