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Yet we '11 fight for the starry banner, We '11 fight for our flag for aye,
Though every stripe be dyed in blood, And the last star shot away !
Our numbers are few, our banner in shreds,
But our hopeful hearts are strong, And we '11 die as our noble mates have died,
Ere Right shall succumb to Wrong ; Aristocrats may recreant prove,
And sacred trusts betray — But Freedom's Temple shall not fall, By the " Mudsills " giving way.
And we '11 fight for the flag of Freedom,
We '11 fight for our flag for aye, Though every stripe be dyed in blood,
And the last star shot away ! Camp Pitcher, Va., March, 1863.
BY EL BRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER.
THE squadron is forming, the war-bugles play ; To saddle, brave comrades, stout hearts for a fray ! Our captain is mounted — strike spurs, and away!