Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 7.
Frank Moore, Ed.

We are men of Massachusetts! And from Berkshire to Cape Ann.
We will rally for the Union of our fathers, man to man!
The beacon-light of Sumter gleamed o'er our hills of pine,
And lighted up a war-path for the Massachusetts line,
And now, we wave our starry flag along your Southern sky,
Beneath its folds to conquer, or in its shroud to die;
No coward in our rear guard, no braggart in our van,
While we battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man.

We are men of Massachusetts! and we cannot soon forget
The leaguered wall of Sumter, and its broken parapet;
We saw the clouds roll outward and upward to the sun,
We heard your empty boasting, one hundred men to one;
We stumbled in the gloaming, on our dead at Baltimore ;
But our wives forgot their weeping, and from farewells we forebore,
As, from hearthstone unto hearthstone, the hurried summons ran,
Up! and battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man!

We are men of Massachusetts! Your brothers until now;
But, to your shrines of damning wrong, our free knees cannot bow.
Ye have plucked our banner from the stars, and trailed it in the dust,
Till our swords will sleep no longer in their beds of ancient rust;
Ye have dared to brand us cowards, ye have called us peddling knaves,
Ye have proffered us “a welcome to inhospitable graves!” [35]
But the old Flag still is waving, and we spurn your bloody ban,
While we battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man.

We are men of Massachusetts I And we live not in the Past,
But from the furnaced Present, our histories we cast;
We boast no defunct heraldry, nor of perished glory prate,
While war's red shuttle glitters through the web and woof of fate:
No vaunting words we utter, nor bitter taunt for scorn,
But stand, as stood our pioneers in Freedom's stormy morn,
With no pride of state or section, no hate of class or clan,
To give battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man.

We are men of Massachusetts! along whose rugged shore,
The surges to the beaches sing of Freedom evermore;
Across whose sun-trod valleys, adown whose rockribbed hills,
The flowers bloom in freedom, in freedom laugh the rills.
No slaver ploughs our waters, no bondman tills our soil,
Nor tawny mother wakes to weep o'er unrequited toil,
Yet we leave our hills and homesteads, to strike as best we can,
In the battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man.

We are men of Massachusetts! Oh! stay this ghastly strife!
Ye but stab, with matricidal hand, the breast that gave you life!
Ye but quench the holy altar-fires of Justice and of Truth,
And plant Death's gory chaplet on the brow of Freedom's youth!
And would ye tear, with bloody hands, the glory-wreaths that twine
Round Yorktown's ancient ruin and the shades of Brandywine!
No! no! It cannot, shall not be! Give back, ye traitor-clan!
In this battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man!

We are men of Massachusetts! O shades of mighty dead!
Awakened from your sleeping by the thunder of our tread!
Do ye marvel at the striving of your sons above your graves?
Do ye ask, what means this reddening clash of bayonets and glaves?
They would pluck the stars from out the flag, and break the corner-stone,
And in Freedom's sacred altar-place erect a reeking throne!
But we are sworn to finish, what you so well began,
While we battle for the Union of our fathers, man to man.