March to the battlefield,
The foe is now before us;
Each heart is freedom's shield,
And heaven is smiling o'er us.
The woes and pains of slavery's chains,
That bind three millions under;
In proud disdain we'll burst their chain,
And tear each link asunder.
Who for his country brave,
Would fly from her invader?
Who his base life to save
Would traitor like degrade her?
Our hallowed cause—
Our homes and laws,
'Gainst tyrant hosts sustaining,
We'll win a crown of bright renown,
Or die, man's rights maintaining,
March to the battlefield, &c.
Oft in the Chilly Night.
BY PIERPONT.
Oft in the chilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
When all her silvery light
The moon is pouring round me,
Beneath its ray I kneel and pray
That God would give some token
That slavery's chains on Southern plains,
Shall all ere long be broken:
Yes, in the chilly night,
Though slavery's chain has bound me,
Kneel I, and feel the might
Of God's right arm around me.
When at the driver's call,
In cold or sultry weather,
We slaves, both great and small,
Turn out to toil together,
I feel like one from whom the sun
Of hope has long departed;
And morning's light, and weary night,
Still find me broken hearted:
Thus, when the chilly breath
Of night is sighing round me,
Kneel I, and wish that death
In his cold chain had bound me.