And it cries to God from the crimsoned sod
And the crest of the waves outrolled,
That He send us men to fight again
As our fathers fought of old.
We’ll stand by the dear old flag, boys,
Whatever be said or done,
Though the shots come fast, as we face the blast,
And the foe be ten to one—
Though our only reward be the thrust of a sword
And a bullet in heart or brain.