We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before,
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!
If you look across the hill tops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind an instant tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride;
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.
If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;