Not the brave English soldier; there are no laurels for them here.
The dying lad with hands fresh from the plough; the old man tottering
to the grave, who seizes up the gun to die with it; the simple farmer
who as he falls hears yet his wife’s last whisper, “For freedom and
our land!” and dies hearing it--these men can bind no laurels on a
soldier’s brow! They may be shot, not conquered--fame rests with them.
Go, gallant soldiers and defend the shores of that small island that we
love; there are no laurels for you here!