|Aha! a song for the trumpet’s tongue!|
For the bugle to sing before us,
When our gleaming guns, like clarions,
Shall thunder in battle chorus!
Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing,
Where the black bombs whistle o’er us,
With rolling wheel and rattling peal
They’ll thunder in battle chorus!
Chorus.—With the cannon’s flash, and the cannon’s crash,
With the cannon’s roar and rattle,
Let Freedom’s sons, with their shouting guns,
Go down to their country’s battle!
Their brassy throats shall learn the notes
That make old tyrants quiver;
Till the war is done, or each Tyrrell gun
Grows cold with our hearts forever!
Where the laurel waves o’er our brothers graves,
Who have gone to their rest before us
Here’s a requiem shall sound for them
And thunder in battle chorus!
By the light that lies in our Southern skies,
By the spirits that watch above us;
By the gentle hands in our Summer lands,
And the gentle hearts that love us!
Our father’s faith let us keep till death,
Their fame in its cloudless splendor—
As men who stand for their mother land,
And die—but never surrender!