The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

      In the ranks of death you'll find him;

      His father's sword he has girded on,

      And his wild harp slung behind him.—

      "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

      "Though all the world betrays thee,

      One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

      One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

      The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

      Could not bring his proud soul under;

      The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

      For he tore its chords asunder;

      And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

      Thou soul of love and bravery!

      Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

      They shall never sound in slavery!"

      Our old brown homestead reared its walls,

      From the wayside dust aloof,

      Where the apple-boughs could almost cast

      Their fruitage on its roof:

      And the cherry-tree so near it grew,

      That when awake I've lain,

      In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,

      As they creaked against the pane:

      And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!

      I've seen my little brothers rocked

      In their tops by the summer breeze.

      The sweet-brier under the window-sill,

      Which the early birds made glad,

      And the damask rose by the garden fence

      Were all the flowers we had.

      I've looked at many a flower since then,

      Exotics rich and rare,

      That to other eyes were lovelier,

      But not to me so fair;

      O those roses bright, O those roses bright!

      I have twined them with my sister's locks,

      That are hid in the dust from sight!

      We had a well, a deep old well,

      Where the spring was never dry,

      And the cool drops down from the mossy stones

      Were falling constantly:

      And there never was water half so sweet

      As that in my little cup,

      Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,

      Which my father's hand set up;

      And that deep old well, O that deep old well!

      I remember yet the splashing sound

      Of the bucket as it fell.

      Our homestead had an ample hearth,

      Where at night we loved to meet;

      There my mother's voice was always kind,

      And her smile was always sweet;

      And there I've sat on my father's knee,

      And watched his thoughtful brow,

      With my childish hand in his raven hair,—

      That hair is silver now!

      But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!

      And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—

      They are in my heart to-night.

      We were crowded in the cabin,

      Not a soul would dare to sleep,—

      It was midnight on the waters,

      And a storm was on the deep.

      'Tis a fearful thing in winter

      To be shattered by the blast,

      And to hear the rattling trumpet

      Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

      So