O, the beat of the drums,
  And the sheen of the spears. 
And the banners that toss like the sea,
  Better far than the peace 
  That is dungeon and death 
To the wild rebel soul set in me ;
Better pour out the blood in a swift crimson flood, 
  As to music we march to the grave, 
Than to feel day by day the slow drops ebb away 
  From the chain-bitten heart of a slave. 

  O, to fight to the death, 
  With a hope through the strife 
That the freedom we seek shall be ours, 
  Better far than despair,
That with cowardly word
Trembles back from the front of the Powers. 
Better do, dare, and fail, than shrink like a leaf pale 
  In the breath of the wild autumn wind : 
Better death on the field with an honour-bright shield 
  Than the soft bed that coward hearts find. 

  O, we leave hearth-stone warm 
  For the rain-beaten roads,
And our arrows are hung at our side : 
  Freedom dearer to us 
  Than the home that we leave, 
Or the soft, clinging arms of the bride. 
For our children's fair eyes, like the blue of the skies, 
  Foemen's gleaming with hate, chill as steel ; 
For the soft mother touch that which smites over-much 
  Till the life, stricken deep, earthward reels. 

  We have waited so long 
  We will wait now no more, 
But are marching our Freedom to meet ; 
  Keeping time to a tune 
  That is brave as our hearts. 
While the stones clatter loud to our feet. 
Can we fail when we fight for the sake of the light 
  From the hearths where our cradles have stood ? 
For the fathers long dead, for the races ahead 
  That shall spring up like flowers from our blood ?