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"We'll meet them here on each bold height,
In every glen make head— And give the battle to the right;
We will be free or dead.
We stand on sacred, holy ground,
Where thousand memories meet; Our fathers' homes are all around,
Their graves beneath our feet ; Our roofs are mouldering far and wide,
That late smiled in the sun; Our brides are weeping at our sides;
Gods ! let them then conle on !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! he gleams in sight;
It fires the brain to see How the proud spoiler flashes bright
In war's gay panoply ; We'll show him that our fathers' brands
Nor rust nor time can stay ; With tramp and shouts, bold hearts and hands,
Up, freemen, and away !
The work is done, the strife is o'er,
The whirlwinds thundered by,— There's not from hill to ocean shore
A foeman left to die. Our brides are thronging every height,
They wave us weeping home; God gives the battle to the right—
Back to our hearth-stones, come ! |
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