Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou eomest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;
To thee, the triple cords belong,
Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, too long!
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bier,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,
My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight--
Thou seest woe, and death, and night--
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might,
What carest thou for woe, or night?
My rebel home, Savannah!

Come--for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

"Old Betsy."