There’s Life in the Old Land Yet

By blue Patapsco’s billowy dashThe Tyrant’s war shout comes,Along with the cymbal’s fitful clashAnd 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-treadOf the peerless Beauregard.

Then woe to your vile, polluting hordeWhen the Southern braves are met—There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword—There’s Life in the Old Land vet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mindWith the clank of an iron chain;The Spirit of Freedom sings in the windO’er Merryman, Thomas and Kane!And we—though we smite not—are not thralls,We are piling a gory debt,While down by McHenry’s dungeon wallsThere’s Life in the Old Land yet!

Our women have hung their harps away,And they scowl on your brutal bands,While the nimble poinard dares the dayIn their dear, defiant hands!They will strip their tresses to string our bowsEre 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 plainsFrom the blood of the Maryland boys!That blood shall cry aloud, and riseWith an everlasting threat—By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,There’s Life in the Old Land yet!