We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above,

Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you,

This song to the soul of one poor little child.

 Child

O my father I like not the houses,

They will never to me be anything, nor do I like money,

But to mount up there I would like, O father dear, that banner I like,

That pennant I would be and must be.

 Father

Child of mine you fill me with anguish,

To be that pennant would be too fearful,

Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever,

Forward to stand in front of wars—and O, such wars!—what have you to do with them?

With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?

 Banner

Demons and death then I sing,

Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war,

And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children,

Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the sea,

And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke,

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