From The Civil War in Song and Story 1860-1865, collected and arranged by Frank Moore page 66
Is that mother bending o'er me
As she sang my cradle hymn -
Knelling there in tears before me?
Say? - my sight is growing dim.
Comes she from the old home lowly,
Out among the northern hills,
Tis her pet boy dying slowly
Of war's battle wounds and ills?
Mother! O, we bravely battled -
Battled till the day was done;'
While the leaden hail storm r1ttled-
Man to man and gun to gun.
But we failed - and I'm dying -
Dying in my boyhood's years,
There - no weeping - self- denying,
Noble deaths demand no tears.
Fold your arms again around me;
Press again my aching head;
Sing the lullaby you sung me -
Kiss me, mother, ere I'm dead