The metal of they treasure, Warrior Land
Is forged today as it was forged of old
Hot on the anvil; but his blood goes cold
And his hair crisps who takes it in his hand.

Costlier treasure, too, than swords of steel,
Land of the Rising Sun is ever thine,
Treasure of hearts that glow with the divine
Ardour a patriot alone can feel.

Treading white swords beneath their eager feet
Thy sons press storming onward, while the light
That plays about their whirling blades doth fright
The trembling mountains. These find battle sweet.

These find fierce joy in life's extremity,
Land of the Gods, far rather would they sheathe
Their falchions in their own red hearth than breathe
One hour dishonoured, -- or dishonour Thee.