Peace to our native British isle !
The arts of peace though we pursue
Our father's conquered at the Nile,
Our brethren bled at Waterloo.
The tempted Lion none should trust ;
There's magic in our sire's renown ;
With willing hand we serve the just.
As willing set the oppressor down.
Our British rights in peace we'd have,
But not the peace that lulls the slave.

I've knelt beside my father's grave,
(I dared not kneel a bondman there,)
I've vow'd the vow which binds the brave,.
My children shall my freedom share.
And when they lie me by his side,
Shall any say who speak of me,
'A slave who lived—dishonor'd died,
Here rests beside the valiant free ?'
A country free—a spotless name,
Our fathers gave—our children claim.

Fill to the brim the mighty bowl,
And as we quaff the pledge shall be,
Round let it pass from soul to soul,
'Devonia's sons, though faithful free.'
For, by the blood our fathers' spilt.
The righteous laws shall be our care,
Yet by the shrines our fathers built.
No plundered slave shall worship there.
Fill high the bowl the pledge shall be,
Devonia's sons, though faithful, free.

Fair liberty ! they greatly wrong
Pevonia's sons, who think her fled.
Why? 'tis the name our mothers sung
To sooth us on our infant bed.
Our fathers led us to the field,
Where 'tis our birthright to be free,
Their sacred gift we ne'er will yield,
Our birthi'ight be our legacy.
Fill high the bowl, the pledge must be,
Devonia's sons, though faithful, free.