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With tattered banners borne above,
With all the pride that vict'ry yields,
We homeward march, to those we love.
For us the toilsome march is o'er,
The picket watch, the night bivouac;
The roll of drum will never more
Arouse us for the foe's attack.
And as we clasp the hands today,
And old familiar faces greet,
Remembered are those far away,
Whose hearts are with us while we meet.
Nor unforgotten those who fell,
And sleep today in sunny lands;
On breezy hill, in quiet dell,
In graves dug by their comrades' hands.
They were as noble, brave and true
As ever followed noisy drum;
Their silent ranks pass in review,
With noiseless step, and voices dumb.
Brave Howe is riding at their head,
Tall and graceful, but ashy pale,
Just as he looked when, cold and dead,
We dug his grave at sad Glendale.
Another rides with that silent host—
Boyd, the hero of many fields—
Who bravely fell at duty's post,
Just as the foe the contest yields.
And there George Batchelder we see,
Gentle and true, and bravest of men,
And there steps gallant David Lee,
And Mumford's manly form we ken.
Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face,
In that battalion weird and vast;
And brave Tom Claffy has a place,
And valiant Thompson marches past.
There with the men he led in fight,
The handsome Ferris moves along;
There's Donath, with his ways polite,
And Robinson is with the throng.
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