He's on the front, awake, oh, glory, about what's near, yet with your eyes, your children, wives and grandchildren, behold their tears and hear their cries. Behold their tears and hear their cries. Their hateful tire and mischief breeding, with sirelings of the rocket men.
Upright and so they stand, while peace and liberty lie bleeding. To arms, to arms, he prays, the avenging God and King. Oh, God, oh, God, all power to his arms, on victory or death.
But now the dangerous storm is rolling, with treacherous teams come feather and rays. The dogs of war let loose a howling, and low walls and cities blaze, and low walls and cities blaze. And shall we faithfully view the heroine, while on a course with guilty stride, precious salvation far and wide, with his crime and blood he stands uproaring.
To arms, to arms, he prays, the avenging God and King. Oh, God, oh, God, all power to his arms, on victory or death. Oh, liberty, can a man resign thee, once having felt thy generous name?
Can judgment fall, turn the bars from sight of thee? Oh, if by noble spirit's aim, oh, if by noble spirit's aim, from the world her doom were to be reeling, and falsehoods take a siren's will, but freedom is a golden field, and all thereof are unavailing. To arms, to arms, he prays, the avenging God and King.
Oh, God, oh, God, all power to his arms, on victory or death.
Transcribed by AI from the recording above. These are noisy hundred-year-old cylinders, so expect misheard words and the occasional invented line — trust your ears over the text.
This transfer and transcript: CC BY 4.0. The performance itself is public domain. Free to reuse, including commercially, with credit.