Every voice of us, choked though it may have been,
Broke from huzza to a deafening roar.
Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us,
Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight;
Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all,
Eager to battle for her and the right.
Wide are the plains to the north and the westward,
Stretching out far to the gray of the sky—
Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room,
Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die.