Massachusetts' black banner wav'd on Galveston's Strand, The roll of her drums echoed nightly, (Sad sound to the freemen who dwelt on the land), It was heard by his ear, it was caught by his band, A stain on our 'scutcheon unsightly: Night closed and morn came, what a change had been wrought! What proud banner floateth there now! Ah! the victory's won--Green the battle has fought! And the cross of the South, morning's golden beam caught; Fresh laurels encircle his brow. At Bisland he stood, like a rock in the ocean That stems the strong waves on the shore, Calm and unmoved, in the midst of commotion, Our army he saved by his dauntless devotion-- What chieftain has ever done more? Brashear, and Fordoche, Pleasant Hill and Mansfield, All breathe of his glory and fame-- There his genius burst forth like the lightning conceal'd, And destiny seem'd to his glance reveal'd-- Fate crowning in triumph his name. O we weep for the veteran hearts that are gone-- Scurry, Randall, Riley, Buchel, Shepherd, Chalmers, Ragsdale, Raines, McNeal and Mouton, Their glorious names and deeds shall live on-- Peace to the heroes that fell. And O, for the soldiers that bled with them there, Their country's strong bulwark and trust, United to do, and the courage to dare. In life they had borne all privation and care, In dust, undivided's their dust. And Liberty's tree, from the blood of the brave, In strength and in grandeur shall rise; Its branches extend to each ocean's blue wave, And sacred its fruit o'er each patriot's grave: How dearly that fruit shall we prize! Is the hero, O say, in that mystical world, Surrounded on Time's silent shore By the veteran dead, with their banners now furl'd-- War's trumpet unblown, and his lances unhurl'd-- Are they still with the chief they adore? Tom Green is no more! lov'd and honor'd he lies, Near his home by the murmuring river-- In the soil he sav'd, 'neath his own Southern skies, Where praises from lips yet unborn shall arise, And bless him forever and ever. There let him sleep on, undisturb'd in repose, And cease for the hero to sigh-- Life's morning was honor--in greatness it rose, 'Twas a sunset of splendor, that life at its close, He died as a soldier should die. O'er his hallow'd remains let no monument shine, To tell of the chieftain beneath it, His requiem hymn'd by the sorrow-toned pine, And wildly around it the jessamine twine, And flowers, bright flowers enwreathe it; Then silently night-skies their soft dews will shed On the spring-flowers that garland his grave-- One generous sigh for the bosom that bled, One generous tear for the fate of the dead, The noble, the true and the brave.