Children of the glorious dead,
Who for freedom fought and bled,
With her banner oâ€™er you spread,
On to victory.
Not for stern ambitionâ€™s prize,
Do our hopes and wishes rise;
Lo, our leader from the skies,
Bids us do or die.
Ours is not the tented field â€”
We no earthly weapons wield â€”
Light and love, our sword and shield,
Truth our panoply.
This is proud oppressionâ€™s hour;
Storms are round us; shall we cower?
While beneath a despotâ€™s power
Groans the suffering slave?
While on every southern gale,
Comes the helpless captiveâ€™s tale,
And the voice of womanâ€™s wail,
And of manâ€™s despair?
While our homes and rights are dear,
Guarded still with watchful fear,
Shall we coldly turn our ear
From the suppliantâ€™s prayer?
Never ! by our Countryâ€™s shame â€”
Never! by a Saviourâ€™s claim,
To the men of every name,
Whom ho died to save.
Onward, then, ye fearless band â€”
Heart to heart, and hand to hand;
Yours shall be the patriotâ€™s stand,
Or the martyrâ€™s graves.