The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn half garnered on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe
To perish, or o’ercome their foe.
And where are ye, O fearless men,
And where are ye to-day?
I call: the hills reply again,
That ye have passed away;