Front matter

NOW look, and some pictures of heroes I'll show, A hero is always a brave man, you know. Here on this first page is Washington grand, He fought for our liberty, our free, honored land. And next we see our loved Lincoln so brave, You know he gave freedom to each poor old slave. And here's General Grant! Think what battles he won! He fought that all States be united as one. You see all these heroes are both good and great, And each gave his life for his country and state. The last is a hero,—now think who 'twill be! He, too, will be great; now look and see,—Me.

Our Lincoln, when he was a boy, Was very tall and slim. You see I'm just a little tall; I wonder if I look like him. Our Lincoln, when he was a boy, Was very brave and very true. Today I'm just a little brave; In this I'm like our Lincoln, too. Our Lincoln, when he was a man, Was loved and honored everywhere. I'll be the man that Lincoln was, To do this I must now prepare.

WHEN I'm a man, a great big man, Like dear old Abe I'll be. I mean to follow every plan To make me good as he. I'll study well, and tell the truth. And all my teachers mind; And I will be to every one, Like him, so true and kind. I'll try to live in peace, because "Quarrels don't pay," said he; And any rule of "Honest Abe's" Is good enough for me. I'll make the best of everything, And never scold or whine; That was his way when trouble came, And so it shall be mine. I'll be a temperance man, like him. They say—what do you think!— He gave some great men at his house, Just water cold to drink! He did not muddle up his brains With any sort of stuff. And so, I think his way—don't you? Is plenty good enough. I may not be a President If thus my life I plan. But I'll be something better still: A good and honest man.

ONLY a baby, fair and small, Like many another baby son, Whose smiles and tears came swift at call, Who ate, and slept, and grew, that's all,— The infant Abe Lincoln. Only a boy like other boys, With many a task, but little fun, Fond of his books, though few he had, By his good mother's death made sad,— The little Abe Lincoln. Only a lad, awkward and shy, Skilled in handling an ax or gun, Mastering knowledge that, by and by, Should aid him in duties great and high,— The youthful Abe Lincoln. Only a man of finest bent, A splendid man: a Nation's son, Rail-splitter, Lawyer, President, Who served his country and died content,— The patriot, Abe Lincoln. Only—ah! what was the secret, then, Of his being America's honored son? Why was he famed above other men, His name upon every tongue and pen,— The illustrious Abe Lincoln? A mighty brain, a will to endure, Kind to all, though a slave to none, A heart that was brave, and strong, and sure, A soul that was noble, and great, and pure, A faith in God that was held secure,— This was Abraham Lincoln.

I'VE got the finest grandpapa That ever lived, I b'lieve; He used to be a soldier boy— He's got one empty sleeve. He tells the grandest tales to me, Of battles that he fought; Of how he marched, and how he charged, And how that he got shot. My papa was a soldier, too; No battles was he in, And when I ask him, "Why?", he laughs And "guesses" he "was tin." I've tried to understand their talk, And b'lieve I have it right: My grandpa licked so many, there Were none for pa to fight.

WE TALKED of kings, little Ned and I, As we sat in the firelight's glow; Of Alfred the Great, in days gone by, And his kingdom of long ago. Of Norman William, who, brave and stern, His armies to victory led. Then, after a pause, "At school we learn Of another great man," said Ned. "And this one was good to the oppressed, He was gentle and brave, and so Wasn't he greater than all the rest? 'Twas Abraham Lincoln, you know." "Was Lincoln a king?" I asked him then, And in waiting for his reply A long procession of noble men Seemed to pass in the firelight by. When "No" came slowly from little Ned, And thoughtfully; then, with a start, "He wasn't a king—outside," he said, "But I think he was in his heart."

WHEN we think of Abraham Lincoln Then the angel voices call, Saying: Try to be just like him! Be as noble, one and all. Be as truthful, as unselfish; Be as pure, as good, as kind; Be as honest; never flatter; Give to God your heart and mind. Seek not praise, but do your duty, Love the right and work for it; Then the world will be the better Because you have lived in it.

I'VE heard the beautiful stories Of Lincoln so great and so good. He helped all people in trouble, And their grief so well understood; To many sad tales he listened, Of heart-broken mothers and wives; And pausing 'mid all his worries, Once more he brought hope to their lives. Dearer than all other stories, Is this little one of the day When he, with his friends, was riding On horseback along the roadway; There, in the dust, by a tree, he found One little bird, then another, From their nest the wind had blown them, And he was hunting for their mother. When at last he found the nest, and In it the birdies laid, 'Mid the party's merry laughter His heart was glad, his manner grave: "Seems to me," he said, "I couldn't Tonight in bed with ease have slept Had I left those creatures suffer And not restored them to their nest." Wonderful heart; ever tender— Tender, yet just, with the rest. I think among all the stories, This shows his true nature the best.

MY GRANDPA was a soldier. They tell about the day He said his very last good-by and bravely marched away, With flying flags and bayonets all gleaming in the sun. They never saw him march back when all the war was done. They brought him here and laid him where I can always bring The very brightest flowers that blossom in the spring; But sweeter far than flowers, as every one can tell, Is the memory of the soldiers who loved their country well. I wish I could be like him—to try with all my might And do my loyal service for honor and for right And victory and glory! But children now, you know, Have never any chance at all to war against a foe. And as I think upon it, the best that we can do To show our love and honor for a hero brave and true, Is to resolve together always to be brave, To live our very noblest in the land he died to save.

'MID the names that fate has written On the deathless scroll of fame, We behold the name of Lincoln, Shining like a living flame. 'Mid the deeds the world remembers, (Deeds by dauntless heroes done), We behold the deeds of Lincoln, Blazing like a brilliant sun. 'Mid the lives whose light illumines History's dark and dreadful page, We behold the life of Lincoln, Lighting up an awful age. When the storm of peril threatened His loved land to overwhelm, Safe the ship of state he guided, With his hand upon the helm. Statesman, ruler, hero, martyr— Fitting names for him, I say, Wherefore, let us all as brothers, Love his memory today.

'TIS splendid to live so grandly That, long after you are gone, The things you did are remembered, And recounted under the sun; To live so bravely and purely That a nation stops on its way, And once a year, with banner and drum, Keeps the thoughts of your natal day. 'Tis splendid to have a record, So white and free from stain, That, held to the light, it shows no blot, Though tested and tried again; That age to age forever Repeats its story of love, And your birthday lives in a nation's heart All other days above. And this is our Lincoln's glory, A steadfast soul and true, Who stood for his country's union, When his country called him to. And now that we once more are one, And our flag of stars is flung To the breeze in defiant challenge, His name is on every tongue. Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely, To be so great and strong, That your memory is ever a tocsin To rally the foes of the wrong; To live so proudly and purely That your people pause in their way, And year by year, with banner and drum, Keep the thoughts of your natal day.

WE HAVE read the stories glowing, Found in annals of old, Of mighty conquerers marching, With cohorts strong and bold: We see the proud monarch, riding In grand and lofty state, We hear the clamor, extolling His skill and prowess great. But, grander by far the vision Modern annals unclose: Through the burning streets of Richmond Walks Lincoln 'mong his foes. Though no pride of state surrounds him, On every side we hear: "Foh Marsa Linkum, bress de Lawd." "De Sabiour now am near." "O, honey chile, jes' tech him once!" "Suah heben is 'mos' nigh." "I's on de mount, O, Gawd, I is." "Dis niggah now kin die." O, the poor untutored negroes! And yet I am sure, to him Before those cries of joy and love Earth's brightest gauds grew dim. And, I think, his heart that morning A throb exultant gave; For never more his countrymen Could know the name of slave!

FROM out the strong young west he came In those warlike days of yore, When Freedom's cry had reached the sky And rung from shore to shore. He knew the world was watching him, He heard the words of scorn, He felt the weight of a severed State By cruel rebellion torn. But calling on Jehovah, He seized his mighty pen And with a stroke, the chains he broke From a million bonded men. He was a dauntless leader As among the host he moved, And he gave his life in the time of strife To save the cause he loved.

HATS off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky; Hats off! The flag is passing by! Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by: Sea fights and land fights, grim and great, Fought to make and save the State; Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips; Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land's swift increase; Equal justice, right, and law, Stately honor and reverend awe; Sign of a nation, great and strong To ward her people from foreign wrong; Pride and glory and honor,—all Live in the colors to stand or fall. Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high. Hats off! The flag is passing by!

TELL to the boys the story of Lincoln, Tell it to them when early in youth, Tell of his struggles for knowledge to fit him, Guide him thro' manhood in honored truth. Tell them of Lincoln; yes, tell them the story, None more worthy of honor than he; None was more proud of our national glory; None was more true to the flag of the free. Tell to the boys the story of Lincoln; Tell of his loyalty, tell of his hate— Not toward men, but the infamous measures False to the nation, the home and the state. Tell them; yes, tell them, his highest ambition Was of all men in the nation to stand Close to the hearts of the people who loved him— Loved him and chose him to rule in the land. Tell to the boys the sad story of Lincoln; Tell of his trials when traitors defied And spurned the old flag; how the nation's defenders At his call rallied and sprang to his side; Tell how he suffered when news of the battle Told of disaster, of wounded and dead; Tell how his great noble heart was oft gladdened When as proud victors our armies were led. Tell them; yes, tell them the story and point them Up to a standard he would applaud; Loyal in life to the state and the nation, True to one country, one flag and one God.

WHAT shall I say to you, Old Flag? You are so grand in every fold, So linked with mighty deeds of old, So steeped in blood where heroes fell, So torn and pierced by shot and shell, So calm, so still, so firm, so true, My throat swells at the sight of you, Old Flag. What of the men who lifted you, Old Flag, Upon the top of Bunker Hill, Who crushed the Britons' cruel will, 'Mid shock and roar and crash and scream, Who crossed the Delaware's frozen stream, Who starved, who fought, who bled, who died, That you might float in glorious pride, Old Flag? What of the women brave and true, Old Flag, Who, while the cannon thundered wild, Sent forth a husband, lover, child, Who labored in the field by day, Who, all the night long, knelt to pray, And thought that God great mercy gave, If only freely you might wave, Old Flag? What is your mission now, Old Flag? What but to set all people free, To rid the world of misery, To guard the right, avenge the wrong, And gather in one joyful throng Beneath your folds in close embrace All burdened ones of every race, Old Flag. Right nobly do you lead the way, Old Flag. Your stars shine out for liberty, Your white stripes stand for purity, Your crimson claims that courage high For honor's sake to fight and die. Lead on against the alien shore! We'll follow you, e'en to Death's door, Old Flag!

THIS man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature's masterful, great men; Born with strong arms that unfought victories won, Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen, Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlas' load The burden of the Commonwealth was laid; He stooped, and rose up with it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place To this dead Benefactor of the Race!

OH, SLOW to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just! Who in the fear of God, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust. In sorrow by thy bier we stand Amid the awe that husheth all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall. Thy task is done; the bonds are free; We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave. Pure was thy life; its bloody close Has placed thee with the Sons of Light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right.

NO GLITTERING chaplet brought from other lands! As in his life, this man, in death, is ours; His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt, gnarled hands" Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers! What need hath he now of a tardy crown, His name from mocking jest and sneer to save? When every ploughman turns his furrow down As soft as though it fell upon his grave. He was a man whose like the world again Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise; The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign Are battles, not the pomps of gala days! The grandest leader of the grandest war That ever time in history gave a place; What were the tinsel flattery of a star To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace! 'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest worth, The nation's loyalty in tears upsprings; Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth High o'er the silken broideries of kings. The mechanism of external forms— The shrifts that courtiers put their bodies through, Were alien ways to him—his brawny arms Had other work than posturing to do! Born of the people, well he knew to grasp The wants and wishes of the weak and small; Therefore we hold him with no shadowy clasp— Therefore his name is household to us all. Therefore we love him with a love apart From any fawning love of pedigree— His was the royal soul and mind and heart— Not the poor outward shows of royalty. Forgive us then, O friends, if we are slow To meet your recognition of his worth— We're jealous of the very tears that flow From eyes that never loved a humble hearth.

YOUR Flag and my Flag, And how it flies today In your land and my land And half the world away! Rose-red and blood-red The stripes forever gleam; Snow-white and soul-white— The good forefather's dream; Sky-blue and true-blue, with stars to gleam aright— The gloried guidon of the day; a shelter through the night. Your Flag and my Flag! And, oh, how much it holds— Your land and my land— Secure within its folds! Your heart and my heart Beat quicker at the sight; Sun-kissed and wind-tossed, Red and blue and white. The one Flag—the great Flag—the Flag for me and you— Glorified all else beside—the red and white and blue! Your Flag and my Flag! To every star and stripe The drums beat as hearts beat And fifers shrilly pipe! Your Flag and my Flag— A blessing in the sky; Your hope and my hope— It never hid a lie! Home land and far land and half the world around, Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!

HE FILLED the nation's eye and heart, An honored, loved, familiar name, So much a brother that his fame Seemed of our lives a common part. His towering figure, sharp and spare, Was with such nervous tension strung, As if on each strained sinew swung The burden of a people's care. He was his country's, not his own; He had no wish but for her weal; Not for himself could think or feel, But as a laborer for her throne. O, loved and lost! thy patient toil Had robed our cause in Victory's light; Our country stood redeemed and bright, With not a slave on all her soil. A martyr to the cause of man, His blood is freedom's eucharist, And in the world's great hero list, His name shall lead the van.

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead! O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

SOME opulent force of genius, soul, and race, Some deep life-current from far centuries Flowed to his mind and lighted his sad eyes, And gave his name, among great names, high place. But these are miracles we may not trace, Nor say why from a source and lineage mean He rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen Or told on the long scroll of history's space. The tragic fate of one broad hemisphere Fell on stern days to his supreme control, All that the world and liberty held dear Pressed like a nightmare on his patient soul. Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done, Fame looked, and saw another Washington!

THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day— Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.

SUCH was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on this world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. * * * * * I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame. The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.

OUT of the mellow West there came A man whom neither praise nor blame Could gild or tarnish; one who rose With fate-appointed swiftness far Above his friends, above his foes; Whose life shone like a splendid star, To fill his people's hearts with flame; Who never sought for gold or fame; But gave himself without a price— A willing, humble sacrifice— An erring Nation's Paschal Lamb— The great, gaunt, patient Abraham. I never saw his wrinkled face, Where tears and smiles disputed place; I never touched his homely hand, That seemed in benediction raised, E'en when it emphasized command, What time the fires of battle blazed, The hand that signed the act of grace Which freed a wronged and tortured race; And yet I feel that he is mine— My country's; and that light divine Streams from the saintly oriflamme Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham. He was our standard-bearer; he Caught up the thread of destiny, And round the breaking Union bound And wove it firmly. To his task He rose gigantic; nor could sound Of menace daunt him. Did he ask For homage when glad Victory Followed his flags from sea to sea? Nay, but he staunched the wounds of war; And you owe all you have and are— And I owe all I have and am To great, gaunt, patient Abraham. The pillars of our temple rocked Beneath the mighty wind that shocked Foundations that the fathers laid; But he upheld the roof and stood Fearless, while others were afraid; His sturdy strength and faith were good, While coward knees together knocked, And traitor hands the door unlocked, To let the unbeliever in. He bore the burden of our sin, While the rebel voices rose to damn The great, gaunt, patient Abraham. And then he died a martyr's death— Forgiveness in his latest breath, And peace upon his dying lips. He died for me; he died for you; Heaven help us if his memory slips Out of our hearts! His soul was true And clean and beautiful. What saith Dull history that reckoneth But coldly? That he was a man Who loved his fellows as few can; And that he hated every sham— Our great, gaunt, patient Abraham. Majestic, sweet, was Washington; And Jefferson was like the sun— He glorified the simplest thing He touched; and Andrew Jackson seems The impress of a fiery king To leave upon us: these in dreams Are oft before us; but the one Whose vast work was so simply done— The Lincoln of our war-tried years— Has all our deepest love; in tears, We chant the In Memoriam Of great, gaunt, patient Abraham.

WHEN the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of mortal tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to hold against the world, A man to match our mountains, and compel The stars to look our way and honor us. The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things; The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

YOU lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please. You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain: Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain. Beside this corpse that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourner at his head and feet, Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you? Yes! He had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit made home truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be: How in good fortune and in ill the same: Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work—such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand— As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights— The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear— Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train: Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up a destined work to do, And lived to do it: four long-suffering years. Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report lived through, And then he heard the hisses changed to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood: Till, as he came on light, from darkling days And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his Heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high! Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came! A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

LINCOLN arose! the masterful, great man, Girt with rude grandeur, quelling doubt and fear,— A more than king, yet in whose veins there ran The red blood of the people, warm, sincere, Blending of Puritan and Cavalier. A will whose force stern warriors came to ask, A heart that melted at a mother's tear— These brought he to his superhuman task: Over a tragic soul he wore a comic mask. He was the South's child more than of the North! His soul was not compact of rock and snow, But such as old Kentucky's soil gives forth,— The splendid race of giants that we know, Firm unto friend, and loyal unto foe, Such birthrights all environment forestall, Resistlessly their tides of impulse flow. This man who answered to his country's call Was full of human faults, and nobler for them all. He is a life, and not a legend, yet: For thousands live who shook him by the hand, Millions whose sympathies with his were set, Whose hopes and griefs alike with his were grand, Who deeply mourned his passing. They demand Our homage to the greatest man they saw,— They, his familiars; and throughout our land The years confirm them, over race and law: Even of rancor now the voice is hush'd in awe.

BY THE flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

IT DON'T seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, "The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet's fit for you an' me!" You wonder why we're hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess There's human blood," sez he, "By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More'n it would you an' me." Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait and sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, I only guess," sez he, "Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win,—ditto tails? "J. B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess (I'm good at thet)," sez he, "Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!" When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn't stop for fuss,— Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' Put up by you an' me!" We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, If we can't think with you, John, It's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, If thet's his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess He's like the rest," sez he: "When all is done, it's number one Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess We've a hard row," sez he, "To hoe jest now; but thet somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess It is a fact," sez he, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you an' me!" Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the ax an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't twixt you an' me!)" We know we've got a cause, John, Thet's honest, just an' true; We thought 't would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's nature in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An' "All men up!" say we,— White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Why, there's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me!" Shall it be love, or hate, John, It's you thet's to decide; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an me!" God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The wuth o' bein' free. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, God's price is high," sez he: "But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May larn, like you an' me!"

NO SLAVE beneath that starry flag, The emblem of the free! No fettered hand shall wield the brand That smites for liberty: No tramp of servile armies Shall shame Columbia's shore, For he who fights for freedom's rights Is free for evermore! * * * * * Go tell the brave of every land, Where'er that flag has flown— The tyrant's fear, the patriot's cheer, Through every clime and zone— That now no more forever Its stripes are slavery scars; No tear-drops stain its azure plain Nor dim its golden stars. No slave beneath that grand old flag! Forever let it fly, With lightning rolled in every fold, And flashing victory! God's blessing breathe around it! And when all strife is done, May freedom's light, that knows no night, Make every star a sun!

Grave Lincoln came, strong-handed, from afar— The mighty Homer of the lyre of war! 'T was he who bade the raging tempest cease, Wrenched from his strings the harmony of peace, Muted the strings that made the discord—Wrong, And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song, Oh, mighty Master of the mighty lyre! Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire: Earth learned of thee what Heav'n already knew, And wrote thee down among the treasured few!

From humble parentage and poverty, old Nature reared him, And the world beheld her ablest, noblest man; Few were his joys, many and terrible his trials, But grandly he met them as only truly great souls can! Our Nation's Martyr, pure, honest, patient, tender— Thou who didst suffer agony e'en for the slave— Our flag's defender, our brave, immortal teacher! I lay this humble tribute on thy honored grave.

We rest in peace where these sad eyes Saw peril, strife, and pain; His was the nation's sacrifice, And ours the priceless gain.

May one who fought in honor for the South Uncovered stand and sing by Lincoln's grave? * * * * * He was the North, the South, the East, the West, The thrall, the master, all of us in one; There was no section that he held the best; His love shone as impartial as the sun; And so revenge appealed to him in vain, He smiled at it, as at a thing forlorn, And gently put it from him, rose and stood A moment's space in pain, Remembering the prairies and the corn And the glad voices of the field and wood.

His was a name so pure, a life so grand, That Lincoln's a magic name throughout the land.

O honest face, which all men knew! O tender heart, but known to few!

Who can be what he was to the people, What he was to the State? Shall the ages bring us another As good and as great?

The flag of our nation we're bringing, The banner for me and for you; As songs of dear Lincoln we're singing, We stand 'neath the Red, White and Blue, O flag of a nation united, We love your bright folds and your stars, We march 'neath the bonnie bright banner, This good land of freedom is ours. We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue, The flag of our nation forever, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue! See, the bonnie bright banners are streaming, We wave them all high in the air, The Red, White and Blue now is gleaming, Beloved by all men everywhere. Oh, long may the banner be waving, Upheld by soldiers and sailors true; Three cheers for the flag of our nation, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue, The flag of our nation forever, We'll stand by the Red, White and Blue.

We're the boys of the land! We'll always be true To the flag of the Union, The Red, White and Blue.

We're the boys of the sea! Wherever we sail The Red, White and Blue Shall weather each gale.

The boys of the land and the boys of the sea, Sing a song for our banner, the flag of the free, The Union forever, for me and for you, Three cheers for our banner, the Red, White and Blue.

There are many flags in many lands, There are flags of ev'ry hue, But there is no flag, however grand, Like our own Red, White and Blue.

Chorus: Then hurrah for the flag! our country's flag, Its stripes and white stars, too; There is no flag in any land Like our own Red, White and Blue!

What threatens the Union In this land of ours? There appears a new flag, Of the Stars and Bars. "United we stand, Divided we fall." Who now can save us? On whom shall we call?

From Lincoln I have come today Our Lincoln! With justice he will take his place, Our Lincoln! With courage on his noble brow, He will protect the Union now, We all salute; to him we bow, Our Lincoln!

From Lincoln I have come today To call for Volunteers! Other messengers are on their way To call for Volunteers. Shall we now see our flag bowed low? No, to meet the Southerners we'll go, Marching while the bugles blow The call for Volunteers!

The time has come for strife and war, Blow, bugles, blow! The soldier boys are called once more, Blow, bugles, blow! Bear your message far and wide, Ring out through all the countryside, We are a Nation's hope and pride, Blow, bugles, blow!

Marching toward the battlefield, We go with sword and drum; Marching toward the battlefield, O, see the army come. Rat-a-tat, a-rat-a-tat, So loudly beats the drum, While we are singing of Lincoln.

Chorus: Hurrah! hurrah! who'll be a Volunteer? Hurrah! hurrah! O what have we to fear? Join the chorus every one, the army marches on, While we are singing of Lincoln.

Marching on to victory, O, hear the drums beat low, Marching on to victory, Now see the army go. Wave the bonnie stars and stripes, Up high where all may see, While we are singing of Lincoln.

What ho! the guard is asleep! What, then, if the enemy come, Creeping stealthily over the hill With never the sound of drum? By surprise our camp they'd take. Sleeping guard, awake! awake!

For this offense you shall be tried, 'Twas indeed a sad mistake. Who shall guard the camp tonight, If no guard here is awake?

'Tis wearisome the watch to keep, Alas! alas! he fell asleep! Alas! alas! he fell asleep!

Scott is a bonnie soldier boy: He's honest, brave and true; He is worthy still to bear The Red and White and Blue. Alas! alas! he will come home, Sentenced soon to die, Beloved by all his comrades, now With bowed heads they march by.

There is but one who can save you now; From a cabin home he came, He is our honored President, And Lincoln is his name! Then to our honored President, For pardon we will go, We will march if there be hope No more with heads bowed low.

'Way down in the sunny Southland, Lives the little black boy, you know, His mother sings a lullaby, To the tune of the old banjo. Chorus: Plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk, Down in the cotton-field we go. Plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk, Plunkety-plunk, plunk-plunk, banjo. 'Way down in the sunny Southland, Where the sky is so bright and blue, The black boy on the banjo strings Likes to play the same tune to you. Chorus: Plunkety-plunk, etc. 'Way down in the sunny Southland You will hear this sweet lullaby, The wee black boy must go to sleep, For the Sandman is passing by. Chorus: Plunkety-plunk, etc. Soldiers (return, shouting): Hurrah! Scott is pardoned.

The flag that speaks of men made free, The flag of sword and drum, 'Tis the bonniest banner in all the world, The flag of battles won.

The flag that speaks of Gettysburg, Upheld by faithful men Amid the battle's storm and strife, Shall wave for us again.

The flag that waves o'er Lincoln now, Means freedom for the slave; So waves the bonnie stars and stripes O'er many a patriot's grave.

No North, no South, no East, no West, A union of all states is best; One flag for all is a nation's pride, The Blue and the Gray lay side by side.

Today the flags are flying, For a hero that we love; We all sing of Lincoln, While waves the flag above. Bring out the bonnie banners, Flags of shining stripes and stars, Lincoln was our country's hero, And the victory is ours.

Crown him with wreaths of evergreen, Our Lincoln. Bring fairest flowers ever seen, For Lincoln. Crown him today with fragrant flowers, The war is o'er, the victory is ours, Above all men this great man towers, Our Lincoln. Crown him with gentle words of love, Our Lincoln; And place the banners high above For Lincoln. Raise high the flag of liberty, For one who set the slaves all free, Ring out his praises from sea to sea, Our Lincoln.

L: Lincoln's name we all repeat, And bring for him our flowers sweet. I: In peace or war a nation's pride, We place our banners by his side. N: No North, no South today is seen, We bring our wreaths of evergreen. C: Crown him with honest words of love, And place the stars and stripes above. O: One nation and one flag is best, Place flowers where our hero rests. L: Lincoln, we all love to bring Tributes, while of thee we sing. N: No more he hears the bugle's call, We scatter flowers over all.

Wave the bonnie banners high, O Lincoln dear! A host of children passing by, O Lincoln dear, Will sing to you their sweetest song, As they now proudly march along, For laurels unto you belong, O Lincoln dear.

Chorus: Wave the banners high, The Red, the White, the Blue; Wave the banners high, To Lincoln dear we're true. O wave the bonnie banners, How proudly they all sway, We wave the Red, the White, the Blue, For Lincoln dear today. Bonnie flags shall crown you now, O Lincoln dear, We place them by your noble brow, O Lincoln dear, And fairer far than monument, The love from our young hearts is sent, You were our honored President, O Lincoln dear. Chorus: Wave the banners, etc.

What flag is this?

This is our country's flag, This flag so fine. It is my father's flag And it is mine.

What are its colors?

White stars in a field of blue, Stripes white and red. See our "Red, White and Blue" Waving o'erhead (waving flags).

What do these colors mean?

White means, Be always pure! Red means, Be brave! Blue means, Be ever true! Long may it wave.

Why are the flags up today?

All these United States, Many in one, Honor this glorious name— Abraham Lincoln.

We wave[I] the flag, the bonny flag Of red and white and blue. This flag that floats o'er land and sea, To it we will be true. Then[I] hail the flag, this bonny flag, We'll give it three times three; God bless the land that owns this flag, The land of liberty.