THE CAPTAIN OF '63 TO HIS MEN.

Come to the field, boys, come! Come at the call of the stirring drum— Come, boys, come! Yonder's the foe to our country's fame, Waiting to blot out her very name— Where is the man that would see her shame? Come, boys, come! Form, my brave men, form! Stand in good order to 'meet the storm'— Form, men, form! Sacred to us is our native land! Shrivelled for aye be each traitor hand Lifted to shatter so bright a band— Form, men, form! Charge, my soldiers, charge! From the steep hill to the river's marge, Charge! charge! charge! Think of our wives and mothers dear; Think of the hopes that have led us here; Think of the hearts that will give us cheer— Charge, boys, charge! Die with me, boys, die! There's a place for all in yon bannered sky, If we die, boys, die! Think of the names that are shining bright, Written in letters of living light! Rather than give up the sacred Right, Let's die, boys, die!