There's another land that's dear to me,
For it speaks the English tongue;
Like a shoot that springs from an old oak tree,
From the English race it sprung.
It has gained a mighty place on earth,
And a mighty name has won;
It has given to sage and hero birth,
And it boasts of Washington.

But a blot, a dark and loathsome blot,
Polluted that fair young land;
God waited till his wrath was hot,
And he took his sword in hand!
He had heard the bitter wail of woe,
He had heard the clanking chain--
He rescued a nation years ago,
He will rescue one again!

There's a gathering darkness in the sky,
There's a tramp of hurrying feet;
There's a clang of arms, and a battle cry,
And two hostile armies meet.
They meet! they charge! 'tis a dreadful sight!
They wade through a gory sea;
It is life or death, it is wrong or right,
It is freedom or slavery!

The nations stand with a wondering look,
And list to the roar and din;