"Is That Mother Bending O’er Me?" [28 May 1863]
Song and Chorus
[Words? and Music]
Composed by
Ferdinand Mayer.

Boston, MA: Henry Tolman & Co., 291 Washington St.
Albany, NY: W. F. Sherwin
New York, NY: Wm. Hall & Son
Chicago, IL: Root & Cady
Plate No. 2974
[M 1640
  .M]
[COPYRIGHT
28 July 1863
LIBRARY]
[Source: 088/098@Levy; civilwardigital.com]

 The incident which prompted this ballad is explained in the 
following:
“Among the many brave, uncomplaining soldiers who were 
broughtup from the battle of Fredericksburg, was a bright 
eyed, intelligent young man, or boy, rather, of sixteen years, 
who belonged in a Northern regiment.  He appeared more 
affectionate & renderthan his comrades, & attracted a good deal 
of attention from the attendants & visitors.  Manifestly the 
pet of some household, he longed for nothing so much as the 
arrival of his mother, who was expected, for he knew he was 
mortally wounded & failing fast.  Ere she arrived however, he 
died.  But he thought she had come, for while a kind lady 
visitor was wiping the death sweat from his brow, as his 
sight was failing, he rallied a little like an expiring taper 
in its socket, looked up longingly & joyfully & in the 
tenderest pathoswhispered quite audibly “Is that mother?” in 
tones that drew tears from every eye.  Then drawing her 
towards him will all his feeble power, he nestled his head 
in her arms like a sleeping infant, and thus died with the 
sweet word “Mother” on his quivering lips.”


1. Is that mother bending o’er me,
As she sang my cradle hymn,
Kneeling there in tears before me!
Say! my sight is growing dim.
Comes she from the old home lowly,
Out among the northern hills.
To her pet boy dying slowly
Of war’s battles, wounds and ills.

CHORUS 1-2.
Mother fold your arms around me,
Press again my aching head,
Sing the lullaby you sang me
Kiss me, mother, ere I’m dead. ere I’m dead.

2. Mother! Oh, we bravely battled.
Battled till the day was done;
While the leaden hail storm rattled,
Man to man, and gun to gun.
But we failed and I am dying,
Dying in my boyhood’s years.
There, no weeping, selfdenying.
Noble deaths demand no tears!