J. H. JOHNSON, SONG PUBLISHER, STATIONER AND PRINTER, No. 7 N. Tenth Street, 3 doors above Market, Philadelphia, Pa.
Come strike the bold anthem, the war-dogs are howling,
Already they eagerly snuff up their prey;
The red cloud of war o’er our forests is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away:
The infants, affrighted, cling close to their mothers,
The youths grasp their swords, for the combat prepare;
While beauty weeps, fathers and lovers and brothers,
All rush to display the American Star.
Come blow the shrill bugle—the loud drum awaken,
The dread rifle seize, let the cannon deep roar;
No heart with pale fear, or faint doubting be shaken,
No slave’s hostile foot leave a print on our shore;
Shall mothers, wives, daughters, and sisters left weeping,
Insulted by ruffians, be dragg’d to despair!
Oh, no! from the hills the proud eagle comes swooping,
And waves to the brave the American Star.
The spirits of Washington, Warren, Montgomery,
Look down from the clouds with bright aspect serene;
Come soldiers, a tear and a toast to their memory,
Rejoicing they’ll see us as they once have been.
To us the high boon by the gods has been granted,
To spread the glad tidings of liberty far.
Let millions invade us, we’ll meet them undaunted,
And conquer or die by the American Star.
Your hands, then, dear comrades, round liberty’s altar
United, we swear by the souls of the brave,
Not one from the strong resolution shall falter,
To live independent, or sink in the grave.
Then freemen fill up, lo! the striped banners flying,
The high bird of Liberty screams through the air,
Beneath her oppression and tyranny dying,
Success to the beaming American Star.