The soldier marches while we sleep,
the soldier trudges through the deep
and oer'-grown graves of fellow brothers,
though he may not know the others,
his eyes still fill with tears so dear,
dreading what is come to fear;
but still he marches, past' the hills
and through the valleys,
through the cities, down the alleys,
with grudging looks at every step,
not watching as the mothers wept,
to see their sons, their husbands, their fathers,
march brave, clothes in tatters.
these heroes who go to fight for us,
let us be grateful to them, thus, it is us they doeth' march forth for: we,
America, land of the brave, and home of the free.