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Stitch, stitch, stitch, Swiftly, little needle, glide,
Thine 's a pleasant labor; To clothe the soldier he thy pride,
While he wields the sabre. Ours are tireless hearts and hands;
To Southern wives and mothers, All who join our warlike bands
Are our friends and brothers.
Stitch, stitch, stitch, Little needle, swiftly fly,
From the morning1 until eve, As the moments pass thee by,
These substantial comforts weave. Busy thoughts are at our hearts—
Thoughts of hopeful cheer, As we toil till day departs
For the noble volunteer.
Quick, quick, quick, Swifter, little needle, go;
From our homes most pleasant fires Let a loving greeting flow
To our brothers and our sires; We have tears for those who fall,—
Smiles for those who laugh at fear,— Hope and sympathy for all,—
Every noble volunteer. |
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