"Four hundred thousand men,"
Have gone to meet their God;
Four hundred thousand gallant men
From city, mountain side and glen
Beneath our banner trod;
For love of country firmly stood.
And sealed the Union with their blood.

"Four hundred thousand men,"
By millions loved and lost;
A sea of agonizing tears--
A waste of desolated years,
Of hearth-stones sorrow crossed,
A priceless sacrifice--'twas when
We gave "four hundred thousand men."

The gallant banner flaunting high,
The bugles sounding victory
Forth from each brazen throat,
May drown awhile the sighs and tears,
While we forget the griefs and fears,
Forget--each change to note--
Forget to ask--what got we, then,
For such a host of gallant men.

Vain politician!--who can boast,
Of his great saving schemes,
And jumbled words, and crooked creeds,
Stand in place of noble deeds,
And truth's eternal themes,
And--haste we to give power again
To those who slew the gallant slain.

Look at the host of bloody graves,
The finger marks of God--
And He who smiles, is He who saves,
And all that hecatomb of graves,
Are guide boards on the road!
Can we not read them?--read them! when,
They cost "four hundred thousand men."