1   Since our Country—our God—Oh my Sire—   Demand that thy daughter expire;      Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow—      Strike the bosom that’s bared for thee now! 2   And the voice of my mourning is o’er—   And the mountains behold me no more:      If the hand that I love lay me low,      There cannot be pain in the blow! 3   And of this—Oh! my Father!—be sure   That the blood of thy child is as pure—      As the blessing I beg ’ere it flow—      And the last thought that soothes me below. 4   Though the virgins of Salem lament,   Be the judge and the Hero unbent!      I have won the great battle for thee,      And my Father and Country are free! 5   When this blood of thy giving hath gush’d—   When the voice that thou lovest is hush’d—      Let my Memory still be thy pride,      And forget not, I smiled as I died!