It was the lark—not the nightingale—
Poured forth her notes of warning;
Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale,
Awoke by the light of the morning.
The day, the day is bright!
The night
Hath fled that in darkness bound ye;
Fling ye the myrtle of love aside,
And grasp the sword whate'er may betide—
For the Foemen are gathering round ye!
It was the lark—not the nightingale—
Arouse ye from apathy's slumber!
Few and dull do your watchfires pale,
But they soon shall the stars outnumber.
Awake, awake to life!
The strife
For God and your right advances;
Leave the white arms of weeping beauty,
The van of the battle's your post of duty,
Where glitter the Foeman's lances!
It was the lark—not the nightingale—
The gate of the morning uncloses;
She sings of the thundering cannon's hail—
She sings of the battle's roses;
On the warrior's breast
They rest—
The crimson roses that free the world!
Up, then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent—
Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent
When the banner of Freedom's unfurled.
It was the lark—not the nightingale—
Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming!
As dashes the torrent adown the vale,
O'er all barriers wildly streaming,
So of thy young heart's blood,
The flood
Pour down on the thirsty land;
And Liberty's cause, that would else have died,
Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide;
So pledge ye your heart and hand.
It was the lark—not the nightingale—
Who chanted a Nation's rise;
Borne on the wings of the morning gale,
It peals through the azure skies.
Liberty's torch is bright!
The light
May mock our tyrant's scorning,
For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon;
And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, full soon
We'll achieve in the light of the morning!