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‘Bove thunders e'en the storms are o'er,
O'er cataract in headlong roar,
High, high it towers.
O'er all the breastworks and the moats
The Starry Flag in triumph floats,
And heroes thunder from their throats:
“Vicksburgh is ours!”
Spread all your banners in the sky,
The sword of victory gleams on high,
Our conquering eagles upward fly,
And kiss the stars;
For Liberty the gods awake,
And hurl the shattered foes a wreck,
The Northern arms make strong to break
The Southern bars.
The flaunting flag, the rebels' trust,
Lies trailing in the bloody dust,
With sword and halberd there to rust
And rot to shreds;
No more from its dishonored grave
To flout defiance to the brave,
Who proudly our broad banners wave
High o'er their heads.
All honor to the brave and true
Who fought the bloody battles through,
And from the ramparts victory drew
Where Vicksburgh cowers;
And o'er the trenches, o'er the slain,
Through iron hail and leaden rain,
Still plunging onward, might and main,
Made Vicksburgh ours.
Wave, wave your banners in the sky,
The glory give to God on high,
In lofty praises far outvie
All other powers,
Who nerved the arms that struck the blow,
Which, in defeat overwhelmed the foe,
And laid his frowning bulwarks low,
Made Vicksburgh ours!
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