1.
On to the charge, our bugle rang,
’Twas heard above the battle’s clang;
The gallant war-horse paw’d the ground,
And neigh’d responsive to the sound;
And while the red-mouth’d cannon spoke,
Aloft amid the curling smoke,
Our conquering banner proudly stream’d,
A rainbow ’mid the storm it seem’d.

“On, on,” the gallant soldier cried,
As o’er the field of slain he flew,
“Our country marks our deeds with pride,
There’s work, there’s work for ev’ry man to do!”

“On, on,” the gallant soldier cried,
As o’er the field of slain he flew,
“Our country marks our deeds with pride,
There’s work, there’s work for ev’ry man to do!”

2.
And still the bugle’s winding note,
Was heard above the din to float;
Our eagle scream’d and fann’d away
The mist that veil’d the doubtful fray.
Death flash’d from ev’ry horseman’s sword,
And laugh’d as ev’ry volley roar’d
But who the mournful tale shall tell,
How gallant Ringgold fought and fell?

“On, on,” the dying soldier cried,
As round his sorrowing comrades drew;
“O, stay no longer by my side,
There’s work, there’s work for ev’ry man to do!”

“On, on,” the dying soldier cried,
As round his sorrowing comrades drew;
“O, stay no longer by my side,
There’s work, there’s work for ev’ry man to do!”

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