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Men may die, and moulder in the dust,
Men may die, and arise again from dust,
Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the just,

When Heaven is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c.
The Lord is marching on.

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Now the twilight shadows flit ;
Now the evening lamp is lit;
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Little head on mother's arm,

She will keep him safe from harm, -
Keep him safe and fold him warm:
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Baby's father, far away,

Thinks of him at shut of day;

Sleep, baby, sleep!

He must guard the sleeping camp,
Hearkening, in the cold and damp,
For the foeman's stealthy tramp :
Sleep, baby, sleep!

He can hear the lullaby,

He can see the laughing eye;
Sleep, baby, sleep!

And he knows, though we are dumb,
How we long to have him come

Back to baby, mother, home:
Sleep, baby, sleep!


Now the eyes are closing up;
Let their little curtains drop;
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Softly on his father's bed

Mother lays her baby's head;
There, until the night be fled,
Sleep, baby, sleep!

God, who driest the widow's tears,
God, who calms the orphan's fears,
Guard baby's sleep!

Shield the father in the fray;

Help the mother wait and pray;

Keep us all by night and day :
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Only Once.



Do you know of the dreary land,
If land such region may seem,
Where 't is neither sea nor strand,
Ocean nor good dry land,

But the nightmare marsh of a dream?
Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,
Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,
A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,

To die in the great Gulf Stream ?

No coast-line clear and true,
Granite and deep-sea blue,

On that dismal shore you pass,

Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach, –

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But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach.
With shallows of water-grass;

Reedy savannahs, vast and dun,

Lying dead in the dim March sun;
Huge rotting trunks and roots that lie

Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by,
And miles of sunken morass.

No lovely, delicate thing

Of life o'er the waste is seen;

But the cayman, couched by his weedy spring,
And the pelican, bird unclean,

Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing,
Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.

Ah! many a weary day

With our Leader there we lay,

In the sultry haze and smoke, Tugging our ships o'er the bar, Till the Spring was wasted far,

Till his brave heart almost broke.

For the sullen river seemed

As if our intent he dreamed, –

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All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.

But ere April fully passed,

All ground over at last,

And we knew the die was cast,

Knew the day drew nigh

To dare to the end one stormy deed,
Might save the land at her sorest need,
Or on the old deck to die!

Anchored we lay, and a morn the more,

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"Send your to'gallant-masts down,
Rig in each flying jib-boom!
Clear all ahead for the loom
Of traitor fortress and town,
Or traitor fleet bearing down.

“In with your canvas high; We shall want no sail to fly! Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib, (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib,) Shall serve us to win or die!

"Trim every sail by the head,
(So shall you spare the lead,)

Lest, if she ground, your ship swing round,
Bows in shore, for a wreck.
See your grapnels all clear with pains,
And a solid kedge in your port main-chains,
With a whip to the main yard:
Drop it heavy and hard

When you grapple a traitor deck!

"On forecastle and on poop

Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up,

(For still you must bow the stream.) Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops,

To fire on the foe a-beam.

"Look well to your pumps and hose;
Have water-tubs fore and aft,
For quenching flame in your craft,

And the gun-crews' fiery thirst.

See planks with felt fitted close,


To plug every shot-hole tight.

Stand ready to meet the worst!

For, if I have reckoned aright,

They will serve us shot, both cold and hot,
Freely enough to-night.

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(Our life-long service at stake,
And honor that must not lag!)
Whate'er the peril and awe,
In the battle's fieriest flaw,
Let never one ship withdraw

Till the orders come from the flag!"

Would you hear of the River Fight ?
It was two of a soft spring night;
God's stars looked down on all;
And all was clear and bright
But the low fog's clinging breath:
Up the River of Death

Sailed the Great Admiral.

On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood once and again,

Lords of helm and of sail,
Tried in tempest and gale,

Bronzed in battle and wreck.

Bell and Bailey grandly led

Each his line of the Blue and Red;
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail;
Thornton fought the deck.

And I mind me of more than they,
Of the youthful, steadfast ones,

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