| STREETS of the roaring town, | |
| Hush for him; hush, be still! | |
| He comes, who was stricken down | |
| Doing the word of our will. | |
| Hush! Let him have his state. | 5 |
| Give him his soldier's crown, | |
| The grists of trade can wait | |
| Their grinding at the mill. | |
| But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown. | |
| Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone. | 10 |
| |
| Toll! Let the great bells toll | |
| Till the clashing air is dim, | |
| Did we wrong this parted soul? | |
| We will make it up to him. | |
| Toll! Let him never guess | 15 |
| What work we sent him to. | |
| Laurel, laurel, yes. | |
| He did what we bade him do. | |
| Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; | |
| Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood. | 20 |
| |
| A flag for a soldier's bier | |
| Who dies that his land may live; | |
| O banners, banners here, | |
| That he doubt not nor misgive! | |
| That he heed not from the tomb | 25 |
| The evil days draw near | |
| When the nation robed in gloom | |
| With its faithless past shall strive. | |
| Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark, | |
| Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark. | 30 |
