Your fathers, golden sunsets led
To virgin prairies wide and clear—
Do you not know the West is dead?
Now dismal cities rise instead
And freedom is not there nor here—
What path is left for you to tread?
Your fathers' world, for which they bled,
Is fenced and settled far and near—
Do you not know the West is dead?
Your fathers gained a crust of bread,
Their bones bleach on the lost frontier;
What path is left for you to tread—
Do you not know the West is dead?
UP FROM YOUR KNEES
(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years")
Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men!
What have ye gained by whines and tears?
Rise! They can never break our spirits
Though they should try a thousand years.
CHORUS
A thousand years, then speed the victory!
Nothing can stop us nor dismay.
After the winter comes the springtime;
After the darkness comes the day.
Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters;
Beat them to swords, the Foe appears.
Slaves of the world arise and crush him—
Crush him or serve a thousand years.