The Watchword
When from the lonely beacon height
The leaping flame flared high,
When bells rang out into the night
Where ships at anchor lie,
There orderly in all men’s sight,
With sword or pike in hand,
Stood serf and craftsman, squire and knight
For the Honor of the Land.
When war had passed, and Peace at last
Ruled over earth and sky,
The bonds of ancient law held fast,—
The faith which cannot die.
Ah, call us aliens though you may—
We hear and understand,
The deathless watchword wakes to-day,—
The Honor of the Land!