I’m going to take those Colours.

I have held fast long enough; I have steadied the line.

We wanted to run at the enemy’s first sight, but we stood firm.

I see his Colours coming over the hill, the Standard marching into view,

And I swear I’ll take them at any cost—I’m going to take those Colours.

My arrows have I laid aside, my bow I have unstrung;

I will not need them on this day, and I know I cannot run.

My Commander nods with His assent, my sword I have now drawn,

bloody red breaks forth the day, it tears my heart asunder.

We cannot fall, and cannot fail—I’m going to take those Colours.

I’ll mow a swathe, though my heart be sad for all my friends who line the path.

Gasping, breaking, hurting still, they weakly grimace as I pass,

I may soon join them, but I still swear—I’ll die with those Colours in my hand.

In my own camp! Amongst our own! Above my very neighbor’s tent!

You say you’re ours, but fly a flag that ought never to be set.

My God and General fights for me, and He will give me strength

My honour to defend, and His glory forth to seek, for a victory no other’s.

I may be simple, I may be meek, but I’m going to take those Colours.