And clank their fetters round her mountains.

Go if ye will and grind in dust,
Dark Afric's poor, degraded child;
Wring from his sinews gold accursed,
And boast your gospel warm and mild.

While on our mountain tops the pine
In freedom her green branches wave,
Her sons shall never stoop to bind
The galling shackle of the slave.

Ye dare demand with haughty tone,
For us to pander to your shame,
To give our brother up alone,
To feel the lash and wear the chain.

Our brother never shall go back,
When once he presses our free shore;
Though souther's power with hell to back,
Comes thundering at our northern door.

No! rather be our starry land,
Into a thousand fragments riven;
Upon our own free hills we'll stand,
And pour upon the breeze of heaven,
A curse so loud, so stern, so deep,
Shall start ye in your guilty sleep.