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Lyon. Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain, The saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, 0 clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breath out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender. Up rose serene the August sun, Upon that day of gloth of their despairing. They feared not death — men bless the field That patriot soldiers die on-- Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon. Their leader's troubled soul looked forth From eyes of troubled brightness; Sad soul!
the burden of the North Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon of the land, And dyed his bosom redly! Serene he lay, while past him pressed The battle's furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother's pillow. So Lyon died!
and well may flowers His place of burial cover, For never had this land of ours A more devoted lover. Living, his country was his bride, His life he gave he