Protest, Resistance and Revolution

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk.

Today unbind the captive, So only are ye unbound; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound!

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number— Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you— Ye are many—they are few.

Men of England, wherefore plow For the lords who lay ye low?

Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do or die!

Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour! See approach proud Edward’s power—

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union.

England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?

The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave old England’s winding sheet.

But most through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot’s curse Blasts the newborn infant’s tear And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

One Law for the Lion & Ox is Oppression.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Though fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state.

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire Chaos! is restor’d: Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.

From hence, let fierce contending nations know What dire effects from civil discord flow.

When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, The post of honor is a private station. 2

Curse on his virtues! they’ve undone his country.

Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun.

And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 1 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick.

When civil fury first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why.

A dismal universal hiss, the sound Of public scorn.