Look down upon the bay, my men,
As proudly comes the foe;
Ah! send them back their shout agen,
That patriot hearts may glow.
They come to us in pomp of war--
The tyrant in his gold;
Our arms are few--they're stronger far,
But who will say as bold?
No Briton ever forged the chains
Shall bind our hands at will;
The Pilgrim spirit still remains,
Out on the western hill.
Their power may awe the coward slave,
But not the stalwart free;
Their steel may drive us to the grave,
But not from liberty.
Our fathers spirit boils along
Impetuous through our veins;
We ask to know, where are the strong,
To bind us in their chains?
Then let the foe look to his steel,
And count his numbers strong;
We bide him here for wo or weal,
As he shall know ere long.
We'll dare him to the last of death--
We've sworn it in our hearts;
We stand upon our native heath--
We'll hold till life departs.
Oh! what is death to slavery!
The dead at least are free:
And what is life for victory!
We strike for _liberty!_
This sod shall warm beneath our feet,
All reeking in our gore,
And hearts that gladly cease to beat,
The foe must trample o'er.
Our boys are bold--their mothers stern,
Will rear them true and brave,
And many noble hearts shall burn
To free a father's grave.
Let every tongue be hushed and still,
Each soldier hold his breath--
They're marching up the sloping hill,--
And now prepare for death.