Give Me The Scorn Of The Stars And A Peak Defiant; Wail Of The Pines And A Wind With The Shout Of A Giant; Night And A Trail Unknown And A Heart Reliant. Give Me To Live And Love In The Old, Bold Fashion; A Soldier'S Billet At Night And A Soldier'S Ration; A Heart That Leaps To The Fight With A Soldier'S Passion. For I Hold As A Simple Faith There'S No Denying: The Trade Of A Soldier'S The Only Trade Worth Plying; The Death Of A Soldier'S The Only Death Worth Dying. So Let Me Go And Leave Your Safety Behind Me; Go To The Spaces Of Hazard Where Nothing Shall Bind Me; Go Till The Word Is War - And Then You Will Find Me. Then You Will Call Me And Claim Me Because You Will Need Me; Cheer Me And Gird Me And Into The Battle-Wrath Speed Me. . . . And When It's Over, Spurn Me And No Longer Heed Me. For Guile And A Purse Gold-Greased Are The Arms You Carry; With Deeds Of Paper You Fight And With Pens You Parry; You Call On The Hounds Of The Law Your Foes To Harry. You With Your "Art For Its Own Sake", Posing And Prinking; You With Your "Live And Be Merry", Eating And Drinking; You With Your "Peace At All Hazard", From Bright Blood Shrinking. Fools! I Will Tell You Now: Though The Red Rain Patters, And A Million Of Men Go Down, It's Little It Matters. . . . There'S The Flag Upflung To The Stars, Though It Streams In Tatters. There'S A Glory Gold Never Can Buy To Yearn And To Cry For; There'S A Hope That's As Old As The Sky To Suffer And Sigh For; There'S A Faith That Out-Dazzles The Sun To Martyr And Die For. Ah No! It's My Dream That War Will Never Be Ended; That Men Will Perish Like Men, And Valour Be Splendid; That The Flag By The Sword Will Be Served, And Honour Defended. That The Tale Of My Fights Will Never Be Ancient Story; That Though My Eye May Be Dim And My Beard Be Hoary, I'll Die As A Soldier Dies On The Field Of Glory. So Give Me A Strong Right Arm For A Wrong'S Swift Righting; Stave Of A Song On My Lips As My Sword Is Smiting; Death In My Boots May-Be, But Fighting, Fighting.