[Filed Jan 21, 1863]
[Cover page:] "The
Volunteers Grave
or
The
Blue bird is singing
on the Hill." [c1862; 1863 (Jan 21)]
[Title page:]
"Blue Bird Is Singing on the Hill
or
The Volunteers Grave"]
Words by
T. J. WINCHELL.
Music by
H. M. HIGGINS.

Chicago, IL: H. M. HIGGINS, 117 Randolph St.
[M 1640
 .H]
[25899]
[COPYRIGHT
17 Aug 1864
LIBRARY]
[Engraver:] Pearson.
[Source: 200001390@LoC/IHAS-CWM]

  The following verses were merely a rough sketch or report
of a scene witnessed by me on the 26th of February 1862
upon all about sunrise while waiting for the war at a depot
in the southern part of Ohio. I was invited to visit the
grave of a volunteer who was wounded in a skirmish, and
returned home to die. The scenes were about such as I
attempted to describe them, only more so.
  Poor as the article may be, I have no time to make the
poem worse by altering it.
                          T. J. WINCHELL.

1. The sunrise is lighting up the shadows,
The warm earth the early blossoms swell;
The dewdrops are sparkling in the meadows,
And the blue bird is singing on the hill.
The green grass, the furrowed field is belting
And forth gushes many a sparkling rill;
For the silv’ry crusted stream is melting,
And the blue bird is singing on the hill.

CHORUS 1
The green grass, the furrowed field is belting,
And forth gushes many a sparkling rill;
For the silvery crusted stream is melting,
And the blue bird is singing on the hill.

2. The Partridge in the forest is a drumming,
Keeping time with the ever busy mill;
The honey bee is on the wing a humming,
And the  blue bird is singing on the hill.
There are tear droppings from the weary hearted,
That are hastening the eyelids to fill;
O’er the new grave of him from whom she parted,
Where the blue bird is singing on the hill.

CHORUS 2
There are tear droppings from the weary hearted,
That are hastening the eyelids to fill;
O’er the new grave of him from whom she parted,
Where the blue bird is singing on the hill.

3. Oh plant on my grave some little flowers,
These were the dying words of Will;
And come in the early morning hours,
When the blue bird is singing on the hill.
O’er the fresh mound a tiny flower is creeping,
Its frail cup a widow’s tears do fill;
For the pale one is often seen a weeping,
Where the blue bird is singing on the hill.

CHORUS 3
O’er the fresh mound a tiny flower is creeping,
Its frail cup a widow’s tears do fill;
For the pale one is often seen a weeping,
Where the blue bird is singing on the hill.

4. Poor lone one, oh! do not alarm her
As she kneels o’er the bosom of her Will;
Who is sleeping like a Warrior in his armor,
Where the blue bird is singing on the hill.
Oh Willie he was gentle, brave and wary,
The rebel foe, his body could not kill;
More blyth is his spirit now, and airy,
Than the blue bird that’s singing on the hill.

CHORUS 4
Oh Willie he was gentle, brave and wary,
The rebel foe, his body could but kill;
More blythe is his spirit now, and airy,
Than the blue bird that’s singing on the hill.