"It seems he was doing his duty,"
'Twas thus a mother replied,
When told how, leading on his men,
Her gallant boy had died!
Oh, noble! noble mother!
Worthy thy noble son!
Whose welcome to God's shining courts,
Is thy meet praise—"Well done!"
"It seems he was doing his duty"—
O'er the past her memory flew:
The sweet babe, cradled in her arms,
Who all so swiftly grew:
The bright lad kneeling at her feet,
Whisp'ring his evening prayer,
The tall youth sent with blessings forth,
The patriot's fate to dare!
And now upon the battle field,
All burial rites unsaid,
In manhood's early, glorious pride,
Her precious one lies dead!
There were tears, and grief, and anguish,
In that fondest mother's heart,
But "her boy had done his duty"—
A balm beyond all art!
Oh, surest consolation!
Through desolate nights and days—
"Her boy had done his duty"—
Unto God be reverent praise!
Are we doing, too, our duty?
Brothers, say, and sisters all!
Are we doing all our duty,
Answ'ring our Country's call?