The foe! the foe! They come! they come!
Light up the beacon pyre;
Light every hill and mountain home,
Give back the signal fire;
And wave the red cross on the night,
The blood-red cross of war—
What though we perish in the fight!
Our fathers died before!

Hark! lo their shouts upon the breeze,
Their banners in the sun,
And like the thunder of the seas
Their deep tread thunders on.
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 come 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!