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By the past that bequeathed us our might of to-day — 

 By the future that calls up a glory-paved way, 

 All the strength of our prime, all the fire of our youth, 

 We joyfully lay on the altar of Truth. 



In the sheen of our steel, guilt shall read its just doom. 

 The breath of the North is the traitor's Simoom ! 

 Flash brightly, sharp steel ! Rush swiftly, fierce breath ! 

 And sweep treachery down to the valley of death ! 



Fling our flag to the breeze ! It shall never be furled — 

 The gleam of its stars is the hope of the world ! 

 With its folds floating o'er us, we gird on the sword. 

 And go forth to fight in the name of the Lord. 



Brave yeomen of Essex ! Your field is our Land, 

 Immortal the fruits it shall yield to your hand. 

 Match yoiur strength to your day — Sow to God, the good Giver, 

 And ring out your Harvest-Home once and forever ! 



