Our boys are gone 'till the war is o'er,
In the ranks of death you'll find them;
With duty's path of blood before,
And with all they love behind them:
They bear our hearts to the tented field--
Each danger makes them dearer--
Their faithful hearts our only shield
From the foe still drawing nearer.
With pride we hear of the perils braved
And the wreaths they win of glory;
With joy we hear of lov'd ones saved
From each field of battle gory;
And joy is mix'd with fleeting pain
As we look to Heaven o'er us,
And think that there we'll meet again,
With the brave who've gone before us.