A Song Inscribed To The Fremont Clubs

Beneath thy skies, November!     Thy skies of cloud and rain,     Around our blazing camp-fires     We close our ranks again.     Then sound again the bugles,     Call the muster-roll anew;     If months have well-nigh won the field,     What may not four years do?     For God be praised! New England     Takes once more her ancient place;     Again the Pilgrim's banner     Leads the vanguard of the race.     Then sound again the bugles, etc.     Along the lordly Hudson,     A shout of triumph breaks;     The Empire State is speaking,     From the ocean to the lakes.     Then sound again the bugles, etc.     The Northern hills are blazing,     The Northern skies are bright;     And the fair young West is turning     Her forehead to the light!     Then sound again the bugles,. etc.     Push every outpost nearer,     Press hard the hostile towers!     Another Balaklava,     And the Malakoff is ours!     Then sound again the bugles,     Call the muster-roll anew;     If months have well-nigh won the field,     What may not four years do