Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

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.

       chorus

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