ByJOHN PIERPONT.
Stand!the ground's your own, my braves!Will ye give it up to slaves?Will ye look for greener graves?Hope ye mercy still?What's the mercy despots feel?Hear it in that battle peal!Read it on yon bristling steel!Ask it,—ye who will.Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you!—they're afire!And, before you, seeWho have done it! From the valeOn they come!—and will ye quail?Leaden rain and iron hailLet their welcome be!In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must:But, oh where can dust to dustBe consign'd so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyr'd patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their headOf his deeds to tell?
Stand!the ground's your own, my braves!Will ye give it up to slaves?Will ye look for greener graves?Hope ye mercy still?What's the mercy despots feel?Hear it in that battle peal!Read it on yon bristling steel!Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?Will ye to your homes retire?Look behind you!—they're afire!And, before you, seeWho have done it! From the valeOn they come!—and will ye quail?Leaden rain and iron hailLet their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!Die we may,—and die we must:But, oh where can dust to dustBe consign'd so well,As where Heaven its dews shall shedOn the martyr'd patriot's bed,And the rocks shall raise their headOf his deeds to tell?