Charleston Mercury.
I.
What! have ye thought to pluck
Victory from chance and luck,
Triumph from clamorous shout, without a will?
Without the heart to brave
All peril to the grave,
And battle on its brink, unshrinking still?
II.
And did ye dream success
Would still unvarying bless
Your arms, nor meet reverse in some dread field?
And shall an adverse hour
Make ye mistrust the power
Of virtue, in your souls, to make your enemy yield?
III.
Oh! from this dreary sleep
Arise, and upward leap,
Nor let your hearts grow palsied with dismay!
Fling out your banner high,
Still challenging the sky,
While thousand strong arms bear it on its way.
IV.
Forth, as a sacred band,
Sworn saviours of the land,
Chosen by God, the champions of the right!
And never doubt that He
Who made will keep ye free,
If thus your souls resolve to triumph in the fight!