On! Southron, on!
Your flag's unfurled
'Mid clashing steel, and death-shot hurled,
And war's dark storm-cloud, swiftly whirled,
Your country calls. On! Southron, on!
Strike! Southron, strike!
The foeman's trail
Is marked with blood and flame alike;
And woman's shriek, and infant's wail,
Show that he wars upon the frail
A war of hate. Strike! Southron, strike!
Can manhood fly,
And, recreant, brave
The silent scorn, the averted eye--
Decked in its chains--a cringing slave?
No! rather seek a soldier's grave,
And show the tyrant how to die.
Then, Southron, on!
By all that's dear,
By feeble age, and childhood's dawn,
By mother's love, and maiden's prayer,
The brother's blood, the sister's tear--
One glance to Heaven, then, Southron, on!