Southern men, unsheathe the sword,
Inland and along the board;
Backward drive the Northern horde—
Rush to victory!
Let your banners kiss the sky,
Be “The right” your battle cry!
Be the God of battles nigh—
Crown you in the fight!
Pressing back the tears that start,
We behold your hosts depart:
Saying, with heroic heart,
Clothe your arms with might!
Lower the proud oppressor’s crest!
Or, if he should prove the best,
Dead, not dishonored, rest
On the field of blood!
We—may God so give us grace!—
Sons will rear, to take your place;
Strong the foeman’s steel to face—
Strong in heart and hand!
Death your serried ranks may sweep,
Proud shall be the tears we weep,
Sacredly our hearts shall keep
Memory of your deeds!
Though our land be left forlorn,
Spirit of the Southern-born,
Northern rage shall laugh to scorn—
Northern hosts defy.
He that last is doomed to die
Shall, with his expiring sigh,
Send aloft the battle-cry,
“God defend the right!” |
