Sons of mine, I hear you thrilling To the trumpet call of war, Gird ye then, I give you freely, As I give your sires before, All the noblest of the children I in love and anguish bore. Free in service, wise in justice, Fearing but dishonours breath; Steeled to suffer uncomplaining Loss of failure, pain of death Strong in faith which sees the issue and in hope that triumpeth. Go, and may the God of battles You in his good guidance keep: And if he wisdom giveth Unto his beloved sleep I accept nothing asking, save little space to weep. |