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Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly
by,
And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die!
Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to
mark my grave— And not upon a field of glory I '11 sleep amid the Southern
brave; Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he '11 pass through
death's dark wave, And the wintry wind be sighing o'er a captive's lonely
grave. |
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THE VOLUNTEER; OR, IT IS MY COUNTRY'S
CALL.
By Harry McCarthy.
I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart, It is my country's call, dear, to aid her, I depart; And on the blood-red battle plain, we '11 conquer or we '11 die; 'Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.—Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall; Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country's call. |
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