Sons of the South! from hill and dale,
From mountain-top, and lowly vale,
Arouse ye now! ’tis Freedom’s wail—
“To arms! to arms!” she cries.
Strike! for freedom in the dust;
Strike! to crush proud Mammon’s lust;
Strike! remembering God is just!
Thus a freeman dies.
Southrons! who with Beauregard,
Day and night, keep watch and ward—
Southrons! whom the angels guard,
Strike for Liberty!
Smite the motley hireling throng;
Smite! as Heaven smites the wrong;
Smite! they fly before the strong,
In God and Liberty!
By your hearth-stones, by your dead,
By all the fields where patriots bled,
A freeman’s home or gory bed
Let the alternate be.
Weeping wives and mothers here,
Sisters, daughters, dear ones near—
Seas of blood for every tear,
God and Liberty!
Louder swells the battle-cry,
Flaming sword and flashing eye
Light the field when freemen die!
Death or Liberty!
Backward roll your poisonous waves,
Infidel and ruffian slaves!
’Tis Heaven’s own wrath your blindness braves—
God and Liberty! |