Classic Poem

Hurrah ! we grip the tyrant now,
And there's no heart so lowly,
But burns to strike a battle blow,
And win a cause so holy!
The brave look fearless in the eyes
Of death, nor cry him quarter;
And grand promotion waits them, boys,
Who fall by land or water.

Today the ancient valour starts,
And the spirit of old story,
Shall flash from our heroic hearts,
And kindle England's glory.
Wild voices wail across the sea,
They cry from many a woe-land,—
Revenge! remember Sinope!
Revenge! remember Poland!

Now, soldiers, up to conquest stride,
Let not one spirit falter,
For Victory is your plighted bride,
The breach your solemn altar.
Thick are the graves on Alma, see
What costly seed lies sleeping!
God! but thy sun should stand, while we
That harvest field are reaping.

Now sailors fight your ships today,
As Grenville fought the Spaniard!
If battle's bloodiest game they play,
Have at them grip and poniard;
One thrilling shout for England, ho!
Then naked for the fight, men,
Dash in like fire upon the foe,
And God defend the right, men!