The line at Mons were privy to the blade

The line at Mons were privy to the blade, When God and England seemed together lost, And riding by the far Pacific coast Admiral Cradock took its accolade. These are its victories—to be afraid, To hear thin bugles sounding “The Last Post,” Until the blood creeps noiseless as a ghost And cold, and all we cherished is betrayed. That is the sword’s way. Those who lose shall have; And only those who in defeat have known The bitterness of death, and stood alone In darkness, shall have worship in the grave. Swordsman, go into battle, and record How one more English knight has found his sword!