The Men Who Man Our Batteries

The men who man our batteries, The men who serve our guns, They need not honeyed flatteries, For they are Britain's sons! They go, when Duty speeds them, Wherever bullets fly; Wherever England needs them, When Duty bids, they die. The men who man our strongholds, Or march to yonder field Where Valour against Wrong holds A realm that scorns to yield, From Chiltern Hills or Grampians May pour their living tide, But all are England's champions And all are England's pride. And, lo! how the abhorrence Of sceptred crime can join The Thames and the St. Lawrence, The Liffey and the Boyne. For England need but ask aid Where'er her branches grow, And like a leaping cascade It thunders on the foe. Our cheery sailors, lapt in The maiden sea's light sleep, From commodore and captain To all who man the deep, They hear around their bed nought But echoes of their fame, And well they man the Dreadnought Who dread not aught but shame. And whether calmly harboured, Or when the rocking State Lurches to port and starboard, They sail the seas of Fate; With everlasting laughter They luff to wind and rain, Aforetime and hereafter The men who man the main. The men who man Great Britain, And fight for royal George, On battle's anvil smitten Leap mightier from the forge: Like oaks in Orkney's rough spring They flourish torn and blown, For all are Honour's offspring And all are England's own. The men who man this nation, And sow her fame abroad, They ask not acclamation, They need not England's laud; And when too late it finds them, And falls on lifeless ears, Where yon red tempest blinds them They need but England's tears. Yet, while the storm grows vaster Around them and above, In triumph or disaster They shall not lack our love -- They who to Glory's fanning This streamer have unfurled, The men whose joy is manning, The men who man the world!