The Distant Drum

Republicans! the time is coming!     Listen to the distant drumming!     Hearken to the whispers humming     In the troubled atmosphere.     Ye are born to do the toiling;     On and on, and no recoiling!     To the fighting, to the foiling     Of the wrongs that wrong us here.     Let the Loyal laugh and jeer you;     Let them in derision cheer you.     Still the cowards show they fear you     By their deeds and all they say.     Let Britannia rule for ever     Oer the wave; but never, never!     Rule a land great oceans sever     Fifteen thousand miles away.     Stained by persecutions fires     Thinned of homes and thick with spires,     They love the land that bred their sires,     Ye the Land that breeds your sons.     And your sons shall have the reaping,     And your sons shall have the keeping     Of your honour while youre sleeping,     Freedoms vanguard, in your graves.