And where is the band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war, and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and war’s desolation;
Bless’d with victory and peace may the Heaven-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto--“In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
Song of the Sexton.
Oh, the sights that I see as I ply my lone trade,
In the moldering dust that a cent’ry hath made,
Where the coffin-worm doth creep.
I began long ago, when my life was still green,
And my mattock and spade have been active, I ween,
To fashion the grave so deep.
Ho! I laugh as I dig, for they all seek my aid,
To provide them a home with my mattock and spade.
The rich man hath pass’d me with towering head,
But I sang o’er his grave when the scorner was dead,
And laugh’d as I shovel’d the mold.
The hungry and wretched ne’er enter’d his door,
His heart never bled for the wrongs of the poor,
For the proud man well loved his gold.
Ho! I laugh’d as I dug, for they wanted my aid,
To provide him a home with my mattock and spade.
I saw a young man in the fresh bloom of life,
As he came to the church with a trembling young wife,
Lift against me the finger of scorn.
Oh, the revel was joyous, the dance lasted long;
But the shriek of the widow soon banish’d the song—
The young man died ere the morn!
Ho! I laugh’d as I dug, when they came for my aid,
To provide him a home with my mattock and spade.
I saw a fair child bend her beautiful head,
And cull the lone flowers that bloom o’er the dead,
To form a pure simple wreath.
The crimson of hectic suffused her pale face;
In her eyes fearful lustre I trembled to trace,
The herald of early death.
But I pray that ere then, the deep home I have made,
May close over me, and my mattock and spade.