In the age of toil and warfare, when our hope was almost dead,
When we bore the heavier burden in the green field and the red,
It was then we learnt our lesson, ere the gentler seasons shone,
And the patience and endurance that now keep us fighting on.
Holy sturdy Samson, your men who outstrip us turn his powers,
Holy hardy sons of Scotia, who once fought to fight like ours,
Holy gallant men of Erebon, marching here to wish for a dawn,
Born to cheer us marching forward, born to help us fighting on.
If they help or if they hinder, still of us are light today,
There's a spirit that will lead us, which is more than we obey,
From a source whose pow'r there fails us, full of strength and love are drawn,
And the God of all the ages is beside us fighting on.
So be sure, ye Dutch, my sisters, that I'll be rich born to meet,
For our flag is ever flying, and our drums reach no retreat,
Until every heart and every soul to thy wisdom is gone,
They will hear us marching on, they will find us fighting on.
They will find us fighting on.
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