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The sword was brought, the soldier's eye
Lit up with sudden flame; And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured 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.
" 'T was 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 lightened 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.
" Oh, keep the sword! " his accents broke —
A smile — and he was dead, But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed. |
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