Their's, to strike and stay the wrong,
That strangers might be free!

And on, and on, for weal or woe,
The tawny faces grimmer go,
That bade no mercy to a foe
That pitties but to kill.
"Close up!" "Close up!" is heard, and said,
And yet the rain of steel and lead
Still leaves a livid trail of red
Upon the San Juan Hill!

"Charge!" "Charge!" The bugle peals again;
'Tis life or death for Roosevelt's men!--
The Mausers make reply!
Aye! speechless are those swarthy sons,
Save for the clamor of the guns--
Their only battle-cry!
The lowly stain upon each face,
The taunt still fresh of prouder race,
But speeds the step that springs a pace,
To succor or to die!

With rifles hot--to waist-band nude;
The brawn beside the pampered dude;
The cowboy king--one grave--and rude--
To shelter him who falls!
One breast--and bare,--howe'er begot,
The low, the high--one common lot:
The world's distinction all forgot