From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore; We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before— We are coming, Father Abraham—three hundred thousand more!
If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and" bands brave music pour— We are coming, Father Abraham—three hundred thousand more 1 If vou look all up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer-boys fast forming into line; And children, from their mothers' knees, are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door— We are coming, Father Abraham—three hundred thousand more!