three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi's wide extreme
and from New England shore.
We leave our plows and workshops,
our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for ut terance,
We dare not look behind us,
We're coming, Father Abram,
three hundred thousand more.
We're coming, Father Abram,
If you look across the hilltops
that meet the northern sky,
The moving lines of rising dust
And now the wind in an instant tears
And floats aloft our spangled flag
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam,
And bands play music more.
We are coming, Father, eh,
Round three hundred thousand more.
We are coming, Father, eh,
Round three hundred thousand
If you look all up our valleys
where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farm
are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow
against their country's needs,
And a farewell group starts weeping
We're coming, Father Abram,
three hundred thousand more!
We're coming, Father Abram,
three hundred thousand more!