Children of the glorious dead,
Who for freedom fought and bled,
With her banner o'er you spread,
On to victory.
Not for stern ambition'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-
We no earthly weapons wield-
Light and love, our sword and shield,
Truth our panoply.
This is proud oppression's hour;
Storms are round us; shall we cower?
While beneath a despot's power
Groans the suffering slave?
While on every southern gale,
Comes the helpless captive's tale,
And the voice of woman's wail,
And of man's despair?
While our homes and rights are dear,
Guarded still with watchful fear,
Shall we coldly turn our ear
From the suppliant's prayer?
Never! by our Country's shame-
Never! by a Saviour's claim,
To the men of every name,
Whom he died to save.
Onward, then, ye fearless band-
Heart to heart, and hand to hand;
Yours shall be the patriot's stand,
Or the martyr's grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.