Proud of their language and their God.
Proud that beneath our proudest dome,
And round the cottage cradled hearth,
There is a welcome and a home
For every stricken race on earth.
Proud that yon slowly sinking sun
Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer,
O'er such brief acts of duty done,
As honor gathers from despair.
Pride—'tis our watchword, "Clear the boats,"