He is acting o'er the battle,
With his cap and feather gay,
Singing out his soldier prattle,
In a mockish, manly way--
With the boldest, bravest footstep,
Treading firmly up and down,
And his banner waving softly
O'er his boyish locks of brown.
And I sit beside him sewing,
With a busy heart and hand,
For the gallant soldiers going
To the far-off battle-land;
And I gaze upon my jewel,
In his baby-spirit bold,
My little blue-eyed soldier,
Just a second summer old.
Still a deep, deep well of feeling,
In my mother's heart is stirred,
And the tears come softly stealing
At each imitative word.
There's a struggle in my bosom,
For I love my darling boy--
He's the gladness of my spirit,
He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet I think upon my country,
And my spirit groweth bold,
Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old!
I would speed him to the battle,
I would arm him for the fight,
I would give him to his country,
For his country's wrong and right!
I would nerve his hand with blessing,
From the "God of Battles" won;
With _His_ helmet and _His_ armor,
I would cover o'er my son.
Oh! I _know_ there'd be a struggle,
For I love my darling boy;
He's the gladness of my spirit,
He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet in thinking of my country,
Oh! my spirit groweth bold;
And I wish my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old.