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Fighting for our old Penates;

May thy glance be lightning flashes,

May thy words be thunder crashes,

May that earnest, haughty frown,

Like weapon, strike the foeman down.

May thy smile of scorn be

Blasting as the Upas tree;

Boldly like Olympian God,

Hurl the tyrants from our sod,

Let their wail be Ichabod!

Be to them destruction glooming—

Be to them a vengeance looming,

Hair-suspended o'er their race,

Like the sword of Damoclés,

Let thy daring right hand free us,

Like that son of old Ægeus,

Who purged his land for evermore

From the blood-stained Minotaur.

Fear not death, but fear dishonour;

Yield thy country all but honour.

What more fitting warrior's shroud

Than the foeman's standard proud?

Heed ye not their glozing words;

Fear ye not their myriad swords;

Never make ye peace with them

'Till ye chant their requiem.

Ha! I hear thy heart's pulsation

Throbbing vengeance for our nation;

Ha! I see thy dark eyes shine

With a fury leonine—

Burning brow and clenchéd hand—