And she sobbed, till the roll of the rumbling gun
And the swinging tramp of the marching men
Were a memory only, and day was done,
And the stars in the fold of the blue again.
(Thank God that the day of the sword is done,
And the stars in the fold of the blue again!)
BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL
A Ballad of ’Ninety-Eight
The soul of the fair young man sprang up
From the earth where his body lay,
And he was aware of a grim dark soul