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With look and tone defiant, it feared not God or man,
But snatched on every side for power to work its wicked plan,
All ripe and dry for whittling.
Of old this Wrong was humble, asking, with pious cry,
This only, to be left alone, in its own time to die;
But, fed by this first yielding, bolder and bolder grown,
Shameless before the nations now, it reared its bloody throne.
The time draws nigh for whittling!
“Pride goes before destruction,” the wise man said of old;
“Whom the gods seek to ruin they first make mad;” and bold
In the frenzy of its madness, this Wrong forgot its place,
Came out with noise of gongs to fright our Yankee whittling race.
God gave this chance for whittling.
And now, my trusty Saxons, who come from near and far,
Remember who your fathers were, and set your teeth for war;
“Sword of the Lord and Gideon!” be still your battlecry,
And strike as Samson struck of old, smite Slavery hip and thigh.
Now is your time for whittling.
And when this life shall rest again from all this noise and strife,
And Peace her olive-branch shall wave o'er this broad realm of life,
Fair as the sun, our nation before the world shall stand,
Freedom on all her banners, freedom throughout the land.
Oh I these grand rewards of whittling!
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