MARCHING STILL. 



She is old and bent and wrinkled. 



In her rocker in the sun, 

 And the thick gray woolen stocking 



That she knits is never done. 

 She will ask the news of battle 



If you pass her when you will, 

 For to her the troops are marching, 



Marching still. 



Seven tall sons about her growing 



Cheered the widowed mother's soul ; 

 One by one they kissed and left her 



When the drums began to roll. 

 They are buried in the trenches 



They are bleaching on the hill; 

 But to her the boys are marching, 



Marching still. 



She was knitting in the corner 



When the fatal news was read, 

 How the last and youngest perished 



And the letter, ending, said : 

 "I am writing on my knapsack 



By the road, with borrowed quill, 

 For the army is yet marching, 



Marching still." 



Reason sank and died within her 



Like a flame for want of air; 

 So she knits the woolen stockings 



For the soldier lads to wear, 

 Waiting till the war is ended 



For her sons to cross the hill: 

 For she thinks they all are marching, 



Marching still ! 



