'Twas rich, red wine that our fathers quaffed By the Arno's summer flood, And long they drank and loud they laughed Like us—and our swords drink blood 'Tis a glorious draught for it comes from out The veins of a tyrant foe; Then pass the mantling cup about And let the red life flow. The toast shall be Among the free— "Union, Love and Liberty!" Our fathers fought in the ancient days For their gold, or faith, or fame, But their children have no need of bays Till they wipe away their shame. Our swords shall drink of the cup of life, And the draught will be a flood To bear from our land the wrecks of strife And the footprints stained with blood. The toast shall be "To Italy, Union, Love and Liberty!" |