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!