O, the beat of the drums,
  And the sheen of the spears. 
And [red]1 banners that toss like the sea,
  Better far than the peace 
  That is [fraught with deep]2 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 
  And the coward's weak words 
Trembling]3 back from the front of the Powers. 
Better do, dare, and fail, than [shake]4 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 [souls]5 find. 

  O, we leave hearth-stone warm 
  For the rain-beaten [roads]6,
And our arrows are hung at our [sides]7 : 
  Freedom dearer to us 
  Than the home that we leave, 
Or the [warm]8, 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 [Mother-love]9 touch that which smites over-much 
  Till the life, stricken deep, earthward reels. 

  We have waited so long 
  We [can]10 wait now no more, 
[And we march forth,]11 our Freedom to meet ; 
  Keeping [step]12 to a tune 
  That is brave as our hearts. 
[Whilst]13 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 ?