Full on his fair young brow beamed bright, — That brow which an anxious mother would kiss With a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss; And along the line of his comrades young, To honor his toast, each hand upsprung: In not one glass did the red wine gleam; But all were filled from the crystal stream. On the morrow, adown the street, With trumpet’s blast and war-drum’s beat, Firm and erect, with martial tread, The flag of their Country overhead, With brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song, The Nation’s heroes go marching along. And our soldier is there, marching forth To join the bands of the loyal North; To strike a blow for his Country dear, And her trailing flag to again uprear. Light is his heart; his faith is strong; Bright gleams his sword as he moves along: But the armor he wears shall serve him best Is the shield of Temperance guarding his breast.