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145

Drummer Boy of Waterloo.

When battle rous'd each warlike band,
And carnage loud her trumpet blew.
Young Edwin left his native land,
A drummer boy for Waterloo.
His mother, when his lips she press'd,
And bade her noble boy adieu,
With wringing hands and aching breast,
beheld him march for Waterloo.
With wringing hands, &c.

But he that knew no infant fears,
His knapsack o'er his shoulder threw
And cried, ‘dear mother, dry those tears,
Till I return from Waterloo.’

146

He went — and e'er the set of sun
Beheld our arms the foe subdue,
The flash of death — the murd'rous gun,
Had laid him low at Waterloo.
The flash of death, &c.

SLOW.

'O comrades! comrades!' Edwin cried,
And proudly beam'd his eye of blue,
'Go tell my mother, Edwin died,
A soldier's death at Waterloo.'
They plac'd his head upon his drum,
And 'neath the moonlight's mournful hue,
When night had still'd the battle's hum,
They dug his grave at Waterloo.
When night had still'd, &c.

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