Strike deep to the hearts of the soldiers who guard

The precincts of freedom, our love their reward;

Strike chords that in battle their sufferings appease,

Till their banners seem floating in victory’s breeze.

It is summer, the June of the Jubilee year,

The month when the first-fruits of spring-time appear,

The month when the lark thrills the sky with a song

Where the blue-bells hang silent the moorlands along.

It is June, glorious June, the month of the Queen!

The cornfields are paling, the pastures are green,