Root: Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

In the prison cell I sit, thinking Mother, dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
And the tears they fill my eyes 'spite of all that I can do,
Tho' I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The boys are marching,
Cheer up comrades they will come,
And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again,
Of the free land in our own beloved home.