The Spirit of Britannia
Invokes across the main,
Her sister Allemania
To burst the Tyrant’s chain:
By our kindred blood she cries,
Rise, Allemanians, rise,
And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free—of the free!
With Freedom’s lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOUR
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory’s sake,
Wake, Allemanians, wake,
And the tyrants now that whelm
Half the world, shall quail and flee,
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free—of the free!
MARS owes to you his thunder
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has pealed
Shall the laurelled land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?
No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound, the march of time;
Let it clang oppression’s knell
O’er your clime—o’er your clime!
The press’s magic letters,
That blessing ye brought forth,—
Behold! it lies in fetters
On the soil that gave it birth:
But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurred;
For you father Armin’s Sprite
Calls down from heaven, that ye
Shall gird you for the fight,
And be free!—and be free!