Nay, keep the sword which once we gave,
A token of our trust in thee;
The steel is true, the blade is keen--
False as thou art it cannot be.

We hailed thee as our glorious chief,
With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow;
Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue:
In whispers hushed we breathe it now.

Yes, keep it till thy dying day;
Momentous ever let it be,
Of a great treasure once possessed--
A people's love now lost to thee.

Thy mother will not bow her head;
She bares her bosom to thee now;
But may the bright steel fail to wound--
It is more merciful than thou.

And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow,
Thousands of sons of this fair land
Will rise, and, in their anger just,
Will stay the rash act of thy hand.

And when in terror thou shalt hear
Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry
And feel the weight of thy great crime,