We are of the lineage of the invincible Saxon,
so be of good cheer;
not yet are the eyes of God turned away.
Fear not a multitude of men,
nor flinch,
but let every man hold his rifle straight toward the tyrant,
making life his enemy,
and the black spirits of death fear
as if you were the rays of the sun,
for you know that the destroying deeds of the lamentable serpent
have learned well the disposition of woeful war.
You have tasted both of the fleeing and the pursuing,
and have swallowed more than your fill of the life of either.
Those, who, abiding the call of the soul,
Travel with the melee, and nevermore return,
These are the pure slain;
These save all noble peoples who come afterwards.
Let each man who dares call himself a patriot,
Bite his lip, and still his tongue,
And, heartbeat stiff, stride, unafraid, upon God's verdant earth.
Do not hinder his brandishing of the messy rifle about it's shoulder strap;
Let him wave the dire banner above his head:
Allow him to learn to stand, and how to fight:
With the word, with the gun, and with the desperate prayer.
Force him to learn valor by doing doubted deeds,
And not stand, servants in coward's clutch, beyond the vile danger.
Yes, let every man close in upon the traitor, and the foe,
and with his own will,
Pierce the pride of that enemy.
And, setting year against year,
Pressing age into age,
Victor's peaceable spoils
after victorious emergence out of struggle's fray,
Heroic sacrifice before fatal fear,
Willing servants above the wise and wicked.
For it is a noble thing
for a fair warrior to fall and die fighting
in the valleys of his native land,
whereas to leave his country and its rich fields
and go out into the world begging
is of all things the most dishonorable,
wandering with mother dear
and aged father,
with little children
and pregnant wife.
For hateful shall Man be
among all those
to whom he shall be presented in chains of desire,
and shame will befall proud lineage
and confuse his ancient beauty,
followed by all evil and debts undelivered.
Thus...
(if so little thought be taken of a wanderer,
and so little honor, respect, or pity),
let us fight with a fury for this land,
and all that lie in front of it,
and die for our youth
and never spare an enemy's life
Or one of our own.
For that Winged, Saintly figure,
Himself,
Chivalrous Michael
the Archangel,
Heavenly Patron of Holy War
and the sick,
By the hilt
and the shaft
of the combat knife,
By the lightning
that roars from the gun,
Has given the whole of North America
to all the Children of Abraham,
with whom we came into its wide shores
from windy Europe.