Our band is few, but true and tried, 
Our leader frank and bold; 
The British soldier trembles 
When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
Our tent the cypress-tree; 
We know the forest round us, 
As seamen know the sea; 
We know its walks of thorny vines, 
Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 


Woe to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near! 
On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear; 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 
They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again; 
And they who fly in terror deem 
A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 


Then sweet the hour that brings release 
From danger and from toil; 
We talk the battle over, 
And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 
To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 
On beds of oaken leaves. 


Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads- 
The glitter of their rifles, 
The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp- 
A moment - and away, 
Back to the pathless forest, 
Before the peep of day. 


Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs; 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 
For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band, 
With kindest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 
And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 
And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 
Forever, from our shore.