I think I'm dying, comrade, The day is growing dark; And that is not the bob-o-link, Nor yet the meadow-lark: It cannot be the distant drum; It cannot be the fife, For why should drum, or bob-o-link, Be calling me from life? I do not think I'm wounded; I cannot feel a pain; And yet I've fallen, comrade, Never to rise again. The last that I remember, We charged upon the foe; I heard a sound of victory, And that is all I know. I think we must have conquered, For all last night it seemed That I was up in Paradise -- Among the blest, it seemed. And there, beside the Throne of God, I saw a banner wave, The good old Stars and Stripes, my boy, O'er victory and the grave. A hundred thousand soldiers Stood at the right of God; And old John Brown, he stood before, Like Aaron with his rod: A slave was there beside him, And Jesus Christ was there; And over God, and Christ, and all, The banner waved in air. And now I'm dying, comrade, And there is old John Brown A standing at the Golden Gate, And holding me a crown. I do not hear the bob-o-link, Nor yet the drum and fife; I only know the voice of God Is calling me from life. |