The Sword of Bunker Hill.
Copied by permission of Russell & Tolman, 291 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright.
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he call’d,
His weeping son to him:
“Weep not, my boy,” the veteran said,
“I bow to Heaven’s high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring,
The sword of Bunker hill.”
But quickly from yon antlers bring,
The sword of Bunker hill.”
The sword was brought, the soldier’s eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasp’d the ancient blade,
He murmur’d Warren’s name;
Then said, “My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
“Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton’s band,
A captain raised this blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lighten’d freedom’s will,
For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d
The sword of Bunker Hill.
For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d
The sword of Bunker Hill.
“Oh! keep the sword,” his accents broke,
A smile, and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasp’d the blade,
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.