April 19, 1775-1861
Once again, (our dear old Massachusetts!)
Once again the drops that made their way,
Red, ah not in vain! on that old greensward —
It is six and eighty years this very day.
Six and eighty years — aye, it seemed but a memory —
Little left of all that glory — so we thought —
Only the old firelocks hung on farm-house chimneys,
And rude blades the village blacksmith wrought.
Only here and there a white head that remembers
How the Frocks of Homespun stood against King George —
How the hard hands stretched them o'er the scanty embers
When the sleet and snow came down at Valley Forge.
Once more, dear Brother-State! thy pure, brave blood baptizes
Our last and noblest struggle for freedom and for right —
It fell on the cruel stones! — but an awful Nation rises
In the glory of its conscience, and the splendor of its might.
Once again the drops that made their way,
Red, ah not in vain! on that old greensward —
It is six and eighty years this very day.
Six and eighty years — aye, it seemed but a memory —
Little left of all that glory — so we thought —
Only the old firelocks hung on farm-house chimneys,
And rude blades the village blacksmith wrought.
Only here and there a white head that remembers
How the Frocks of Homespun stood against King George —
How the hard hands stretched them o'er the scanty embers
When the sleet and snow came down at Valley Forge.
Once more, dear Brother-State! thy pure, brave blood baptizes
Our last and noblest struggle for freedom and for right —
It fell on the cruel stones! — but an awful Nation rises
In the glory of its conscience, and the splendor of its might.
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