Buena Vista

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat;

No more on life's parade shall meet

That brave and fallen few.

No rumour of the foe's advance

now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind.

Long had the doubtful conflict raged

O'er all that stricken plain,

For never fiercer fight had waged

The vengeful blood of Spain;

And still the storm of battle blew,

Still swelled the glory tide;

Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,

Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command

Called to a martyr's grave

The flower of his beloved land,

The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their father's gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,

Dear as the blood ye grave,

Where valor proudly sleeps.