Is that mother bending o'er me?
As she sang my cradle hymn?
Kneeling there in tears before me?
Say - my sight is growing dim.
Comes she from the old home lowly,
Out among the northern hills,
To her pet boy dying slowly
Of war's battle wounds and ills?
Mother! O, we bravely battled-
Battled till the day was done,
While the leaden hail storm rattled--
Man to man and gun to gun.
But we failed - and I am dying -
Dying in my boyhead years,
There - no weeping - self denying,
Noble deaths demand no tears.
Fold your arms again around me,
Press again my aching head,
Sing the lullaby you sang me -
Kiss me Mother, ere I'm dead.
