There are no morals in politics; there is only expedience. A scoundrel may be of use to us just because he is a scoundrel. — Vladimir Lenin

American History Stories—Volume IV - Mara L. Pratt




Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

In the prison-cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you,

And our bright and happy home so far away,

And the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do,

Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.


Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,

Cheer up, comrades, they will come;

And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again

Of the freeland in our own beloved home.


In the battle-front we stood when their fiercest charge they made,

And they swept us off, a hundred men or more;

But before we reached their lines they were beaten back dismayed,

And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er.


Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,

Cheer up, comrades, they will come;

And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again

Of the freeland in our own beloved home.


So within the prison-cell we are waiting for the day

That shall come to open wide the iron door.

And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay

As we think of seeing home and friends once more.


Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,

Cheer up, comrades, they will come;

And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again

Of the freeland in our own beloved home.