Honour Its Own Reward

Swell, swell the shrill trumpet, clear sounding afar,
Our sabres flash splendour around,
For Freedom has summoned her sons to the war,
Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound.

Let plunder's vile thirst the invaders inflame,
Let slaves for their wages be bold;
Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim?
Shall Britons be bartered for gold?

No! free be our aid, independent our might,
Proud honour our guerdon alone;
Unhired be the hand we raise in the fight,
The sword that we brandish our own.

Still all that we love to our thoughts shall succeed,
Their image each labour shall cheer;
For them we will conquer — for them we will bleed,
And our pay be a smile or a tear!

And oh! if returning triumphant we move,
Or sink on the land that we save,
Oh, blest by his country, his kindred, his love,
How vast the reward of the brave!