Or that death dealing fiend will spring up from his lair;
He will tear you, and rend you, with wild fiendish roar,
And cast you afar on the bay and the shore!
They laugh at the danger; what care they for death?
’Tis only a shock and the ceasing of breath;
Their souls to their Maker, their forms to the wave,
What nation has sons like the home of the brave?
That ship they would steer to the pit of despair,
If duty cried “Onward!” and glory were there.
The shore is ablaze, but the channel they gain;