Lyon.

Lyon.
330.5

Sing, birds, on green Missouri’s plain,
The saddest songs of sorrow,
Drop tears, oh, clouds of gentlest rain,
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,
Weep flowers of dewy splendor
For hiin who knew well how to die,
But never to surrender.

Up rose serene the August sun
Upon that day of of glory:
Uncuried from musket and from gun
The war cloud gray and hoary.
It gathered like a funeral pall,
Now broken and now blinded,
Where rang the bugle’s angry call
And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and true
As e’er went forth in daring.
Upon the foe that morning threw
The strength of their despairing.
They feared not death-men blessed the field
That patriot soldiers died on-
Fair freedom’s cause was sword and shield,
And at their head was 1.yon.

(Now, from this on I do not know how much is left out or how the vernes run. Wish some reader would send in what I have missed.)

He squared to whore his heroes stood,
Twice wounded, no wound knowing,
The fire of battle in his blood.
And on his forehead glowing
Serane he iky while passed him pressed
The battle’s surging billow,
As calmly as a babe might rest
Upon his mother’s pillow.

So Lyon died, and well may flowers
His place of burlal cover,
For never had this land of ours
A more devoted lover.
Living, his country untry was his bride.
His death he gave her dying:
Life. fortune, love, he naught denled
To her or to her sighing.