It clothes the breast of the Yankees brave,
As they bear it round the world.
And when the skies grow dark, and wild winds yell,
If he sees but a streak of blue,
The steersman is glad, for he knows all’s well,
And his guardian angel’s true.
Then let all the fine colors flaunt and flare
All pleasant and gay to see,
True Blue’s the color alone to wear,
True Blue’s the color for me.