Ave Imperatrix!

From every quarter of your land     They give God thanks who turned away     Death and the needy madmans hand,     Death-fraught, which menaced you that day.     One school of many made to make     Men who shall hold it dearest right     To battle for their rulers sake,     And stake their being in the fight,     Sends greeting humble and sincere,     Though verse be rude and poor and mean,     To you, the greatest as most dear,     Victoria, by Gods grace Our Queen!     Such greeting as should come from those     Whose fathers faced the Sepoy hordes,     Or served you in the Russian snows,     And, dying, left their sons their swords.     And some of us have fought for you     Already in the Afghan pass,     Or where the scarce-seen smoke-puffs flew     From Boer marksmen in the grass;     And all are bred to do your will     By land and sea, wherever flies     The Flag, to fight and follow still,     And work your Empires destinies.     Once more we greet you, though unseen     Our greeting be, and coming slow.     Trust us, if need arise, O Queen,     We shall not tarry with the blow!