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Our fathers bore the deepest woe,

Through burning sun and drifting snow; They fought for seven long years, that we

Might have this glorious liberty.

And while the years do roll their round,

Oh, may Columbia's sons be found To guard the branches of that tree,

By shouting death. or liberty.

And may they shield our ensign, too,

'Twas borne aloft the battles through; It floats so proudly to the breeze,

The champion of all lands and seas!

From east to west, from north to south,

As each returning Fourth we see, We'll shout the anthem through the land.

Our fathers died to plant that tree!

That glorious tree protected will stand

Perfuming the earth and the sky; The joy of the true, and the pride of our land,

And shade us the Fourth of July.

Ghey are Passing Away.

HEY are passing away, those fleeting

years, Like leaves on the river cast, They wait not for man, but onward they

flow; Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks,

months, they go Into the wonderful past.

They are gliding past like a weaver's thread, And straight as the lightning's pointed

gleam, And soft as the gentle summer's breeze, That lightly sways the forest trees,

And daintly ripples the glassy stream.

They are gliding past, like the thistles down,

And still as the midnight dream, And pure as the lark, when she tunes her

throat To sing in the woodland her sweetest note;

Those fleeting years so tender they seem.

Yes, they are passing, one by one,

Down the steps of time sò rare; We stop and think of their noiseless tread, Of the centuries past, and long since dead,

That were beautiful and fair.

Our years are few, though to some are given

Their three score years and ten; But that is a short and toilsome stay,

For the fallen sons of men. So rapid they fly from mortals below, As swift as an arrow from the archer's bow;

Bear each one onward through bliss and


As our years are few and fleeting, too,

Shall we pass them in idle strife?

Shall we trample them under our busy feetThose beautiful years, so precious and

sweetAs we travel the pathway of life?

And while our years are lengthened out,

Harsh words should not be heard; But our life be a pattern of rare design, Until we are called this clay to resign,

We should speak no evil word.


FARK! what mournful sounds we hear,

From mother, wife and sister dear!
The wounds grow worse from year to

And can't be healed.

A wife, she lisped the name of one

She deeply mourned, and dearly loved; Whose footsteps she would hear no more,

Whose spirit was in heaven above.

And loving sisters, when they meet,

And see the vacant chairs of two, Whose looks are bright as when they left

'Twas brother John and Lew!

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