Oh, the old farm-house, down beside the valley stream,
Where in childhood so oft I have play’d,
Ere sorrow had clouded my heart’s early dream,
Or life’s purest joys had decay’d;
How well I remember the vine-cover’d roof,
And the rose-bushes clustering nigh,
And the tall, stately poplar-trees standing aloof,
Whose tops seem’d to reach to the sky,
Oh! the old farm-house, my childhood’s happy home.
Oh, the old farm-house, how I’ve sported round its hearth
With my sisters and brothers so dear;
How oft has it rung with our innocent mirth,
And hallow’d our soft evening-prayer;
But the old farm-house now is bowing to decay,
Its stones like dead friends lie apart;
But its dear, cherish’d image shall ne’er fade away
From affection’s domain in my heart.
Oh! the old farm-house, my childhood’s happy home.
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
Copied by permission of Russell & Tolman, 291 Washington St., Boston, owners of the copyright.
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he call’d,
His weeping son to him:
“Weep not, my boy,” the veteran said,
“I bow to Heaven’s high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring,
The sword of Bunker hill.”
But quickly from yon antlers bring,
The sword of Bunker hill.”
The sword was brought, the soldier’s eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasp’d the ancient blade,
He murmur’d Warren’s name;
Then said, “My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
“Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton’s band,
A captain raised this blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lighten’d freedom’s will,
For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d
The sword of Bunker Hill.
For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d
The sword of Bunker Hill.