I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb--
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!




The Boy-Soldier.

By a Lady of Savannah.



He is acting o'er the battle,
With his cap and feather gay,
Singing out his soldier-prattle,
In a mockish manly way--
With the boldest, bravest footstep,
Treading firmly up and down,
And his banner waving softly,
O'er his boyish locks of brown.

And I sit beside him sewing,
With a busy heart and hand,