The Sword of Bunker Hill.

The Sword of Bunker Hill.
William Ross Wallace.
549.2

He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When with a feeble volce he called
His weeping son to him.
“Weep not, my son,” the vet’ran said,
“I bow to heaven’s high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill:
But quickly from you antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill.”

The sword was brought, the soldier’s eye
Lit with a sudden name;
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murinured Warren’s name,
Then sald: “My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer stilm.
I leave you, mark me, mark me now-
The sword of Bunker Hin: I
leave you, mark me, mnik me now-
The sword of Bunker Him.
“Twas on that dread Immortal day
I dared the Briton band,
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand.
And while the glorious battle raged It lightened freedom’s will-
For, boy, the God of freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill,
For, boy, the God of freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.

“Oh, keep the sword,” his accents broke,
A smile, and he was dead,
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty inillions bless the sire.
And sword of Bunker HUI;
And twenty millions bless the stre
And sword of Bunker HM.