Marching Song

We go along a marching,
Across a lonesome hill.
We go along a marching,
And bear no man ill will.

We go along a marching,
Though the weather it be grim.
We go along a marching,
With no prize to win.

We go along a marching,
A future foe to tarry.
We go along a marching,
With no time to marry.

We go along a marching,
Poorly shod and poorly fed.
We go along a marching,
With bloody feet we tread.

We go along a marching,
With destination unknown.
We go along a marching
On a path by God drawn.

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