On to the field, our doom is sealed,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.
Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.