Sons of the South, awake! arise!

Sons of the South, and do.

Banish from under your bonny skies

Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies.

Making a hell in a Paradise

That belongs to your sons and you.

​

Sons of the South, make choice between,

Sons of the South, choose true,

Land of the morn and the Land of E'en,

The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green.

Land that belongs to the lord and Queen,

And the Land that belongs to you.

 

Sons of the South, your time will come,

Sons of the South, 'tis near.

"Signs of the Times", in their language dumb,

Foretell it, and ominous whispers hum

Like sullen sounds of a distant drum,

In the ominous atmosphere.

​

Sons of the South, aroused at last!

Sons of the South are few!

But ranks will grow longer and deeper fast,

And ye shall swell to an army vast,

Free from the wrongs of the North and Past,

The Land that belongs to you.