And set it on their sun-tanned brows and on
their locks of gray, ‘
And when their dreary, long campaign, their
bitter toil is done,
God grant that each may live again, new-born
in honored son.
Then three times three, I say again, for
Maine’s true heroes now,
Whose hands are blistered, gnarled, and worn
by scythe-snath and the plow,