Just before the battle, mother,
I am thinking most of you,
While upon the field we're watching
With the enemy in view.
Comrades brave are 'round me lying,
Filled with thoughts of home and God
For well they know that on the morrow,
Some will sleep beneath the sod.
Farewell, mother, you may never
Press me to your breast again,
But, oh, you'll not forget me, mother,
If I'm numbered with the slain.
Hark! I hear the bugles sounding,
'Tis the signal for the fight,
Now, may God protect us, mother,
As He ever does the right.
Hear the "Battle-Cry of Freedom,"
How it swells upon the air,
Oh, yes, we'll rally 'round the standard,
Or we'll perish nobly there.
Farewell, mother, you may never
Press me to your breast again,
But, oh, you'll not forget me, mother,
If I'm numbered with the slain.