O hark, ye sons of Mars, brave souls in steel,
Whose hearts like hammers ‘gainst thy breast doth feel;
The crimson dawn rises in the eastern crest,
And soon shall smoke and fire disturb thy rest.

The drums of fate now throb in distant hills,

A ghostly choir that chills, yet strangely thrills.

Thy blades, long slumbering in peace’s shade,

Must now be drawn and ‘gainst the tempest laid.

Here stands the captain, stern in voice and brow,

With eyes that speak of fields less dark than now.

"To arms!" he cries, "The hour hath drawn its breath,

And beckons us dance in the field of Death."

What man is he that quakes before the fight,

And turns his gaze from honour’s hallowed light?

Let him depart, and bear no soldier's name,

For fear and valour share not equal fame.

But ye who stand, though thunder shakes the skies,

With steady hands and fire in thine eyes—

Know this: that history shall mark thy stride,

And bards shall sing of those who fought and died.

Yet death is but a gate through which we go,

And not the end, if truth be what we know.

So raise thy shields, and let thy spirits swell,

Victory be won when thy foe's sent to hell.

Now march! The dawn is gold, the hour is nigh,

The raven circles o’er a blood-red sky.

And we, the chosen, by grim fortune led,

Shall write our names in glory—or in red.