And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.
Compulsion? Never! The word is dead
In a land of Freedom born and bred,
Of old in the years of yore,
Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought
May do as they will, who will as they ought,
And none desire for more.
Who brooks no spur has need of none,
(Who needs a spur is a traitor son,)
And all are ready and all are one
When Freedom calls to the fore!
The soldier forced to the field of war
By the iron hand of a tyrant law,
Wherever a flag may wave,
And the press'd--at best but a coward's 'hest--
Fight with the bitter, sullen zest,
And the ardour of a slave!
A hireling? Never! The bought and sold
Are ever the prey of the traitor's gold,
Wherever the fight may be.
Or ever a man will sell his sword,
The highest bidder may buy the gaud
With a coward's niggard fee.
Who buys and sells to the market goes,
And sells his friends as he sells his foes,
So he gain in the main by his country's woes,--
But the gain is not to the free;--
For the soldier bought with a price has nought
But his fee to 'fend when the fight is fought,
Wherever the flag may wave.
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