Their bayonets may be rusty,
When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty,
When the boys come home.
But all shall see the traces
Of battle's royal graces,
In the brown and bearded faces,
When the boys come home.
Our love shall go to meet them,
When the boys come home,
To bless them and to greet them,
When the boys come home;
And the fame of their endeavor
Time and change shall not dissever
From the nation's heart forever,
When the boys come home.
Lèse-Amour
How well my heart remembers
Beside these camp-fire embers
The eyes that smiled so far away,—
The joy that was November's.
Her voice to laughter moving,
So merrily reproving,—
We wandered through the autumn woods,
And neither thought of loving.
The hills with light were glowing,
The waves in joy were flowing,—
It was not to the clouded sun
The day's delight was owing.
Though through the brown leaves straying,
Our lives seemed gone a-Maying;
We knew not Love was with us there,
No look nor tone betraying.
How unbelief still misses
The best of being's blisses!
Our parting saw the first and last
Of love's imagined kisses.
Now 'mid these scenes the drearest
I dream of her, the dearest,—
Whose eyes outshine the Southern stars,
So far, and yet the nearest.
And Love, so gayly taunted,
Who died, no welcome granted,
Comes to me now, a pallid ghost,
By whom my life is haunted.