Men of Harlech! in the hollow,
Do you hear like rushing billow,
Wave on wave that surging follow,
Battle’s distant sound?
’Tis the tramp of Saxon foeman,
Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen,
Be they knights, or hinds, or yeomen,
They shall bite the ground!
Loose the folds asunder,
Flag we conquer under!
The placid sky now bright on high,
Shall launch its bolts in thunder,
Onward! ’tis our country needs us.
He is bravest, he who leads us!
Honor’s self now proudly heads us!
Freedom, God, and Right!
_BRITAIN_:
Canada, youngest of my daughters, ye send each gallant son forth, a
maiden-knight, to earn his spurs. What is thy message?
_CANADA_ (_advancing and saluting_):
“I give my soldier boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not; but I hope to know,
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low--
I give my soldier boy the blade!
“For country’s claim at honor’s call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid.
At mercy’s voice to bid it fall--
I give my soldier boy the blade!”
_FRANCE_:
The sword unsheathed in such a cause will ne’er be tarnished. It will
return to you, my Sister, laureled with the deeds of thy brave sons. I
know it! I know it!