From the Scheldt to the Niemen,
Hark, the music of the drums!
Not unthrilled the souls of freemen
When that instant message comes.
Rolling east the wild fantasia
Stirs the Orient blood to flame;
And the drums call Austral-asia
And she answers to her name.

Far away from hosts in battle,
Yet in time with marching feet
Here and now the war-drums rattle
In the sunbright city street.
Horse and foot in martial manner,
Swift commands, and glances high,
Naked steel and silken banner;
Thus the ranks go proudly by.

But within the gardens spacious,
Not a stone's throw from the crowd
One who fronts the landscape gracious
Listens to the war-drums loud.
Beats the eager drummer harder,
And methinks the bronze can hear,
In those eyes a flash of ardor!
On that cheek a noble tear!

Dauntless Captain, did'st thou ever,
With thy sailor-eyes of gray
Searching out from thy endeavor
That sequestered flower-starred bay,
Dream that some day those who love thee
Here would stake their all of worth,
For the flag that waved above thee
And the land that gave thee birth?

And the dauntless Captain listens:
Ah, if only he could speak!
But a vagrant raindrop glistens
On that scorched and blistered cheek,
And the faith that does not falter
Still may hear his whisper low:
'Son, this new land doth not alter
Britain's breed of long ago.'