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Song -- Lundy's Lane.


In the night hours, long ago,
Gathering on the battle plain,
Know ye how they sought the foe,
'Mid the gloom of Lundy's Lane?
Face to face the hosts were met,
Heart to heart the lances set;
But a hero's blade was there,
Flashing through the midnight air;
See the routed foemen yield,
WINFIELD SCOTT hath won the field!

Know ye how our victories ran
Through the trenches of the foe,
From the stones of San Juan
To the walls of Mexico?


How the bomb-shells fell, for dews,
Night by night on Vera Cruz?
How, o'er Cherubusco's stream,
Waved that sword with fateful gleam?
Still the opposing legions yield,
WINFIELD SCOTT doth win the field!

Lo! o'er myriad plains afar
That firm hand hath borne its part --
First in counsel, first in war,
First in every patriot heart.
Whereso'er our flag may wave,
On he leads his legions brave;
In the hottest of the fray,
Shrinking ne'er from danger's way:
Strong that sword of flame to wield,
WINFIELD SCOTT wins every field!

With the triumphs bravely won,
Like a mantle round him thrown,
He, with no proud deed undone,
Stands on Victory's hights alone:
Towering o'er all heads afar --
As before the morning star
Fade all paler lights away --
Vanquished by his glorious ray,
Still the opposing ranks must yield,
WINFIELD SCOTT shall win the field!