Ay , level the green-grown bastions,
And pull down the hoary wall,
And fill up the ancient fosses,
And bid the old watch-towers fall —
Should'st thou ever need protection
From the crimson sword of war,
Thy sons are a better bulwark,
A nobler defense, by far.
As firm as their native mountains,
As free as their Leman's waves,
They will die for the homes and hearth-stones
Where they could not live as slaves.

Ay, level the green-grown bastions,
And pull down the hoary wall,
And fill up the ancient fosses,
And bid the old watch-towers fall.
In the shadow of mighty nations
Thy voice led the clarion cry
That appealed to God for freedom,
Or death where the brave may die!
Thou hast broken the chains of the tyrant,
Thou hast planted the seeds of truth,
And, although thy head is hoary,
Thy heart is the heart of youth.

Thank Heaven for Winkelried, Reding,
And cherish their memories well,
And forget not the men of Uri,
Stauffacher, Melchthal and Tell.
The light of thine olden glory
Still burns on thy peerless brow,
And the arm that defied oppression
Was never stronger than now.
Then, level thy green-grown bastions,
And pull down the hoary wall,
And fill up the ancient fosses,
And bid the old watch-towers fall.