Sing of her orange and myrtle
That glitter like gems above;
Sing of her dark-eyed maidens
As fair as a dream of love.
Sing of her flowing rivers--
How musical their sound!
Sing of her dark green forests,
The Indian hunting-ground.
Sing of the noble nation
Fierce struggling to be free;
Sing of the brave who barter
Their lives for liberty!
II.
Weep for the maid and matron
Who mourn their loved ones slain;
Sigh for the light departed,
Never to shine again:
'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping,
That never will comfort know;
'Tis the wail of desolation,
The breaking of hearts in woe!
III.
Ah! the blood of Abel crieth
For vengeance from the sod!
'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted
In the face of an angry God!
Oh! brother of the Northland,
We plead from our father's grave;
We strike for our homes and altars,
He fought to build and save!
A smouldering fire is burning,
The Southern heart is steeled--
Perhaps 'twill break in dying,
But never will it yield.