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Show BUNKER HILL. JUNE SEVENTEEN. Devotedly grows the clover still. On the loved and honored graves Of they who died on Bunker Hill, Ere they'd live as hireling slaves; Swiftly waft ye breezes o'er. And softly falls the crystallng dew. Angels' tears that sweeten the flower, On the graves of Erin's brave and true. Alas, the fire that fused the hearts Of they who fought at Bunker Hill, God help the land 'twas hard to part From, Slavery's chains are round, her still; Oh, for men with souls like yours, To stand by Erin's cause today, Silently she prays, but yet endures. For there's none to strike her chains away. E'er shine the glorious laurels won By Erin's exiles on that day, And remain a grand inspiration For Irishmen of some future day. 'Tis sad to think while we can be Brave soldiers for all other lands. Our own loved green Isle of the Sea Must be a slave in tyrant hands. Softly falls the crystallng dew Upon thy slopes. Oh, Bunker Hill, And fragrant laden zephyrs, too, 'Round you waft their sweetness still; The echoing song of woodland thrush Sounds sweetly through the willow tree, God rest their souls who in battle's rush Died for home and liberty. I VERA. |