William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
We Cannot WarW
Our arms were framed to toil—not bleed!
He little dreams how scythes are swords,
When comes the bloody hour of need.
He little recks the selfsame strength,
Which swings in peace the summer blade,
Will mow as broad a swath among
The files where carnage is a trade.
To every breath of noon or night;
Gentle, as gentlest things of earth—
Sleeping upon their sense of might.
The storm is up!—they cast their leaves
Like useless summer robes away,
And on the hill-side greenly fix’d,
They meet the storm in stern array.
Before the fierce breath of the foe:
When carnage looks on us her first,
To coward’s burial we shall go.
We, who have trod beneath our heel
The forest serpent and her young;
We, who have grappled with the wolf,
And met the panther as he sprung.
A solemn train of men would spring
Forth from the sod—the pilgrim sires!
Their manly voices then would ring
Like death-knells: “Sons—once sons of ours,
We give you to the curse ye seek!
No more look back to us as sires:
But bear the vengeance kings can wreak.”
If ours is frozen, coward blood;
Ask of the Indian! he can say
If ours are trusty swords and good.
The fort o’erturn’d; the ambush’d foe
Mark’d down by his own glancing eyes,
The averted brand, which madly blazed
A meteor in the midnight skies.
Shot from the darkness of our days,
The firm resolve—the hardy toil—
The free-born thought (though this is praise)
Attest the hearts, whose noblest wish
Is but a dream—to dare—to die,
In breathing, battling, suffering for
The stolen hope of Liberty!