And 'midst the spreading shady trees were songs of laughing rills.
In that dear home my parents lived, my brothers large and small,
With uncles, aunts and cousins near, and I the pet of all.

But listen! 'tis my childrens' call, I hear their plaintive prayer,
In fancy now I press soft cheeks and fondly stroke fair hair.
Wide seas may roll between us, yet my darlings will life brave,
Perchance be folded to my heart, or kiss their mother's grave.




~Some Mother's Boy.~


The battle-cry is sounding loud, a bugle calls to arm,
The hills and dales are clouded o'er, troops gather in alarm;
With winds is mingled sighing prayer from many a sinking brave;
A youth obeying duty's call, a life his country gave.

A soldier boy's dying cry is heard amid the roar
Of battle strife; surround with slain he falls to rise no more.
Some mother's boy! it matters not if clad in blue or gray,
If fighting for the right or wrong, is hurried to his grave.

Amid the beats of drum and fife, his pillow but a sod,
With folded hands and marble brow, his soul returns to God.
Some mother's boy is resting where the lonely willows weep,
And voices waft with waving trees, while angels watch him sleep.