Verse > Anthologies > William McCarty, ed. > The American National Song Book
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William McCarty, comp.  The American National Song Book.  1842.
 
Rule, Columbia
 
          “Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the strength of his host. The bard pursues his steeds through the land of the foe.”
  “The sons of song love the valiant.”—OSSIAN.

DRAW the sword! and bare the arm!
  Let the flag of Freedom float!
Nations hear the wild alarm—
  Millions sound the tocsin note:
On the hills where thousands met,        5
  Terrible in war’s array,
Gleam again, bright bayonet!—
  Cymbals, clash—and, trumpets, bray!
 
Islands of the deep, rejoice!
  Tribe of Bramah, weep no more!        10
Canada, lift up thy voice!
  China, guard thy secret shore!
Egypt, shout again in pride:
  Old Caffraria, sleep alone—
Greece, awake! on Atho’s side—        15
  Western India, cease thy groan!
 
Lo, a nation of a day
  Arms herself to meet thy foe;
Millions, on their winding way,
  Like their mountain torrents flow!        20
Hark! the drums of Bennington
  Rattle to the southern fife!
Mothers urge the legions on—
  Sisters cheer the stream of life.
 
Onward, onward rolls the tide!        25
  Hills and valleys, woods and plains,
Pour their tribute far and wide,
  Echoing to the martial strains:
Flags that long in dust have hung,
  Crimson’d with the blood of old,        30
Proudly to the breeze are flung,
  Glittering with their stars of gold!
 
Come, thou mistress of the sea,
  Rush upon the buckler’s host!
Here are men, to battle thee,        35
  Noble as thy ranks can boast:
Banners, borne on Bunker Hill—
  Cannons, from thy soldiers torn—
Swords, that cross’d the Highland hill,
  In the Revolution’s morn!        40
 
With her ensign floating free,—
  Spite of battle, storm, and tides,—
On the margin of the sea,
  Sits the dark old Ironsides!
Sentinels their vigils keep        45
  Where thy naval heroes bled;
Cannons in their port-holes sleep
  O’er thy unforgotten dead.
 
Mighty ones who trod the deck,
  When thy banner sank in shame,        50
O’er a sad and bloody wreck,
  Live to battle in her name!
High their glorious pendants wave,
  Beautiful amid a host!
Come! and find an early grave—        55
  Come! they’ll teach thee how to boast.
 
God of battle! bare thy hand!
  Let thy red-wing’d cohorts fly!
Liberty maintains her stand,
  In the apple of thine eye!        60
In her train thy servants kneel—
  Underneath thy cross they form,
Guide them, in the battle’s wheel—
  Save them, in the dreadful storm!
 
 
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