 | Original Songs (1861) |  |
58
WE MAY COME AT THE BUGLE'S SOUND.
I
We may come at the bugle's soundTo keep the enemy at bay,
And find that spot the battle-ground,
Where we all met at drill to-day.
I know the struggle in each breast
Would be who first should reach the foe:
Who first would find a soldier's rest,
Till that day comes, we cannot know.
II
The rifle's crack, the cannon's blaze,May break the silence that reigns here;
The battle-smoke roll its dun haze
Over the landscape we hold dear;
59
The hedges where the May-buds blow,
The foeman's flames may yet enfold,
And on the redd'ning midnight glow.
III
But the smooth green where we oft play'd,The nooks where we our maidens woo'd,
The garden-walks o'er which we stray'd,
And listen'd while the ring-doves coo'd,
Shall ne'er give shelter to a foe,
Until he marches o'er our dead;
For while an arm can strike a blow,
These hallow'd spots he ne'er shall tread.
IV
Comrades! these spots we will defend,And like brave freemen nobly die;
To no invader will we bend,
Like slaves who at his mercy lie.
Then fill the cup and pass it round;
Drink to the brave, and bold, and free:
A rifleman will but be found
'Mid death, or shouting “Victory!”
T. M.
| Original Songs (1861) | |