By Paul H. Hayne.

Like the roar of the wintry surges on a wild tempestuous strand,
The voice of the madden’d millions comes up from an outraged land;
For the cup of our woe runs over, and the day of our grace is past,
And Mercy has fled to the Angels, and Hatred is King at last!

Chorus.—Then up with the Sable Banner!
Let it thrill to the War God’s breath,
For we march to the watchword—Vengeance!
And we follow the Captain—Death!

In the gloom of the gory breaches, on the ramparts wrapt in flame,
’Mid the ruin’d homesteads, blacken’d by a hundred deeds of shame;
Wheresoever the vandals rally, and the bands of the alien meet,
We will crush the heads of the hydra with the stamp of our armed feet.

They have taught us a fearful lesson! ’tis burn’d on our hearts in fire,
And the souls of a host of heroes leap with a fierce desire;
And we swear by all that is sacred, and we swear by all that is pure,
That the crafty and cruel dastards shall ravage our homes no more.

We will roll the billows of battle back, back on the braggart foe,
’Till his leaguer’d and stricken cities shall quake with a coward’s throe;
They shall compass the awful meaning of the conflict their lust begun,
When the Northland rings with wailing, and the grand old cause hath won.