This is the Song of the Sword,
A proud and a ringing song,
The song of the tempered blade
That has lain in the sheath too long.
'It's oh for the strong tight hand,
and the hiss of the wheeling brand,
to make honour a power in the land,'
Saith the sword.

The vigour rusts in men's hearts
And the sword rusts there on the wall,
And they go on their selfish ways
And hear not the country's call.
And their hearts grow sickly and fade,
But their lives would be newly made
By a flash from the broad bright blade
Of the Sword.

'Oh, love of the land is there,
It is but hidden away.
The lion in English heart
Is asleep and waiting the day
When tales of how brave men fall
Shall ring like a trumpet-call
Thro' the hearts of each and all,'
Saith the Sword.

Draw ye the sword from the sheath;
It has rusted overlong,
And all that the pen can do
Is powerless to right the wrong.
And 'It's oh for a circling brand
In the grip of a strong right hand
To make honour a power in the land,'
Saith the sword.