We meet the foeman on the field,
But each man's soul is as an host,
To fight, to die, but not to yield.
The glory of our splendid past
Shines on us as a quenchless sun,
That each and all may write at last
The simple tale of duty done.
What of the fight? Or well or ill,
Whatever chance our hearts are sure;
Our fathers' strength is with us still