Primary tabs

Once More Our Glorious Banner Out.


[Sung at the Clay dinner, East Boston, 4th of July, 1841.]
TUNE — "'Tis my delight," &c.

Once more our glorious banner out,
Upon the breeze we throw —
Beneath its folds, with song and shout,
Let's charge upon the foe!
Our chosen Chief, alas! — no more
Shall place his lance in rest —
But well we know the love he bore
Our Harry of the West;
Our Harry of the West, my boys,
Our Harry of the West.

Then, brothers, rise and rally round,
The Statesman ever true,
Until his name, with trumpet sound,
Shall wake the welkin's blue,


And millions, with admiring eyes,
Shall call him from his rest —
The Hero of new victories,
Our Harry of the West!
Our Harry, &c.

When sought the red coats, as of old,
The empire of the free,
And British cannon once more rolled
Its thunders o'er the sea —
Who loudest cheered our gallant tars
And fired the soldier's breast —
Till Victory hailed her stripes and stars —
But Harry of the West,
But Harry, &c.

And when no more the groaning South
To Spain would bend the knee,
But rising at the cannon's mouth,
Proclaimed she would be free —
Who heard his burning accents fall
And reared her starry crest?
Young Independence, at the call
Of Harry of the West,
Of Harry, &c.

Whene'er forget the common weal,
And party waves run strong,
Till e'en the wisest halt, and feel
That every thing goes wrong —
There's one the olive branch who brings,
And lulls the storm to rest,
Till Peace come on her angel wings —


'Tis Harry of the West,
'Tis Harry, &c.

The honors which the hero won
Encircle not his head —
Like withered wreaths, they rest upon
Another's brow instead —
The Statesman never faithless known,
The worthiest and the best,
Shall make them bloom again — our own
True Harry of the West,
True Harry, &c.

Green ever be the sods that lie
Above the sainted Dead —
And o'er our path his memory
For aye its radiance shed!
Its hallowed light shall stream upon
Our flag, where'er it rest,
And write the name of HARRISON
With Harry, &c.

Then let the glorious banner float
To the sunshine and the blast,
Till Victory sounds her bugle note,
The din of battle past!
No brighter name can lead us on,
High on its folds imprest,
Than thine, Truth's gallant Champion,
Our Harry of the West,
Our Harry, &c.