by Jas. R. Randall

By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash,
The tyrant’s war-shout comes,
Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash.
And the growl of his sullen drums,
We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
And we shall not forgive or forget;
There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills,
There’s life in the old land yet!

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead;
We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred;
We crouch–’tis to welcome the triumph tread
Of the peerless BEAUREGARD.
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde
When the Southern braves are met,
There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword,
There is life in the old land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind,
With the clank of an iron chain,
The spirit of freedom sings in the wind,
O’er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;
And we, though we smite not, and are not thralls,
We are piling a gory debt;
While down by McHenry’s dungeon-walls,
There’s life in the old land yet!

Our women have hung theri harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day,
In their dear defiant hands.
They will strip their tresses to string our bows,
Ere the Northern sun is set;
There’s faith in their unrelenting woes,
There’s life in the old land yet!

There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
‘Tis vocal without noise,
It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains,
From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS!
That blood shall cry aloud, and rise
With an everlasting threat,–
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
There’s life in the old land yet!

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