 | The Romance of the Civil War |  |
49. The Drummer Boy of Marble-head
Ho! arms to strike and forward feet,
Ere dries the blood by dastards shed!
While scowls and gleaming eyes that meet
Bewail our murdered dead.
From Berkshire's mountains to the Bay,
Her rally Massachusetts rings,
Curse on the faltering step to-day
That shame upon her brings!
Ere dries the blood by dastards shed!
While scowls and gleaming eyes that meet
Bewail our murdered dead.
From Berkshire's mountains to the Bay,
Her rally Massachusetts rings,
Curse on the faltering step to-day
That shame upon her brings!
This April day which frowning dies,
Betrothed in its natal hour
To hills that prop New England's skies,
Brought vengeance for its dower :
Then arms to strike and forward feet,
Ere dries our blood by dastards shed!
For men, upon each village street
Are mustering, as at Marblehead.
Betrothed in its natal hour
To hills that prop New England's skies,
Brought vengeance for its dower :
Then arms to strike and forward feet,
Ere dries our blood by dastards shed!
For men, upon each village street
Are mustering, as at Marblehead.
Pauses a homeward schoolboy there;
Absorbed in thought be stands;
While patriots pass with brows of care,
And muskets in their hands.
Then starting, to a comrade spoke
That gallant boy of Marblehead:
"The tether of my books is broke,
Brace me the drum instead!
Absorbed in thought be stands;
While patriots pass with brows of care,
And muskets in their hands.
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Then starting, to a comrade spoke
That gallant boy of Marblehead:
"The tether of my books is broke,
Brace me the drum instead!
Now serried ranks are slanting grim
Their bayonets in the summer beams;
And, keeping step to Freedom's hymn,
Southward the column streams.
"Your blessing, mother I cease to cry,
There really is no cause for dread;
Our grand old tunes will make them fly!"
Said the bold boy of Marblehead.
Their bayonets in the summer beams;
And, keeping step to Freedom's hymn,
Southward the column streams.
"Your blessing, mother I cease to cry,
There really is no cause for dread;
Our grand old tunes will make them fly!"
Said the bold boy of Marblehead.
New England's sons were smiting sore,
With whistling ball and sabre stroke,
The rebel rout which fast before
Fled for the swamps of Roanoke.
And in that hour of steel and flame,
On and exultant, still there led,
While falling foemen felt his aim,
The drummer-boy of Marblehead.
With whistling ball and sabre stroke,
The rebel rout which fast before
Fled for the swamps of Roanoke.
And in that hour of steel and flame,
On and exultant, still there led,
While falling foemen felt his aim,
The drummer-boy of Marblehead.
"Once more we'll have our good old air,
'Tis fitting on this glorious field,
'Twill quell the traitors in their lair,
And teach them how to yield! "
It swelled, to stir our hearts like flame
Then back a hostile bullet sped,
And Death delivered up to Fame
The drummer-boy of Marblehead.
'Tis fitting on this glorious field,
'Twill quell the traitors in their lair,
And teach them how to yield! "
It swelled, to stir our hearts like flame
Then back a hostile bullet sped,
And Death delivered up to Fame
The drummer-boy of Marblehead.
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| The Romance of the Civil War | |