Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light-- The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!
The blades of heroes fence it round, Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!
Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,-- And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!
Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and made thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead? Gave thee clothing of delight,-- Softest clothing, woolly, bright? Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee; He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a lamb. He is meek and He is mild; He became a little child: I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!
"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried; "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier standing near, And "Here" was the answer the next replied.
"Cyrus Drew!"--then a silence fell-- This time no answer followed the call, Only the rear man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood, And down in the corn, where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.