In the blush of the golden west;
And they look to the light of his lifted eye
And they hate the name of rest.
In the light of that eye doth the slave behold
A hope that is high and brave,
And the madness of war comes into his blood
For he knows himself a slave.
The serfs of wrong in the light of that eye
March on with victorious songs;
For the strength of their right comes into their hearts