The Soldier at Home | American Revolution War Song

About the author

Frank Moore
Frank Moore

Frank Moore was a journalist and Revolutionary historian. He published a number of books on the American Revolution during his career in the mid-19th century, including Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution, Diary of the American Revolution and The Patriot Preachers of the American Revolution.

The Soldier at Home

FROM noise of camps once more I come,
To snatch from care a short repose;
All hail thou tranquil much lov’d home,
That war nor dread misfortune knows.

Thus, far remov’d from hostile bands,
May’st thou heart-pleasing home remain;
Curs’d be the murderous foreign hands
That dare with blood thy bosom stain.

Oh haste, ye generous few I love,
Again in social converse join;
With me the sweets of friendship prove,
And to the winds your cares resign.

But oh ! to recollect how soon
The period comes that bids me hence;
A sadd’ning momentary gloom
Steals half my joys, and clouds my sense.

But why indulge that care-mix’d thought ?
The happy day may yet arrive,
When tyranny shall fall to nought,
And liberty alone survive.

Then with my friends in jocund mood,
I’ll tell what dangers have been mine;
And how Americans have stood
At Germantown and Brandywine.

Here we’ll remember martial Gates,
He taught the proud Burgoyne to yield;
Who frowning at his adverse fates,
Surrender’d on the well fought field.

Then each gay friend shall swell the tale,
With hardy deeds of bold emprise;
Again he sees our arms prevail,
And long-lost ardors now arise.

Here Howe, says he, (and marks the track,)
The British troops did proudly form;
And here with adverse lines compact,
Brave Washington did swell the storm.

‘Twas here I was, and points the spot,
(As he had tracèd on the ground,)
What bursts of thunder, showers of shot,
Yet there great Washington was found.

At Monmouth’s plains, where Lee retreated,
Great Washington did then push on;
Sir Harry’s chosen troops defeated,
Then laugh’d his tyranny to scorn.

These happy days are yet to come,
Then why repine at such a fate;
Bear well the woe that is your doom,
And joy can never come too late.

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