Gasping, and feeble-pulsed, low on the field,
Struck down by the traitor's fell prowess ye languish,
In Jehovah behold ye your Refuge and Shield!
Or, if, in victory,
Doubts shall come thick to ye,
Trust in Him — He shall speak to ye
The mystery revealed.
Ho! sons of the Puritan! sons of the Roundhead!
Leave your fields fallow, your ships at the shore!
The foe is advancing — the trumpet hath sounded,
And the jaws of their Moloch are dripping with gore!
Raise the old pennon's staff!
Let the fierce cannons laugh,
Till the votaries of Ammon's calf
Blaspheme ye no more!