HE.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.
THE WATCHMAN.
A TRIO.
WATCHMAN.
Past twelve o'clock—past twelve.
Good night, good night, my dearest—
How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.
WATCHMAN.
Past one o'clock—past one.
Yet stay a moment longer—
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more 'tis time to go?