Edward Conway Jones (1820–1865)

HARK! the signal gun, its thunder

Floating on the tranquil air;

Soldiers, rise! nor fear, nor wonder,

That the enemy are near.

On the might of God relying,

To the foe we’ll never yield;

All their legions still defying,

We can face them on the field.

Think of home, and all its treasures,

Wives and children, parents dear;

Think of all their plunder’d treasures—

Can ye then stand idly here?

They have ground us by oppression—

We awake to feel it now;

Never be it our confession,

That to England’s king we bow.

Can a monarch’s soft persuasion

Close the breach, or heal the smart?

Not while in a freeman’s bosom

Throbs there still a freeman’s heart.

Can the threat of venom’d fury,

Back’d by regal power, amaze?

Yes, ’twill do for servile minions;

Freemen have an arm to raise.

Perish every bland entreaty—

Tyrants, they assuage in vain;

Here we bid you wreak your vengeance,

Never shall it forge the chain.

Onward! ’neath that banner rally,

Britons let your courage see;

Onward! to the glorious sally,

Strike the blow for liberty!