The Martyr's Hill

Sitting in her sorrow lone,
Still our Mother makes her moan
For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill her thoughts
in mourning go.
O, that desert of the Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow!

Into glory had they rode
When the tide of triumph flowed,
Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low.

But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Praying breath rose white in air,
Eyes were set in a stern stare,
Hands were stretcht for help that came not as they
sank in silence low:

Our grand, our gracious Dead,
Who lay down in their death -bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Now the winter snows are gone,
And Earth smiles as though the Dawn
Had come up from it in flowers — such a light of grace
doth glow
All about our darkened Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

But, never, never more,
Comes the Spring that will restore
To their own love, their own land, the dear ones lying
low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Till with victory God replies,
Shall our Battle storm the skies,
And our living heroes think, as they grapple with the
foe,
Of our perisht, peerless Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Through a hundred battles red,
Shall their fame float overhead;
Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories
blow.

So we crown our glorious Dead,
. Who lay down in their death- bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.