For Denmark, ho!

For Denmark, ho !
Is the cry, we know,
And the shout, — Arise, arise !
They are struggling long
'Gainst might and wrong,
The valiant weak, with the craven strong.
Their homt-s the invader's prize.

A fair fresh Rose,
From her northern snows,
Is worn on England's heart,
And shall England see
Her parent tree
Crushed by malice ? It shall not be,—
Ours be the helper's part.

Let a voice of might
For the just and right
Resound o'er sea and land ;
Let the olive fade
Ere we fail in aid,
And the far-seen gleams of a half-drawn blade
Flash from our ready hand.