Songs Of The Road. Артур Конан Дойл

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           If it were not for the hillocks

                  You'd think little of the hills;

           The rivers would seem tiny

                  If it were not for the rills.

           If you never saw the brushwood

                  You would under-rate the trees;

           And so you see the purpose

                  Of such little rhymes as these.

           God save England, blessed by Fate,

                So old, yet ever young:

           The acorn isle from which the great

                Imperial oak has sprung!

           And God guard Scotland's kindly soil,

                The land of stream and glen,

           The granite mother that has bred

                A breed of granite men!

           God save Wales, from Snowdon's vales

                To Severn's silver strand!

           For all the grace of that old race

                Still haunts the Celtic land.

           And, dear old Ireland, God  save you,

                And heal the wounds of old,

           For every grief you ever knew

                May  joy   come  fifty-fold!

                    Set Thy guard over us,

                    May Thy shield cover us,

                    Enfold and uphold us

                      On land and on sea!

                    From the palm to the pine,

                    From the snow to the line,

                      Brothers together

                      And children of Thee.

           Thy blessing, Lord, on Canada,

                Young giant of the West,

           Still upward lay her broadening way,

                And may her feet be blessed!

           And Africa, whose hero breeds

                Are blending into one,

           Grant that she tread the path which leads

                To holy unison.

           May God protect Australia,

                Set in her Southern Sea!

           Though far thou art, it cannot part

                Thy brother folks from thee.

           And you, the Land of Maori,

                The island-sisters fair,

           Ocean hemmed and lake be-gemmed,

                God hold you in His care!

                    Set Thy guard over us,

                    May Thy shield cover us,

                    Enfold and uphold us

                       On land and on sea!

                    From the palm to the pine,

                    From the snow to the line,

                       Brothers together

                       And children of Thee.

           God guard our Indian brothers,

                The Children of the Sun,

           Guide us and walk beside us,

                Until Thy will be done.

           To all be equal measure,

                Whate'er his blood or birth,

           Till we shall build as Thou hast willed

                O'er all Thy fruitful Earth.

           May we maintain the story

                Of honest, fearless right!

           Not ours, not ours the Glory!

                What are we in Thy sight?

           Thy servants, and no other,

                Thy servants may we be,

           To help our weaker brother,

                As we crave for help from Thee!

                    Set Thy guard over us,

                    May Thy shield cover us,

                    Enfold and uphold us

                       On land and on sea!

                    From the palm to the pine,

                    From the snow to the line,

                       Brothers together

                       And children of Thee.

           A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!

                For the world is all to win.

           Though the way be hard and the door be barred,

                The strong man enters in.

           If Chance or Fate still hold the gate,

                Give me the iron key,

           And turret high, my plume shall fly,

                Or you may weep for me!

           A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse,

                To bear me out afar,

           Where blackest need and grimmest deed,

                And sweetest perils are.

           Hold thou my ways from glutted days,

                Where poisoned leisure lies,

           And point the path of tears and wrath

                Which mounts to high emprise.

           A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart,

                To rise to circumstance!

           Serene and high, and bold to try

                The hazard of a chance.

           With strength to wait, but fixed as fate,

                To plan and dare and do;

           The peer of all – and only thrall,

                Sweet lady mine, to you!