POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET[1]
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!
- ↑ Not to be confused with the song by A. F. Gibson, and dedicated to Severn Teackle Wallis. This poem by Mr. Randall was set to music under the title, “We Sleep, but We are Not Dead.”
[ 22 ]
