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But alas ! his time was come,
To see our promised land ; His comrade's fatal gun,
Shot through his arm and hand; The Almightjr's will was read,
Upon his noble brow ; "My race is run," he said.
Death has its victim now. |
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Chorus. |
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THE SOUTHERN CAPTIVE.
By Capt. Sam Houston. [The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]
Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison
bars, While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come
the stars ; Well I know my mother's weeping for her long-lost wandering
boy-Does she know that still I'm living ? even that would give
her joy. |
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No, they tell her that I'm sleeping 'neath the turf on Shiloh's
plain ; That she ne'er will see her wanderer—never on this earth
again; |
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346 |
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