And under the Nation's Dome,
They've guarded so well and long,
Our boys come marching home,
Two hundred thousand strong.
All in the pleasant month of May,
With war-worn colors and drums,
Still, through the livelong summer's day,
Regiment, regiment comes.
Like the tide, yesty and barmy,
That sets on a wild lee-shore,
Surge the ranks of an army
Never reviewed before!
Who shall look on the like agen,
Or see such host of the brave?
A mighty River of marching men
Rolls the Capital through,--
Rank on rank, and wave on wave,
Of bayonet-crested blue!
How the chargers neigh and champ,
(Their riders weary of camp,)
With curvet and with caracole!--
The cavalry comes with thundrous tramp,
And the cannons heavily roll.
And ever, flowery and gay,
The Staff sweeps on in a spray
Of tossing forelocks and manes;
But each bridle-arm has a weed
Of funeral, black as the steed
That fiery Sheridan reins.
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