He lay upon his dying bed;
His eye was growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him:
"Weep not, my boy!" the vet'ran said,
"I bow to Heaven's high will—
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill."
The sword was brought, the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold—
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me now—
The sword of Bunker Hill.
"'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band,
A captain raised this blade on me—
I tore it from his hand:
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened freedom's will—
For, boy, the God of freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.
"Oh, keep the sword!"—his accents broke—
A smile—and he was dead—
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains; the sword remains—
Its glory growing still—
And twenty millions bless the sire,
And sword of Bunker Hill.
William Ross Wallace