Men of the North, look up!
There's a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out,
Great shadows hurrying by....

Your strength — where is it now?
Your quivers — are they spent?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
Your fathers' bows unbent?

Men of the North, awake!
Ye 're called to from the deep;
Trumpets sound in every breeze —
Yet there ye lie asleep.