A paper written for the Military Historical Society of Massachusetts
s birth, Who battled with the stormy wave, To sweep the Red Man from the Earth, And build their homes upon his grave.
Proud of the holy summer morn They traced in blood upon its sod; The rights of freeman yet unborn; Proud of their language and their God.
Proud that beneath our proudest dome, And round the cottage cradled hearth, There is a welcome and a home For every stricken race on earth.
Proud that yon slowly sinking sun Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer, O'er such brief acts of duty done, As honor gathers from despair.
Pride--'tis our watchword, "Clear the boats," "Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Peirson--Here" And while this crazy wherry floats, "Let's save our wounded," cries Revere.
Old State,--some souls are rudely sped-- This record for thy Twentieth Corps,-- Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead, It only asks,--"Has Sparta more?"
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