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Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,

Maryland !
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,

Maryland !
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,

Maryland, my Maryland !

I see the blush upon thy cheek,

Maryland !
But thou wast ever bravely meek,

But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,

Thou wilt not crook to his control,

Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,

Maryland, my Maryland !

by Daryland


I hear the distant thunder-hum

The “Old Line's” bugle, fife, and drum,

Maryland !
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum-
She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come!

Maryland, my Maryland ! [Southern.]

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INE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of

wrath are stored ;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift
sword :

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling

camps ; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and

damps ; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps ;

His day is marching on.

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Battle-fbymn of tbe Republic


1 have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of steel; “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace

shall deal” ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call

retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment

seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet !

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

November, 1861.

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LL quiet along the Potomac,” they say,

'Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'T is nothing-a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost-only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

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