When my last hitch is ended, And this weary, time-worn clay Is shrouded with Old Glory And forever laid away, Will those who soldiered with me, For a moment cease their glee To bow their heads in sadness When Taps is blown for me?
Will they march behind me then, And with sad and silent tread Take me to my moss-grown bunk, In the barracks of the dead? Or shall I pass unnoticed To my earth tent o’er the lea, With but the moans of echoes, When Taps is blown for me?
Many martial souls have fled, Many better souls than I, To face the great court martial, In headquarters up on high, Yet their passing has but been As the roaring of the sea. Yet somehow I hope for more, When Taps is blown for me.
I picture in my dreaming Dear Old Glory floating high And the hush of waiting men, ‘Neath a lovely summer sky And the roaring of the volleys, And the echoes from each tree Then the bowing of each head, When Taps is blown for me.