Classic Poem

Unfurl the banners to the breeze,
Come rear the standard high:
Upon our mountains, shores and seas,
Be liberty the cry

Shout the glad word — and shout again,
That makes each bosom swell.
Bid the drum beat a martial strain
Bid it sound oppression's knell.

To arms! to arms! Let each firm hand
Its battle sabre wield.
The oppressor comes — but stand;
To tyrants never yield.

And bloody be his welcome here,
Who would our sort enslave.
His myriad host we cannot fear:
Who would? Tis not the brave.

On. On! and struggle to be free,
And battle bravely on!
Our country calls — and who will see
Her call in vain? Not one.

By our God — by our soil — we swear
Freemen to live — or die.
And now 'tis done — the standard rear
Be liberty the cry!

Shall these rich vales, these splendid pines
E'er brook oppression's reign?
No! if the despot's iron hand,
must here a scepter wave,
Raz'd be those glories from the land,
And be the land — our grave.