Worm Or Beetle - Drought Or Tempest

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day Sleeping The Years Of Their Manhood Away. Give Them The Meed They Have Won In The Past; Give Them The Honors Their Future Forcast; Give Them The Chaplets They Won In The Strife; Give Them The Laurels They Lost With Their Life.

There's Lots Of People - This Town Wouldn't Hold Them; Who Don't Know Much Excepting What's Told Them.

Over All Our Happy Country - Over All Our Nation Spread, Is A Band Of Noble Heroes - Is Our Army Of The Dead.

Thanksgiving-day, I Fear, If One The Solemn Truth Must Touch, Is Celebrated, Not So Much To Thank The Lord For Blessing O'er, As For The Sake Of Getting More!

Not All The Labour Of The Earth Is Done By Hardened Hands.