THE RIDERS
There is a rumbling in the graves
All up and down the land.
There is a lifting of the graves
And a murmur on every hand.
A murmur in the green grass,
A stirring in the mound,
A gasping and a questioning,
A shouting and a challenging,
A calling of voices, voices, voices,
Out of the sacred ground.
There is a stirring in the graves
All up and down the land.
And a rising of ghostly shapes
From the hillside and the seaside,
From the red loam and the sand.
Old men, young men, brave men and strong!
Old men, young men, with anger on their lips!
Men who perished moaning, and men who died with a song,
On the hillcrest and the ryefield and the decks of battered ships!
Up from the fields of Valley Forge,
Ghosts and ghosts and ghosts!
Up from the hills of Gettysburg,
