It is no more place and party,
It is no more begging votes;
But the roaring of steam-packets,
And a rushing of bluejackets
And a rally of redcoats;
For the Empire's will is hearty,
Thundered by united throats.
We are sick of talk and treason,
There is duty to be done;
By the veteran in danger,
And the lad who is a stranger
Unto strife and shrinks from none;
In the power of right and reason,
Now all classes are but one.
We have suffered and have yielded,
Till we felt the burning shame;
And long outrage and endurance
Are our glory of assurance
To begin the bloody game;
By our honour are we shielded,
In the might of England's name.
It is no more fume of faction,
It is no more weary calls;
We are strong in faith and steady,
With the sword of Justice ready
And our iron men and walls;
Since the hour has struck for action,
And red retribution falls.
We have wrongs, which for redressing
Cry aloud to God at last;
It is woe to him who trifles
When we speak across our rifles
At the great and final cast;
And we seek no other blessing
Than the blotting out the past.
We will brook no new denial,
We will have no second tale;
And we seek no sordid laurels,
But here fight the ages' quarrels
And for freedom's broadening pale--
Lo, an Empire on its trial,
Hangs within the awful scale.