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Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind
With the clank of an iron chain ; The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind,
O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; And we—though we smite not—are not thralls,
We are piling* a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon walls,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day,
In their dear, defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows,
Ere the Northern sun is set— There 's faith in their unrelenting woes,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
There 's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
'Tis vocal without noise; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains,
From the blood of the Maryland boys. That blood shall cry aloud and rise
With an everlasting threat— By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"
New Orleans Delta, Sept., 1861. |
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