The foe advance. In firm array

We’ll rush o’er Albion’s sands—

Till the red sabre marks our way

Amid their yielding bands!

Then as they lie in death’s cold grasp,

We’ll cry, “Our choice is made!

These hands the sabre’s hilt shall clasp,

Your hearts shall feel the blade”.

Thus Britons guard their ancient fame,

Assert their empire o’er the sea,