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111

IX

6,6,8,6,8,8

Wave, wave your banners high,

The day of strife is done,

On blood-red field the foemen lie,

And victory is won;

The march, the toil, the fight are o'er,

Now sheathe the sword for evermore.

Ah, long the strife endured,

And hard the foemen pressed,

But now the garland is secured,

And weary warriors rest;

Now hear your Captain's voice, "Well done,"

And take the prize your valour won.

O peace, when strife is past,

O rest, when toil is o'er,

O City of the King, at last,

And bliss for evermore;

Now to the footstool of the King,

Your spoils of war and triumphs bring.

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