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There's Life in the old and yet.

There's Life in the Old Land yet. (v.)

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash,
The tyrant's war-shout comes,
Along with the cymbal's fitful clash,

And the growl of his sullen drums.

We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills,

And we shall not forgive or forget

There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the

hills

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead;

We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred;
We crouch-'tis to welcome the triumph-tread
Of the peerless Beauregard!

Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,
When the Southern braves are met;

There's faith in the victor's stainless sword-
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind,
With the clank of an iron chain;

The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind,

O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane!

And we, though we smite not, are not thrallsWe are piling a gory debt;

E'en down by McHenry's dungeon walls, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day
In their dear, defiant hands;

They will strip their tresses to string our bows,
Ere the Northern sun is set;

There's faith in their unrelenting woes"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

There's life though it throbbeth in silent veins;

'Tis vocal, without noise;

It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains
In the blood of the Maryland boys!

That blood shall cry aloud, and rise
With an everlasting threat-

By the death of the brave!-by the God in the

skies!

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

A Cry to Arms.

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!

Ho! dwellers in the vales!

Ho! ye, that by the chafing tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade;

Let desk, and case, and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade!

The despot roves your fairest lands,
And till he flies, or fears,

Your fields must grow but armed bands-
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!

Give up to mildew and to rust
The useless tools of gain;

And feed your country's sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!

Come with the weapons at your call-
With musket, pike, or knife;

He wields the deadliest blade of all

Who lightest holds his life.

The arm that drives its unbought blows

With all a patriot's scorn,

Might brain a tyrant with a rose,

Or stab him with a thorn!

Does any falter? let him turn
To some brave maiden's eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn
In those sublunar skies.

Oh! could you like your women feel
And in their spirit march,

A day might see your lines of steel
Beneath the victor's arch!

What hope, O God! would not grow warm
When thoughts like these give cheer?

The lily calmly braves the storm-
And shall the palm-tree fear?

No! rather let its branches court
The rack that sweeps the plain;

And from the lily's regal port

Learn how to breast the strain.

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side
Ho! dwellers in the vales!

Ho! ye, that by the roaring tide,
Have roughened in the gales !
Come! flocking gayly to the fight,
From forest, hill, and lake!
We battle for our country's right
And for the lily's sake!