IV.

Now that the work of blood and tears is done, Whether of stern assault, or sudden raid, Yours is a record second yet to none— None takes your right in line, Mahone's Brigade.

Now that we've lost, as was fore-doomed, the day— Now that the good by ill has been outweighed— Let us plant olives on the rugged way, Once proudly trodden by Mahone's Brigade.

And when some far-stretchen future folds the past, To us so recent, in its purple shade, High up, as if on some "tall Admiral's mast," Shall fly your battle-flags, Mahone's Brigade.