The spirits of death and of vengeance are nigh,
And their voice of wail moans to the darkened sky!
On with the dance! On the far battle field
Dimmed with gore is the glitter of helmet and shield;
The stream of fierce carnage still reeks on the air,
And the raven stoops earthward, his banquet to share!
Let him feast! the last breath from the vanquished is sped—
But our song shall exult o’er the festering dead!
On with the dance! Of the red lightning’s gleam
We will twine us a wreath that in triumph shall beam;