| He was just a blue-eyed Boston boy,
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| His voice was low with pain.
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| «I'll do your bidding, comrade mine,
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| If I ride back again.
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| But if you ride back and I am left,
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| You’ll do as much for me,
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| Mother, you know, must hear the news,
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| So write to her tenderly.
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| «She's waiting at home like a patient saint,
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| Her fond face pale with woe.
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| Her heart will be broken when I am gone,
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| I’ll see her soon, I know.»
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| Just then the order came to charge,
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| For an instance hand touched hand.
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| They said, «Aye,"and away they rode,
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| That brave and devoted band.
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| Straight was the track to the top of the hill,
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| The rebels they shot and shelled,
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| Plowed furrows of death through the toiling ranks,
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| And guarded them as they fell.
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| There soon came a horrible dying yell
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| From heights that they could not gain,
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| And those whom doom and death had spared
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| Rode slowly back again.
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| But among the dead that were left on the hill
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| Was the boy with the curly hair.
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| The tall dark man who rode by his side
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| Lay dead beside him there.
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| There’s no one to write to the blue-eyed girl
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| The words that her lover had said.
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| Momma, you know, awaits the news,
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| And she’ll only know he’s dead. |