Still thy beating breast
and quell thy raging fear,
for the battle is in the distance
and the time is not yet here,

Cast thy thoughts to distant shores
and those that lay within,
to the shires of dear old England
that keeps thy kith and kin,

Smooth thy furrowed brow,
and rest thy weary head,
take leave of thy senses,
and worries thou will shed,
I’ll rouse thee son,
when lines are drawn
and battle cries we’ll sing,
till then my son take shelter,
neath Morpheus - tender wing,