Out of the sword's swift lightning,
And the cannon's withering breath,
And the legions stern and eager,
And the headlong ride to death,
Out of the clash and the clang,
And the war-smoke's eddying drift,
Unto the race of man
God giveth a gift.

He giveth man, for a solace
In all the evils that be,
The glory of strong resistance,
Tho' it hopes not for victory;
To fighters of losing fights
He giveth pride to defend,
Strength and courage and faith,
Going on to the end.

Wounded, never to whimper, -
Beaten, not to repine, -
Clasping toil as a lover, -
Drinking death like a wine:
A gallant and goodly fight,
A short and a glorious shrift, -
Unto the strong of soul
God giveth a gift.

Never to leave the colours,
Not to shrink at the last,
Not to dread for the morrow,
Not to weep for the past:
When the day dies down on defeat
And every hope gone by,
Still to hold for the cause, -
So, fighting, to die.

Out of the sword's swift lightning,
And the cannon's gasp of red,
And the charging squadron's thunder
And the steel-barbed legion's tread,
Out of the flash and the flame
And the war-smoke's eddying drift,
Unto the race of man
God giveth His gift.