Vi

O Daughters of brave sires, what is true glory? No marsh-ward falling star, however bright. 'Tis inspirational; its upward flight Lifts generations--such your Father's story, And also yours, for is not that, too, gory? You pour out your hearts blood in sons to fight For honor, and cease not till every right Has been set down in Triumph's inventory.

Oh, into daughters, too, old noble Mothers! You pour out your hearts blood that, in your place, They may fill up the ranks and, as in case Of Molly Pitcher, man guns for their brothers, And hearten firm, the trembling human race To know, though brave men fall, there still comes others.