And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto. "_In God is our trust_:" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
New England's dead! New England's dead! On every hill they lie; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main.
The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well, Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land!
O, few and weak their numbers were,-- A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mold, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered, on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day? I call:--the hills reply again That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they heed not its roar. The starry flag, 'neath which they fought In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away.
