The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet’s slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves.
Their spirits are hovering o’er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid—be the combat our own!
And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we’ve sworn by our Country’s assaulters,