SPAIN’S hour has struck. No more her flag | |
| Shall float o’er Cuba’s fateful isle. | |
| Her reign of treachery and guile | |
| Is o’er. No more shall vengeance lag. | |
| |
| Back to their gaunt Iberian crag | 5 |
| Her desolating legions hurl, | |
| Or let the wild Atlantic’s swirl | |
| Their souls and bodies hellward drag. | |
| |
| Ay, let her new armada flee | |
| Westward her tyranny to maintain. | 10 |
| We will, in memory of the Maine, | |
| Meet it and sink it in the sea. | |
| |
| Out of the Western Hemisphere | |
| Spain’s yellow banner soon shall fade. | |
| No more by her shall graves be made | 15 |
| Where grain should grow and fruits appear. | |
| |
| No more her fiends with sword and fire | |
| The Cuban’s homes shall devastate, | |
| Slay sons, and daughters violate | |
| Before their mother and their sire. | 20 |
| |
| The infamy of Spain shall loom | |
| Black over the devoted isle | |
| No longer. Not by force or wile | |
| Can she put back the hour of doom. | |
| |
| That hour has struck. From Morro’s height | 25 |
| Haul down her old dishonored flag, | |
| While back to her Iberian crag, | |
| She takes her ignominious flight. | |
| |
