These are the days when little thoughts
Must cease men's minds to occupy;
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The house is as it was when she was here;
There's nothing changed at all about the place;
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The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth, nor ever question why,
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We never knew how much the Flag
Could mean, until he went away,
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Mothers and wives, 'tis the call to arms
That the bugler yonder prepares to sound;
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Oh, mother, be you brave of heart and keep
your bright eyes shining;
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We have boasted our courage in moments of ease,
Our star-spangled banner we've flung on the breeze;
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Good luck! That's all I'm saying, as you sail across the sea;
The best o' luck, in the parting, is the prayer you get from me.
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He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,
And he said to me in a gloomy way:
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'Twas hard to think that he must go,
We knew that we should miss him so,
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Last night he said the dead were dead
And scoffed my faith to scorn;
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Not somewhere in America, but everywhere to-day,
Where snow-crowned mountains hold their heads,
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I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see
In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be.
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My Pa says that he used to be
A bright boy in geography;
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Some fellers' pas seem awful old,
An' talk like they was going to scold,
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It's mighty hard for Mother—I am busy through the day
And the tasks of every morning keep the gloomy thoughts away,
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If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me;
I'd answer every challenge to my will.
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Pledged to the bravest and the best,
We stand, who cannot share the fray,
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God has been good to men. He gave
His Only Son their souls to save,
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His name was Kelly Ingram; he was Alabama's son,
And he whistled "Yankee Doodle," as he stood beside his gun;
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I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day;
I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray";
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To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,
To-morrow it will be the same,
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When the umpire calls you out,
It's no use to stamp and shout,
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Grandmother says when I pass her the cake:
"Just half of that, please."
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When I was but a little lad, my old Grandfather said
That none should wind the clock but he, and so, at time for bed,
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When a cake is nicely frosted and it's put away for tea,
And it looks as trim and proper as a chocolate cake should be,
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Been down to the art museum an' looked at a thousand things,
The bodies of ancient mummies an' the treasures of ancient kings,
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All things grow lovely in a little while,
The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;
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I'd like to give 'em all they ask—it hurts to have to answer, "No,"
And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wantin
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This I would claim for my success—not fame nor gold,
Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,
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