BENEATH the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day; And now beside a rippling stream, Upon the grass they lay. Tiring of games and idle jests, As swept the hours along, They called to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song." "I fear I cannot please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago." "Sing one of those," a rough voice cried, "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us, A mother's songs are dear." The songs are done, the camp is still, Naught but the stream is heard; But, ah! the depths of every soul By those old hymns are stirred. |