Oh God bless our land, and united once more, May we gather true wisdom from war’s desolation; From the thick curling smoke, and the fierce cannon’s roar, Let peace in her beauty rise and smile on our nation; To show to the world that peace is unfurled, And war from Columbia forever is hurled, CHORUS. That the proud Ark of Freedom, with bold, trusty crew, Still sails ’neath the banner of the Red, White and Blue. Great God bless our land, for ’tis dyed in the gore Of the good and the brave of a nation’s defenders; Oh! may death’s fearful havoc molest us no more, And Thy love fill the bosom as passion surrenders; To show to the world that love is unfurled, And hate from Columbia forever is hurled. That the proud Ark, etc. Oh God bless our land--may our eagle still fly, And gaze on Columbia in proud adoration; Let the sunlight of truth ever flash from his eye, Urging freemen to duty in dark tribulation; To show to the world that truth is unfurled, Aught else from Columbia forever is hurled. That the proud Ark, etc. May the emblem we love, the Flag of the Free, For all time to come be our shield and our protection, Ever waving in glory on land and on sea, Our shrine of devotion and fond recollection; To show to the world our flag is unfurled, And strife from Columbia forever is hurled. That the proud Ark, etc. 75 The Union Harvesting. AIR--_Old Oaken Bucket_. Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden, And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain, And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden, Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain; But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer, Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red, And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer, Whose blood for his country is loyally shed, In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union, The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed. Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel, And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood-- Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal, Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood? Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling? Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won? While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling, In the field be our place, till the field-work is done! In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union, The gardens of Union, till victory is won. Beadle’s Dime Song Books. No. 1.