Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we read more

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!" But it's "Savior of 'is country" when read more

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!" But it's "Savior of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot.

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
read more

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail, the trail that is always
new.

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted
and dried,
When the oldest colours have read more

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted
and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has
died,
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon
or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew.

It's Tommy this, and Tommy that, and 'chuck 'im out, the brute,' But it's 'Savior of his Country,' When the read more

It's Tommy this, and Tommy that, and 'chuck 'im out, the brute,' But it's 'Savior of his Country,' When the guns begin to shoot!