THE BOY PATRIOT

I want to be a Soldier!—

A Soldier!—

I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand

Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,

Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band;

I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings

While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings;

I want to hear the tramp and jar

Of patriots a million,

As gayly dancing off to war

As dancing a cotillion.

I want to be a Soldier!—

A Soldier!—

I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand

Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,

Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band.

I want to see the battle!—

The battle!—

I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end;—

I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and catch the prattle

Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send!—

And then I know my wits will go,—and where I should'nt be—

Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may search for me.

So, when our foes have had their fill,

Though I'm among the dying,

To see The Old Flag flying still,

I'll laugh to leave her flying!

I want to be a Soldier!—

A Soldier!—

I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand

Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,

Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band.

"While all the army, following, in chorus cheers and sings."