On the Road: a Marching Tune

O, the beat of the drums,

And the sheen of the spears.

And red banners that toss like the sea,

Better far than the peace

That is fraught with deep death

To the wild rebel soul set in me;

Better pour out the blood in a swift crimson flood,

As to music we march to the grave,

Than to feel day by day the slow drops ebb away

From the chain-bitten heart of a slave.

O, to fight to the death,

With a hope through the strife

That the freedom we seek shall be ours,

Better far than [despair

And the coward's weak words

Trembling] back from the front of the Powers.

Better do, dare, and fail, than shake like a leaf pale

In the breath of the wild autumn wind:

Better death on the field with an honour-bright shield

Than the soft bed that coward souls find.

O, we leave hearth-stone warm

For the rain-beaten roads,

And our arrows are hung at our sides:

Freedom dearer to us

Than the home that we leave,

Or the warm, clinging arms of the bride.

For our children's fair eyes, like the blue of the skies,

Foemen's gleaming with hate, chill as steel;

For the Mother-love touch that which smites over-much

Till the life, stricken deep, earthward reels.

We have waited so long

We can wait now no more,

And we march forth, our Freedom to meet;

Keeping step to a tune

That is brave as our hearts.

Whilst the stones clatter loud to our feet.

Can we fail when we fight for the sake of the light

From the hearths where our cradles have stood?

For the fathers long dead, for the races ahead

That shall spring up like flowers from our blood?