Though the hand of dark Treason its luster would mar, It shall yield not a stripe, it shall lose not a star; But forevermore planted on Liberty’s rock, Every storm it will breast, and defy every shock. While the broad Mississippi flows down to the main, And the blue Alleghanies arise from the plain-- While Niagara’s waters unshackled shall be, It will wave o’er our Union, the Flag of the Free! 15 Gathering Song. AIR--_Bonny Boat._ Oh, gayly sound the bugles shrill, Adown the mountain-glen, And loudly on the breezes thrill The songs of loyal men! Still marching on with iron tramp To battle’s wild accords, They point to vile Rebellion’s camp, And clash their fathers’ swords! Oh, proudly throbs each patriot’s heart, When, thundering from afar, O’er woodland-glen, or mountain-crest, Upswells the loud hurrah! While trumpet-peal and rattling drum, And wild artillery’s roar, Proclaim that Freedom’s soldiers come As came their sires of yore. 16 Liberty. AIR--_Somebody’s Waiting for Somebody._ Cloudy and dark is the heaven, Darksome and doubtful for Liberty; But there’s a cloud or two riven, Showing the bright light of Liberty; Out of the midst of all gloom, Shines the fair promise of Liberty-- Over each patriot’s tomb, Rises the day-star of Liberty, Rises the day-star of Liberty! There will be battles to fight, Battles defending our Liberty! There will be traitors to smite, Traitors who strike at our Liberty! But when our triumph shall come, Over the foemen of Liberty, Who will consider the sum Spent in defense of our Liberty? Spent in defense of our Liberty? Lift up the Banner of Stars, Fling out the colors of Liberty; Over all shackles and bars, We will march forward to Liberty! Union and laws we’ll defend, Guided and guarded by Liberty, Till, at the glorious end, All the world shares in our Liberty, All the world shares in our Liberty! 17 Wife of my Bosom. AIR--_Kathleen Mavourneen._ Wife of my bosom, the midnight hangs o’er me, And shadow and silence encompass our camp; Oh, dark is my heart, like the darkness before me, Wife of my bosom, while lonely I tramp; ’Tis not that I falter, or fear the red morrow, When true men give battle to rebels forsworn, But the heart of each soldier may have its own sorrow, And ’tis thinking of thee, love, makes mine so forlorn.