In the prison-cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
And the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do,
Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Cheer up, comrades, they will come;
And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again
Of the freeland in our beloved home.
In the battle-front we stood when their fiercest charge they made,
And they swept us off a hundred men or more;
But before we reached their lines they were beaten back dismayed,
And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er.
So within the prison-cell we are waiting for the day
That shall some to open wide the iron door;
And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay,
As we think of seeing home and friends once more.
—George F. Root