We ask not "martial glory,"
Nor "battles bravely won;"
We tell no boastful story
To laud our "favorite son;"
We do not seek to gather
From glory's field of blood,
The laurels of the warrior,
Steeped in the crimson flood—
But we can boast that Birney
Holds not the tyrant's rod,
Nor binds in chains and fetters,
The image of his God;
No vassal, at his bidding,
Is doomed the lash to feel;
No menial crouches near him,
No Charley's[3] at his heel.
His heart is free from murder,
His hand without its stain;
His head and heart united,
To loose the bondman's chain:
His deeds of noble daring,
Shall make the tyrant cower;
Oppression flees before him,
With all its boasted power.
Soon shall the voice of freedom,
O'er earth its echoes roll—
And earth's rejoicing millions
Be free, from pole to pole.
Then rally round your leader,
Ye friends of liberty;
And let the shout for Birney,
Ring out o'er land and sea.