Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,
In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,
The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.
Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,
And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—
Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,
Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?
Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?
Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?
While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,