Just before the battle, Mother, I am thinking most of you.
While upon the field we're watching, with the enemy in view.
Comrades brave are 'round me lying, filled with thoughts of home and God;
For well they know that on the morrow, some will sleep beneath the sod.
CHORUS: Farewell, Mother, you may never press me to your breast again;
But, oh, you'll not forget me, Mother, if I'm numbered with the slain.
Oh, I long to see you, Mother, and the loving ones at home,
But I'll never leave our banner till in honor I can come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem