Points to the master’s eyes (where’er they roam)
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
Friend of the brave! in peril’s darkest hour,
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power;
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,
On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields,
When front to front the bannered hosts combine,
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line.
When all is still on Death’s devoted soil,
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;