Many a year have my sons gone forth;
Their bones are bleaching in field and flood;
They have carried my name from the ancient North,
They have borne it high through water and blood.

While the mariner's strength, and his ship, might last
Steering straight for the Orient lands,
Nor sweeping billow nor tearing blast
Could wrench the helm from his straining hands;

And the onward march of my soldiers' line,
Where was it broken by sword or sun?
The toil was theirs, and the prize was mine—
Thus was an empire lost and won.

Now my frontiers march on the Himalay snow,
And my landmarks stand on its loftiest crest;
Where the winds blow soft on the pines below,
There shall my legions halt and rest;

And the men of the cities in all the plain
From the silent hills to the sounding sea,
And a thousand tribes in the vast champaign,
They follow no leader or lord but me.