AUNER’S PRINTING OFFICE, EIGHTH AND MARKET.
Ye sons of Freedom, awake to glory!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries.
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding!
Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force with guilty stride.
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crime and blood his hands embuing.
With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile insinuate despots dare.
(Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,)
To mete and vend the light and air.
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore,
But man is man, and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
O! Liberty, can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy generous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts or bars confine thee?
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing,
That falsehood’s dagger tyrants wield,
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
A. W. AUNER, SONG PUBLISHER, N. W. Cor, 8th and Market Sts., Philadelphia.