From every quarter of your land They give God thanks who turned away Death and the needy madman’s hand, Death-fraught, which menaced you that day. One school of many made to make Men who shall hold it dearest right To battle for their ruler’s sake, And stake their being in the fight, Sends greeting humble and sincere— Though verse be rude and poor and mean— To you, the greatest as most dear— Victoria, by God’s grace Our Queen! Such greeting as should come from those Whose fathers faced the Sepoy hordes, Or served you in the Russian snows, And, dying, left their sons their swords. And some of us have fought for you Already in the Afghan pass— Or where the scarce-seen smoke-puffs flew From Boer marksmen in the grass; And all are bred to do your will By land and sea—wherever flies The Flag, to fight and follow still, And work your Empire’s destinies. Once more we greet you, though unseen Our greeting be, and coming slow. Trust us, if need arise, O Queen, We shall not tarry with the blow!