It stands on the eternal rock
          Of our eternal faith;
        And handed on from sire and son,
          It furls not day nor night;
        So England holds what England won,
          And God defends the right.

        When wrongs cry out for brave redress,
          Our justice does not lag,
        And in the name of righteousness
          Moves on our stainless flag;
        The helpless see it proudly shine
          And hail the sheltering robe,
        That heralds on the thin red line
          That girdles round the globe;
        A pioneer of truth as none
          Before it scatters light,
        And England holds what England won,
          And God defends the right.

        Beneath the shadow of its peace
          Though riddled to a rag,
        The down-trod nations gain release,
          And rally round the flag;
        We fight the battles of the Lord,
          And never may we yield
        A foot we measure with the sword—­
          On the red harvest-field;
        And we will not retreat, while one
          Stout heart remains to fight;
        Let England hold what England won,
          And God defend the right.

THE VOLUNTEER.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

    Conscription?  Never!  The word belongs
    To the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs,
      And unto them alone. 
    The first and worst of the Tyrant’s terms,
    Barbed to spike at the writhing worms
      That crawl about his throne. 
    Only the mob at a despot’s heels
    Would juggle a man at Fortune’s wheels,
    Or conjure one with the die that reels
      From the lip of the dice-cup thrown! 
    The soldier forced to the field of fight,
    With never a reck of the wrong or right,
      Wherever a flag may wave—­
    By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown—­
    Fights with a will that is not his own,
      A victim and a slave!

    Right is Might in ever a fight,
      And Truth is Bravery,
    And the Right and True are the Ready too,
    When the bolt is hurl’d in the peaceful blue
      By the hand of Knavery. 
    And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
      Is a Land of Slavery.

    Compulsion?  Never!  The word is dead
    In a land of Freedom born and bred,
      Of old in the years of yore,
    Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought
    May do as they will, who will as they ought,
      And none desire for more. 
    Who brooks no spur has need of none,
    (Who needs a spur is a traitor son,)
    And all are ready and all are one
      When Freedom calls to the fore! 
    The soldier forced to the field of war
    By the iron hand of a tyrant law,
      Wherever a flag may wave,
    And the press’d—­at best but a coward’s ’hest—­
    Fight with the bitter, sullen zest,
      And the ardour of a slave!