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408 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear
Returned to their homes no more. They died by the bullet—disease had power,
An' to death they were rudely tossed; But the thought came warm in their dying hour, " Not a shtar from the flag is lost! "
Then they said their pathers and aves through, An', like Irishmen, died—did our Boys in Blue.
But now they tell us some shtars are gone,
Torn out by the rebel gale; That the shtars we fought for, the states we won,
Are still out of the Union's pale. May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow
Who sing such a lyin' shtrain; By the dead in their graves, it shall not be so —
They shall have what they died to gain !
All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue ! |
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