Puslapio vaizdai

And higher, higher, higher, burned the old

fashioned fire

Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned Colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder cloud;

His broad-sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet loud;

Then the blue

Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of

the leaden


And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared our iron


Hurling death!


The American Flag


When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,

New World and Old Glory

New World

and Old


And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given;

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

Old Ironsides

(U. S. S. "Constitution.")

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;-

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!


New World and Old Glory


Alas! for them, their day is o'er,

Their fires are out on hill and shore;

No more for them the wild deer bounds,
The plough is on their hunting grounds;

The pale man's axe rings through their woods,
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;

New Their pleasant springs are dry;
World Their children,-look, by power opprest,
Glory Beyond the mountains of the west,

and Old

Their children go to die.


Crossing the Plains*

What great yoked brutes with briskets low;
With wrinkled necks like buffalo,

With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,
That turned so slow and sad to you,
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears,
That seemed to plead, and make replies,
The while they bowed their necks and drew
The creaking load; and looked at you.
Their sable briskets swept the ground,
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.

Two sullen bullocks led the line,

Their great eyes shining bright like wine;
Two sullen captive kings were they,

That had in time held herds at bay,

And even now they crushed the sod
With stolid sense of majesty,

And stately stepped and stately trod,

* From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller" (copyrighted). By permission of the publishers. The Whitaker-Ray Company, San Francisco.

As if 't were something still to be

Kings even in captivity.


Concord Hymn

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument,
April 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On the green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may her dead redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.


New World and Old


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