From the St. Lawrence River to the Rio Grande,
From Puget's Sound to Maine's cold sand,
O'er the hilltops, through the valleys, never to lag,
Not a spot on this land but they've planted the flag.
The old village people—where are they,
That in the chapel met to pray?
The stalwart man and maiden mild,
The matron and the little child,
The son and sire side by side,
As to the village church they hied—
Some are gone and sweetly rest,
With their white hands folded on their breast.
Under the violet and the rose,
The autumn leaves and winter snows,
On the banks of the Hudson there to sleep,
While the moon and stars their vigils keep.
The man of God, with modest mien,
With faltering steps and looks serene,
As to the sacred desk they knelt
And poured forth what their spirits felt,
Their hearts went up with pure desire,
While on the altar burned the fire;
A few still linger on the shore.
Veterans of a holy war.
May this little brown house, of good constitution,
Built on the classic grounds of the old Revolution,
The Stars and the Stripes, the blue and cadet grey,
Be the last things to perish when time's passed away.