Reck not that your wounds are bleeding,

Reck not that your voice is weak:

Louder than the roar of cannon,

Higher than the battle-shriek,

Sing, my countrymen, the story

Of the fields we have not won,

Fields of failure but of glory,

'Neath this fair autumnal sun:

Sing how, when the tempter whispered,

"Buy your safety with your shame,"

Said we, "Sooner no dishonor

Shall defile the Belgian name!"

Reck not that your wounds are bleeding,

Reck not that your voice is weak:

Deeper than the roar of cannon,

Higher than the battle-shriek,

E'en altho your wounds are bleeding,

E'en altho your heart-strings break,

Sing of hope and hate unshaken,

'Neath this fair autumnal sun:

Sing how, when the tempter whispered,

"Sweet is vengeance, when 'tis done,"

Said we louder, "We are prouder

Mercy's garland to have won!"