Erty triumph_ once more. ON TO VICTORY. AIR--Scots wha hae.
Children of the glorious dead, Who for freedom fought and bled, With
her banner
o'er you spread, On to victory. Not for stern ambition's prize,
Do our hopes and wishes rise; Lo, our leader from the skies, Bids us do or die. Ours is
not the tented field-- We no earthly weapons
wield-- Light and love, our sword and shield, Truth our panoply. This
is proud oppression's hour; Storms are round us; shall we cower? While beneath
a despot's power Groans the suffering slave? While on every
southern gale, Comes the helpless captive's tale, And the voice of woman's wail,
And of man's despair? While our homes and rights are dear, Guarded still with
watchful fear, Shall we coldly turn our ear From the suppliant's
prayer? Never! by our Country's shame-- Never! by a Saviour's claim, To the men of
every name, Whom he died to save. Onward, then, ye fearless band-- Heart to heart,
and hand to hand; Yours shall be the patriot's stand,
Or the martyr's grave. THE MAN FOR ME. AIR--The Rose that all are praising. O, he is
not
the man for me,
Who buys or sells a slave, Nor
he who will not set him free, But sends him to his grave; But he whose noble
heart beats
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