I see the transport's here at last; the soldier boys have come.
I hear the bugles brayin' an' the beatin' o' the drum;
I can see the flags a-flyin' and the bands begin to play,
An' it seems to me they sailed from Frisco only yesterday.
I'd like to join the shoutin', but I couldn't cheer a note;
There's a lump that's always risin' and a-chokin' in my throat.
They're marchin' down the street by twos; I'm watchin' every pair,
But I know my boy ain't with 'em—they have left him over there.
I know a fellow ought to try to put aside his tears,
An' he ought to join the shoutin' an' the ringin', rousin' cheers.
But say! It's hard to stand here an' to see 'em marchin' on,
An' to know that my boy's missin' from them marchin' ranks, an' gone.
Say, if I could only see him, with his head erect an' high,
An' if he could know I was a-watchin' of him passin' by!
An' know that in that cheerin' he was gettin' of his share!
But he can't—the Lord saw fit to muster him out over there.
There's so many, Lord, so many; an' my boy was all I had,
An' it seems you might 'a' left him to his poor old lovin' Dad.
His mother died so long ago; he never knew her face,
An' Daddy's breast in childhood was his only restin' place.
An' when the call for volunteers was made, he come to me,
An' he pleaded to go with 'em, an' he begged so earnestly,
An' I says: “He's all I've got, Lord, an' I know you'll surely spare
My boy, an' let him come back.” An' he's lyin' over there.
An' I thought to go to Frisco, an' to greet him when he come;
An' to stay till he was mustered out, an' then to bring him home.
An' so I'm here to see the boys,—to hear the shouts an' cheers;
A poor old father watchin' 'em through eyes that's blurred with tears.
I know he's not among 'em, but it sort o' seems to me,
That he can't be lyin' out there dead, across the sobbin' sea.
There's so many boys, so many, that the Lord was good to spare,
That I can't believe my boy is in his grave out over there.
I hear the bugles brayin' an' the beatin' o' the drum;
I can see the flags a-flyin' and the bands begin to play,
An' it seems to me they sailed from Frisco only yesterday.
I'd like to join the shoutin', but I couldn't cheer a note;
There's a lump that's always risin' and a-chokin' in my throat.
They're marchin' down the street by twos; I'm watchin' every pair,
But I know my boy ain't with 'em—they have left him over there.
I know a fellow ought to try to put aside his tears,
An' he ought to join the shoutin' an' the ringin', rousin' cheers.
But say! It's hard to stand here an' to see 'em marchin' on,
An' to know that my boy's missin' from them marchin' ranks, an' gone.
Say, if I could only see him, with his head erect an' high,
An' if he could know I was a-watchin' of him passin' by!
An' know that in that cheerin' he was gettin' of his share!
But he can't—the Lord saw fit to muster him out over there.
There's so many, Lord, so many; an' my boy was all I had,
An' it seems you might 'a' left him to his poor old lovin' Dad.
His mother died so long ago; he never knew her face,
An' Daddy's breast in childhood was his only restin' place.
An' when the call for volunteers was made, he come to me,
An' he pleaded to go with 'em, an' he begged so earnestly,
An' I says: “He's all I've got, Lord, an' I know you'll surely spare
My boy, an' let him come back.” An' he's lyin' over there.
An' I thought to go to Frisco, an' to greet him when he come;
An' to stay till he was mustered out, an' then to bring him home.
An' so I'm here to see the boys,—to hear the shouts an' cheers;
A poor old father watchin' 'em through eyes that's blurred with tears.
I know he's not among 'em, but it sort o' seems to me,
That he can't be lyin' out there dead, across the sobbin' sea.
There's so many boys, so many, that the Lord was good to spare,
That I can't believe my boy is in his grave out over there.