THRICE-ARMED

Thus only should it come, if come it must —

Not with a riot of flags and a mob-born cry,

But with a noble faith, a conscience high

That, if we fail, we failed not in our trust.

We fought for peace. We dared the bitter thrust

Of calumny for peace, and watched her die,

Her scutcheons rent from sky to outraged sky

By felon hands and trampled into the dust.

We proffered justice, and we saw the law

Cancelled by stroke on stroke of those deft hands

Which still retain the imperial forger's pen.

They must have blood — Then, at this last, we draw

The sword, not with a riot of flags and bands,

But silence, and a mustering of men.

They challenge Truth. A people makes reply,

East, West, North, South, one honour and one might,

From sea to sea, from height to war-worn height,

The old word rings out — to conquer or to die.

And we shall conquer! Though their eagles fly

Through heaven, around this ancient isle unite

Powers that were never vanquished in the fight,

The unconquerable Powers that cannot lie.

Though fire destroy her flesh, and many a year

This land forgot the faith that made her great,

Now, as her fleets cast off the North Sea foam,

Casting aside all faction and all fear,

Thrice-armed in all the majesty of her fate,

Britain remembers, and her sword strikes home.